The Swimsuit Fiasco of 2011

Within the first week of school #2 came home and announced she would be needing a new swimsuit for gym class. They would be going to the local outdoor swimming pool before it was drained for the season. At the beginning of the summer, she had been in such a hurry to get a suit that she simply couldn’t wait for Mom to take her shopping. She went down to the local store and bought one, all by her 13 year-old self. As the summer progressed she became more and more uncomfortable in the suit and the idea of putting it on in front of her entire class was not going to be an option as far as she was concerned.

The Saturday I chose to go shopping in a neighboring town I asked Jackson if he wanted to go with us. Jackson is not a good shopper, but we had not spent much time together in the past weeks – it would be good to spend some windshield time with him and hang out as a family. Really?! Did I just try to validate my decision to invite my husband swimsuit shopping for our daughter by saying it would be a good time to spend together?! Really?!

We arrived at Scheels and headed right to the swimsuit department where we could indulge in after-season clearance specials. Dad headed straight to the 85 year-old, full-coverage, head-to-toe swimsuit section as our daughter headed directly for the mix-and-match, barely-there, two-piece section. I had my work cut out for me. I tried to steer #2 towards a stylish one-piece that was sure to gain her father’s approval. I was given a look that all but said, “Seriously, Mom, you are so lame. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that.” I had to change my tactics. I agreed to let her try on a couple two-pieces she had picked out if she would please just try on a one-piece and a sporty competitive two-piece I had located while scouring the clearance rack. She headed off to the dressing room while Jackson kept shouting things like, “Why can’t she try on this?” and “You don’t seriously think we are going to leave the store with THAT, do you?!” Oh, life was good.

The look on #2’s face as I opened the door to the dressing room to see her first selection said it all – THIS was the suit she was meant to wear. It had been made specifically for her. Now, I’m not suggesting that she didn’t look good in it. Let’s face it, if I had a body like hers I’d wear nothing BUT bikinis 24/7 – to the office, to the grocery store… but she is not me; she is the teenage daughter of a man that knows all too well what boys think when they see a girl in a bikini.

She was eager to try on a few more that she had picked out. She was not so sold on them (one was too low cut, one was too high cut, one was simply uncomfortably small). Then it was time to try on the suits I had picked out. They were “okay”, but they were not that first suit – THE suit. I asked her to try THE suit on one more time and she was happy to oblige. Then the moment came. I asked her to show her father. She refused. “So let me get this straight. You want me to buy you a suit to wear in public that you won’t let your father see?” She knew as well as I did that he would NOT approve.

He approached the situation and overheard the discussion. He promptly ordered her out of the dressing room, swim suit and all. She, being as stubborn as he, was not about to come out of that dressing room. Unfortunately (for her) her father is much more refined in his game of bullheadedness by demanding she come out, there would be no more discussion. Then the two of them disappeared from my view. When they returned she had been crying and would not even so much as look at me. Her father had a satisfied look of disdain on his face. There would be no swimsuit bought today – not at this store.

In an attempt to smooth things over I assured her that we could find something online when we got home. We still had plenty of time before she needed it. We would find her a nice competitive two-piece that her and her father could agree on. That seemed to do the trick.

Once we arrived home we spent nearly an hour on the internet scouring the stores for a suit (1) in a style we could all live with, (2) in a color/pattern she didn’t find disgusting, (3) in her size, and (4) in a price point I could afford. We found nothing. I was tired, she was frustrated. I gave her the criteria and she spent the next 2 hours looking on her own. At the end of it all, she brought me two options – ONE PIECE SWIMSUITS! I’m not even kidding. After all of that, she had decided she would rather have a one piece.

I asked her father what he had said to her to change her mind. “I took her over to that poster, the one with the scantily clad girl in a swimsuit. I asked her what she saw.” What our 13 year-old daughter saw was a pretty girl in a swimsuit that she liked the color of. “Then I told her what I saw – from a boy’s perspective.” Well, that did it. #2 is definitely going to need therapy.
I ordered one of the newly chosen, covered mostly everything, swimsuits she had chosen after being scarred for life.

That’s not even the end of the fiasco. The suit I ordered was going to ship from the east coast (New Jersey, I believe). We ordered the suit on Saturday night and by Wednesday morning it still had not shipped. As it turns out there was this little storm called Hurricane Irene that was likely wreaking havoc on the US Postal Service delivery schedule. I sent an email to the east coast supplier and told them I understood their predicament, but would have to cancel my order as I was working on a deadline. I reordered the suit from neighboring Minnesota which carried much higher shipping rates.

That afternoon (Wednesday afternoon to be exact) #2 announces, “Oh yeah, I need my suit by THIS Friday, not next Friday like I thought before.” Of course you need it IN TWO DAYS! I logged on to the computer again only to find that the package had shipped and I would not be able to change to overnight shipping (costing me more than our overweight bulldog eats in a given month). I explained to the chubby-cheeked, tear-stained face that I had done my best, but there was little to no chance she would have her suit in time. She understood and resigned herself to rifling through #1’s old (more modest) swimsuit collection.

Thursday afternoon #2 called me the minute she got home from school to see if I could check on the tracking of her package. Sure enough, that thing was on a big brown truck bound for our house – expected delivery date – TODAY. She squealed with delight. I arrived home around 6:00pm only to find a disappointed daughter whose new swimsuit had not made its way to our door. Around 6:30pm the UPS man pulled up to our house and you’d have thought she had won the lottery. I love making her happy.

Friday, it rained.

P.S. The east coast supplier sent me a very nice email on Thursday morning that they could not cancel my order as the package had shipped. I now have 2 identical swimsuits – neither of which has ever been worn.

The End.

Blonde Moments

Today has been one uncharacteristic blonde moment after another.

At break this morning I shook my bottle of vitamin water AFTER I had removed the lid. I ended up with orange Spark all over my pants, both of my shirts, my face, and in my hair. Sticky and smelly I made my way back to my desk to send out a notification letting my team know I intended to return home. I sent out my email, “Heading Home – will be back online in about an hour: As those of you sitting at break are well aware… I shook vitamin water all over myself this morning (not really my brightest move). I’m heading home for my second (or third if you count the shaking episode) shower of the day. I will plan on being online all day, but don’t plan on making the trek back to work.” and went home.

Before I made it out of town, I suddenly remembered I had not completed a task that was going to hold up payroll. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the office. As I waited for the automated system to finish, I kept thinking, wow this is really hard to hear. It turns out I had my phone upside down. I got the payroll coordinator on the phone and began blabbering an apology. I promised to do it before I showered. I felt so bad. “Uh, Tina, it’s Wednesday. Payroll posted yesterday. You go ahead and shower and get that job set up whenever you get time today.” DUH! “Please forget everything I just said and pretend I didn’t call. Sorry to have bothered you.” What a freakin’ scatter brain I had turned in to.

After a much-needed shower, I checked my email. Much to my horror I realized I was in a co-worker’s email file when I sent out my email. Thus the notification went out to the entire accounting department looking as if she was the moron that can’t handle her vitamin water. I quickly sent out this disclaimer, “HOLY MOLY I’M AN IDIOT! Wow, has it ever been one of those days and it’s not even noon. TINA threw vitamin water all over herself and had to go home to shower – not (insert co-worker name here)! TINA will be working from home this afternoon. (Insert co-worker name here) is out of the office today. Pray that I make it through the rest of the week without lighting myself on fire!”

Dude, I’m a hot mess!

I’m Not THAT Old!

My 4 year-old niece has been chompin’ at the bit to spend the night at our house. Growing up with two older brothers leaves her yearning for some female bonding time, understandably. Through a series of events we found an opening at Hotel Fort Cronin and extended the invitation to Miss Shelby. So last night the mother of said child dropped her off and ran for the hills.

Number three will be turning 11 in just a few months, and I think it’s safe to say I’m a bit rusty on how to deal with a small child. I did what any self-respecting mother of three girls would do – I delegated her care to my offspring – after all, I wiped their noses and…well, you get the picture.

My younger sister gave me rough directions on what it would take to safely deliver Miss Shelby to pre-school this morning after our sleepover. I heard something about a code, and something about downstairs, and something about a cubby followed by, “Shelby will help you out and tell you what to do. She knows her code and won’t hesitate to boss you around.” Fabulous, finally a constructive outlet for her bossiness.

We arrived five minutes before school was to begin. We (Shelby, #2, and myself) walked in the front door and I said, “Shelby, what do we need to do.” She responded with “Go downstairs.” So we tromped past the front desk and made our way downstairs. We followed Shelby to her room and she made a beeline for her cubby. We helped her get all her bags, pillows, coat, and car seat (boy little kids come with a lot of luggage) crammed in and around her cubby. I said, “Okay, Shelby, now what?” She looked at me like I was a moron and said, “See ya’ later.” Now, I’ve never been to this preschool before, but I definitely remember her mother giving me more directions than “drop her off and you’re done.” “Don’t we need to put your code in somewhere?” “Yeah, upstairs.” “Okay. Can you tell me what your code is?” “I dunno.” YOU BIG LIAR! Your' mother definitely said you knew the code. But it was too late. She was off and running into a sea of germy snot-nosed children and I was not about to dive in.

I shot a despairing look at to adults standing near the door. The younger of the two looked like she may be able to help. “Her mother said I have to put a code in somewhere…?” “Yes, upstairs. The girl at the front desk can look up Shelby’s code if you need her to and show you where to put it in.” “Thanks.” Then I walked away and everything was fine.

No wait, that is not where this story ends.

THEN the older of the two ladies opened her mouth and THIS came out, “So are you Shelby’s grandma?” I turned my head, shot her the look of death, and simply answered, “No.” and turned and walked away.

Number 2 took this opportunity to shout as she was running to catch up, “Nana, wait up.” “Shut it.” was the reply she deserved and received. She was still laughing as we reached the front desk to inquire about the damn code.

And this my friends, is why I will NEVER take Miss Shelby to pre-school again.

What is wrong with people? This is the third time in the last two years that have been mistaken for being old enough to be someone’s grandmother. Julie, are you reading this? Whatever dye you are using on my hair every 6-8 weeks is NOT working. I want my money back!

Mmmm, Mmmm Good

I’m not a cook. Sure, I can make a casserole and anything involving a crock pot, but without a very detailed recipe and ingredients I can pronounce I’m lost. Jack may have appreciated this nugget of information before he got down on one knee, but it’s too late now. Early in our marriage my mantra was “If it comes in a box, bag, can, or jar, I can cook it.” People we worked with used to give me Hamburger Helper coupons, which I appreciated, because we ate a LOT of Hamburger Helper. I’d like to think I’ve developed at least a little bit since then.

Jack recently bought me a whole slew of gorgeous new appliances. I’m not sure if he thought it would inspire me to start cooking, but he seemed dismayed when I announced to a friend that the pretty stainless steel items were like the earrings for my kitchen. None-the-less, when he finds me standing near them with a spatula in my hand, he gets really excited.

Last Saturday, we endured a pretty bad blizzard. I thought I would treat my family with cream of potato and bacon soup. When Jack came home from work that morning, the entire house smelled delicious. I couldn’t wait to share my creation with the entire family. I followed the recipe to a tee. I hand chopped the vegetables, carefully brought the broth to a boil, observed all the cooking times as outlined on the recipe I found online. Then about an hour in it happened. The smell filled the house. Not the pleasant bacon and soup smell that had been filling the house up to this point, but the smell of something that had gone terribly wrong. In approximately 3 minutes I managed to scorch the soup to the bottom of the pan and turn my beautiful soup into a pan of stinky mashed potatoes. I frantically poured the potatoes out of the pan into a bowl and feverishly added milk to try to regain some semblance of soup. In the end a couple of people choked down a bowl and the rest has come to its resting place in the fridge. Waiting a moldy death.

Talk about letting the wind out of my sails. This is why I don’t cook.

In an effort to claim my revenge yesterday I made white chicken chili. I used a proven recipe provided by some friends at church and recreated by my husband on at least one occasion. It was so successful I made it again tonight.

Here’s the recipe for cooks of all levels.

2 chicken breasts, diced 6 strips bacon, cooked & chopped 2 cans chicken broth 2 cans (4 oz) green chilies 1 tsp. cumin 1/2 tsp. pepper 1/2 small onion, chopped

2-4 garlic cloves, chopped 2 cans northern beans 1 tsp. salt 1 tsp. dried oregano 1/4 tsp. cayenne pepper 1 cup sour cream 1 cup half & half

Sauté chicken, onion, and bacon until chicken is no longer pink, add garlic the last few minutes. Transfer to a soup pot and add remaining ingredients except sour cream and half & half. bring to a boil then simmer for 20-30 minutes. Stir in sour cream and half & half and cook until heated through.

What’s that Smell?

It’s official, I’m the stinky kid. I’m not sure how or why, exactly, I received this new honor, but I did.

This morning I walked into my office to a pleasant scent I couldn’t immediately identify. Not a strong scent, but a new scent. As I wandered in and out of my office all morning, I’d catch a whiff of it and wonder what it was. Right before noon a co-worker walked in to my office to ask me a question and commented on the Jolly Rancher smell in my office. I was all, “I know, right?!"

Upon confirmation that I was not delusional I turned all of my attention to finding the source. I tried to remember where I had smelled this fruity bliss. Once I became frustrated with my inability to identify it (which took approximately forty-five seconds) I began wandering around sniffing like a lunatic. That’s when I found this.

That’s right, boys and girls, I found an air freshener hiding behind a basket on top of the filing cabinets in the corner of my office! The same air fresheners our cleaning crew puts in the rest rooms at my office.

Coincidence? I think not!

My Dog is Slow

…not like the opposite of fast, although she is not built for speed. No, I mean I think my dog is not all there upstairs. If I had given birth to her, I have reason to believe she’d ride the short bus.

There are a myriad of reasons that have led me to this conclusion.

Exhibit A

What the neighbors must think!

She’s a stalker. She follows me around the house from the time I come home until she decides that she simply can’t tote her 70 lb. butt around on her 4 inch legs any more and retires to her rug**. She follows me into the bathroom every time I forget to close the door ALL the way and paws at my knees while I’m doing my business until I pet her head. Tonight she barged into the bathroom while #3 was in the shower. I can only imagine this is the look she had on her face while she sat and stared at the shower door until #1 caught her and made her leave her post.

Exhibit B

**(Jack may call it a bed, but I was under strict instructions not to buy her a bed, so I bought her a rug with bumpers that may or may not have been found in the pet aisle.)

While Jack does not love the dog, that was not his reasoning to not want to buy her a bed. While every vet this side of the Mississippi will tell you to potty train a puppy, you should kennel them during the day and overnight to teach them to hold it. They claim that dogs will not pee where they sleep. Someone forgot to tell my mentally challenged hunk of canine. She has peed in every bed we have ever provided her. This infuriates my husband. And gives me more reason to think my dog is not the sharpest tool in the shed.

Two days ago I received a phone call at the office. It was a neighbor. She was calling to inform me that she had put our dog in the house. See Lucy’s underground fence collar broke and I have been reluctant about spending $70 on a new one. For a while she was good. She was trained to stay in the yard, collar or not. Then she must have got sick and tired of sitting on the porch and watching the world pass her by. She now realizes she can cross the imaginary border without getting a jolt of electricity through her fat dog body and takes advantage of it.

This is not the first call we’ve received from the neighbors. No, we’ve been contacted by 3 other neighbors asking if it’s okay if they put her in the house when they find her off-property. One day, while Jack and I were sitting in the living room, our front door opened, our dog came running into the living room, and the front door closed. Now, I’m pretty sure she hasn’t learned to open the door on her own. How embarrassing that people have to watch our dog while we watch our TV.

But this last phone call was the nail in the coffin. It is the reason I have to post on the world wide web and let the universe know my dog is a moron. My neighbor had to pull her car over and put my dog in the house BECAUSE SHE SITS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET. We live on a fairly busy road near a high school. We have teenagers that race up and down our street before and after school. It is during this time that my overweight dog decides to park herself in the middle of the street and watch the cars zoom past her. She refuses to move for anyone or anything. She is unfazed by the 1/2 ton vehicles that could squash her. It’s almost as if she knows the amount of damage she will do to their suspension and frames and knows they won’t take the chance.

Big, fat, dumb, and slobbery – I love her, no matter what the girls dress her up in!

Spirit Week

Not too long ago our local high school celebrated homecoming. In a time-honored tradition, our student body selected dress-up days. Back when I was in high school (I realized this was a very long time ago) we had the standard toga day, opposite sex day, jersey day. Now-a-days kids are much more creative!

Day One: 80’s workout day

 

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#1 could not believe that we EVER dressed like this. These pictures were taken very late in the day after the banana clip came out of her hair and the teasing had been washed out by a shower, but you get the general idea.

 

Day Two: Tourist Day

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LOVE the fanny pack! #1 found a guy at church the next Sunday wearing those exact shoes – YIKES!

 

Day Three: “Would you still be my friend if I wore this?”

Can you tell how not entertained by my camera she was becoming this early in the morning?

Thank goodness for the Goodwill – who owns clothes like this?