10 Signs Your Child May Be Watching Too Much Peppa Pig!

The Boy has been in a Peppa Pig phase for a while, and I have to say, it’s a pretty good show, as far as kids shows go. I have actually found myself laughing on many occasions at the crazy hi-jinx of Peppa & her zany family, rather than wanting to stab out my own eyes, the way I do when I have to suffer through an episode of Olivia or Max & Ruby.  At least this pig lives with her parents.

peppa2However, I do think The Boy might have watched just one too many episodes of Peppa this summer, and may be on the verge of a Peppa Overload!

Here are some signs your child may be watching too much Peppa Pig:

  1. They call you “mummy” instead of “mommy.”
  2. They pronouce the word “Tomato” like “Toe-Mah-Toe.”  Ex. “Mummy, I don’t care for toe-mah-toes, they just are not my cup of tea.”
  3. They call gas “petrol” & tell you that you need to stop at the petrol station to “fuel up.”
  4. They refer to the shopping cart as a “trolley.”  Ex. “Mummy, may I please push the trolley in the market?”
  5. They start telling friends they need to get in the “queue” instead of wait in “line.”
  6. They begin to use more British phrases like “I’m a wee bit too small for that, mummy.”
  7. Calling a a “zebra” a “zay-brah” Ex. “Mummy, my favorite animal at the zoo is the ZAY-BRAH.”
  8. They request bangers and mash for dinner.  I have no idea what bangers and mash even are, so I had to look it up.  Apparently it’s sausage and mashed potatoes.  I made hotdogs and a baked potato that I mashed up.  His reply, “Mummy, I do fancy this dish!”
  9. They start referring to their friends as “mates.”
  10. They call you a “cheeky mummy.”  I was floored when The Boy actually said this to me.  I had to actually look up the context of cheeky before I knew whether or not to flip out on this kid.  He meant it to be cute, so I let it slide, but suffice it to say, this is when I decided to curb his Peppa intake 🙂

Yes, silly, of course I used all of this Peppa mania as a teachable moment … We had a long talk about the different expressions & pronunciations that the British and the Americans use, although I do think he may be an Anglophile in the making.

Elf Enmity

There sure are a lot of Elf Haters out there … It’s kind of baffling to me.  And also slightly amusing that my posting elf pictures to social media sites creates such a strong reaction in people.  I guess it’s the part of my personality that wants to keep poking you when you ask me to stop poking you.  I’m not hurting you, but it bugs you & seeing your anger rise gives me a sick, twisted thrill.  I’m evil.

I love the magic of Christmastime, this we already know.  I enjoy it even more so these days because The 4-year old Boy is wide-eyed and imaginative when it comes to discovering the intricacies of this holiday.  Believing in Santa is fun.  It’s a choice.  I still believe — not in a big fat smoker who breaks into your home to leave you gifts in the dead of night, but I believe in the spirit of Santa Claus: spreading joy and happiness to friends, family & strangers even.  It’s nice to be nice.

So why are a big chunk of my, (mostly childless,) friends so scrooge-like when it comes to this little elf?  The Elf On The Shelf has caused a big divide amongst friends – you’re either Pro-Elf or Anti-Elf, and it has spurred on many a facebook post/rant.  It’s funny to me, too, that the majority of the friends who are so irritated by the elf are the same ones who will post political memes ad nauseam for months leading up to an election.  I don’t (usually) whine about it, rather, I quietly remove them from my news feed.  They are my friends, after all – I like them for many other reasons besides their backassward political views – and they are free to post whatever they wish on whatever social media platform they choose.

And I’m free to post what I want, too … like pictures of our elf, Kermin!!  So, bring on the elf!  I love this guy … another Christmas character to amuse the little one & feed my creative appetite.  I will admit that there are nights where I feel like it’s just another responsibility, another christmas chore that needs to be handled.


But usually I look forward to conjuring up some fantastic scene that The Boy will just go nuts over when he wakes up the next morning.  I do it all (ok, mostly all) for him.  One thing a friend of mine suggested is that the elf be a “kindness” elf & give the kids tasks to complete that involve doing kind deeds.  I like that & tried to incorporate it into our elf experience this year sending notes from Kermin to The Boy.

I don’t think that the elf should be evil or naughty – I’m trying to teach The Boy good manners & destroying my kitchen to make cookies is not good manners!  Kermin is an elf who is a lot like The Boy: kind, funny, silly, and always up for playing with friends.  As The Boy gets older, I can see myself doing more sinister elf set-ups – another friend of mine does this with her teenage boys & it’s pretty hysterical.

Here’s Kermin & A Few of His Shenanigans This Season:

Did you know that elf pee smells like peppermint & they poop marshamallows?
Did you know that elf pee smells like peppermint & they poop marshmallows? Of Course, Sniper The Cat needed to check out the situation 🙂
Playing Candy Land with Friends
Gone Fishin’
Found the stash of Halloween candy & sampled one of each!!
Snowball Fight with the Toy Story Crew!
The gang from Nightmare Before Christmas came by with Elf Cookies!
Wrote a note to remind The Boy to be good … a little reinforcement never hurts 🙂
The Husband conjured up this scene … I think Kermin is warming his buns upon returning from the freezing North Pole
snow angels
another one The Husband came up with … I’m not quite sure what is going on here 🙂

So tell me … how can someone be annoyed with something so fun?  I’m reminded of one of my favorite Christmas characters, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  At first, the other reindeer didn’t like him & wouldn’t let him play.  Awa – how sad.  So people, don’t be a hater, it’s no fun … instead spread a little cheer this Christmas & find it in your hearts to enjoy this little elf and his elfkin games.

Merry Christmas!

Wanna be a mom??? BIRTH-CONTROL HERE!!!

All the commercials & all the reality shows & all the magazines make motherhood look so absolutely adorable, perfect and happy.  It is actually NONE of that.  And I’m not exaggerating.  I mean, NONE.  It’s not adorable, it’s not perfect and it’s rarely happy.  It’s stressful, hectic and insane.  Arguing with a 3 year old is the definition of insanity.  And I find myself doing that DAILY.

Wanna be a mom??  Let’s review some facts …. Gone are the days of sleeping in. GONE.  Despite what your husband promises you.  GONE. Gone are the days of perfectly coiffed hair, adorable, stain-free outfits & languid lunches, with giggling girlfriends.  GONE GONE GONE.

BUT, if you like frazzled, sleepless nights and hurried showers followed by mismatched outfits & no time for eating your own breakfast, well, you’re in luck!  Perhaps motherhood is for you.  Do you like poop, piss and puke?  Oh, you do?  Well, then, sign up right here – because we have plenty of that to go around!

We’ll skip right past pregnancy where shit, piss & puke are a regular occurrence, and we can fast forward to you having the baby & having a gaping hole for a vagina, (well, unless you have my OB/GYN who will stitch you up with an extra “virgin” stitch if you ask real nicely, or your hubby slips him a fifsky.) Or, perhaps you’ll be lucky enough to have major abdomnial surgery and get a c-setion!  Good News: Your baby will have a nice, round head!  Bad news: You’re connected to a catheter for 3 days & you can’t laugh or roll out of bed without feeling like your intestines are going to fall out for 14 days post surgery!!!!

No seriously, there are some upsides to being a mother …but, hmm … right now, I’m at a loss.  I’m sorry, I’m looking through the Victoria’s Secret catalog at udder covers for my 36D’s!!!  Before I gave birth I had B’s.  Perfectly pert B’s – the kind that looked perfect in every shirt WITHOUT a bra.  They swelled to C’s in my pregnancy & then The Boy claimed them as his own when they became full of milk and turned into D’s.  They deflated after he finished nursing, but not without my warwounds: STRETCH MARKS.  Yippe freakig skippee!  No stretch marks anywhere else but on my boobs.  I cried many nights about that, but I guess I should be thankful because every time I look at them I’m reminded that I was lucky enough to have a child and nurse him.  A fleeting moment of gratitude, but gratitude nonetheless!

Now back to my poop, piss and puke rant … So, if you still need reasons to NOT get pregnant, here are a few more:

I thought that I had already experienced the grossest part of motherhood back when The Boy was nearly 3 months old.  It was Christmas morning and I had us both all dressed in adorable Christmas outfits, (because motherhood is adorable, remember?!?) And I was playing with the baby and laying on the floor, holding him above my head and giggling at him as though we were in a Johnson & Johnson commercial, when SPLAT!  All of the sudden, he spit up, or down, rather – ALL OVER ME — IN MY MOUTH, ALL OVER HIMSELF – All over EVERYWHERE!  How much breast milk did this kid drink!?!?  It was so gross – I gagged and thought I was going to lose it.  So, I thought that had to have been the pinnacle of gross mom stuff I’d deal with in his early youth.  Oh, how wrong I was …

... said no person ever
… said no person ever

Cut to Wednesday, after his swim lesson … when he crapped in his swim diaper & in an effort to clean it up I proceeded to, as gently as possible, pull his swim diaper down.  This swim diaper is not the disposable kind – it’s the reusable kind, but for a moment there, I thought about trashing that thing since this was the 2nd time in a week this had occurred.  I’m pulling it down and out plops the warm, wet poop right into my hand.  Gag reflexes kick in and I’m in shock.  WHAT DO I DO WITH A HANDFUL OF SHIT???????  Well, what would you do?  Probably what I did.  I freaked out!  I said a few choice curse words under my breath – not the bad ones, (well, depending on who you are – but they weren’t any of the top 5 ones that the FCC banned.)  And then as calmly as possible I walked that handful of poop over to the trashcan.  I tell you … THAT right there, folks, THAT is the grossest thing I think I’ve ever done in my life.  Carrying someone else’s poop in my hand.

Holding poop was by far worse than being spit up on, or being puked on (I forgot to regale you with that little story of the stomach flu,) or having a booger wiped on your arm, (which oddly enough happened to me today.)  Oh, the things we do for love.

So my point here is this: Motherhood is a dirty job, baby.  A dirty job with crappy pay and no vacations or sick days.  The perks are where you find them … in the hand-picked flowers that are held out by a small, chubby little hand attached to a three-year old who says “Here mama, it’s ‘just because I love you day.'” Or the out of the blue, impromptu kisses and hugs … or the long gazes with the sweet smiles.  Those are actually worth it, and now that it’s been a couple of days, I can say yeah, it’s worth holding someone else’s shit in your hand in order to get the sweet little perks of motherhood.  free happy snoopy.jpg

Max & Ruby … More Debauchery

I should really be outraged, but instead I’m mildly amused.  And semi-outraged.  Semi-mildly-outraged-amused-like.  And you already know the disdain I have in my heart for these wayward, parentless rabbits, Max & Ruby.

The Boy has this book “Max’s Halloween.”  (That’s my fault.  I bought it before I read it!)  I feel that it sends a terrible message & I’ve tried to hide the book, (though I’ve learned my lesson about straight up trashing things of his that I don’t like – I end up having to deal with a sobbing mess of a child and then repurchase whatever it was that I had originally gotten rid of, not to mention the wrath of The Husband who fails to understand why we don’t need 29 tiny plastic dollar store slinkies.)  Well, this time I simply hid the book. Yeah, that didn’t work.  The Boy is like Indiana Jones in the Temple of Max & Ruby.

When The Boy cannot have something he becomes singularly fixated, and will make it his sole purpose in life to attain whatever it is he is not able to have.  Gee, I wonder where he got THAT from?

So, here’s a little excerpt from this wanton book … YOU TELL ME!!!!

Highly inappropriate teachings!  | The Fairly Good Mother
Highly inappropriate teachings from Rosemary Wells! | The Fairly Good Mother

The text to the left of this page reads: “Mr. Huffington filled their jack-o’-lanterns with gummy toads.  Then he stuffed a few extra toads in Max’s costume.”

I’m sorry …  WHAT???   I’m so NOT a prude, but Come.The Hell.On!  This is teaching my child, A) to accept gummy toads from some crazed looking rabbit-man wearing a bow tie, with his eyes rolled to the back of his head in ecstasy, and B) to allow crazed rabbit-man to stuff said toads into his fricking halloween costume!!!!  All while his clueless sister counts her candy!!!!!  WTF!?!?  The whole scenario screams inappropriate!!!  The whole situation is unacceptable!!!

Yeah, I’m outraged, but amusingly so.  I mean, I would be simply amused if only The Boy wasn’t so fixated on this book.  He is reading this book as though it were Halloween gospel.  I have since had to drill into his head that we should: A) NEVER accept candy from strange looking bunnies dressed in pin-striped suits;  & B) never let anyone put candy in our costumes & C) never put candy in our costumes in general because it will ruin our costume.  (***NOTE:  The entire premise of the book is that people are stuffing extra candies in Max’s costume throughout his Halloween escapades. Seriously. I can come up with better story lines than this!!)

Thank you, once again, Rosemary Wells, for your tainted debauchery!  Burn books??  Never thought I’d be on THAT bandwagon, but yeah, let’s start with Max & Ruby books!!

Not All Squashes Are The Same

Which I learned the hard way.  With my mouth.  (I know I’m setting you all up for a crummy “that’s what she said” joke.)  But seriously, these squash tasted like dirty, gross feet. I didn’t know this about these crazy spaceship squash before tonight.  Tonight was my first tangle with these things & you can gather, I’m not a fan.

spaceship squash yuck
Photo Credit: Stephanie Jackson http://www.photographsofaustralia.com









Like an idiot, I figured they would cook up like my other awesome crookneck, green and summer squash.  They did not.  Or perhaps they did & just taste like @$$.  Is this the norm for these crazy spaceship squash?  I have never eaten one before & I will tell you, I will never eat one again.  In fact, I have just decided that I will never eat anything that looks like a spaceship ever again.  Except and unless it is made from pure chocolate & macadamia nuts, or red velvet & cream cheese.

I got these mugs in my “box.”  <<insert “that’s what she said” joke here.>>  I had previously cancelled said box 4 days ago & now I’m glad I did so.  (Note: I cancelled “This Week’s Box” because my garden is banging.)

In any case, this is my first official “WARNING” Post!  I warn you to not get involved with these crazy outer space squash!  I really hope I didn’t accidentally plant these in the fairly good garden :-0

Mothers Day – Reality vs. Fantasy

So … You all know what I was expecting to happen on Mother’s Day.  And believe me, my expectations were low – and I don’t mean that in a negative way, I  mean that I had managed my own expectations.  I kept them in check & I didn’t think they were unreasonable.  Looking back, I realize that what I was expecting was a fantasy Mother’s Day, albeit a fantasy that was seemingly within reach.  And the fact that The Husband had a beautiful bouquet of flowers delivered to me on Friday was a sure sign that my expectations were right on the mark.  Um, yeah.

In my fantasy, I would wake up to a the smells of breakfast cooking, and in The Boy and The Husband would stroll, (The Boy would be dressed,) breakfast tray carried by The Husband, small gift bag containing a mystery gift, and/or cards carried by The Boy.  They would watch me open them up, telling me what an amazing mother I am, how much they loved me, yada yada yada, and I would nibble lazily on my griddle cakes whilst sipping my coffee …

In reality, I woke up & couldn’t really make out any smells.  I called out that I was awake, but no one answered.  I grabbed my iPhone and texted The Husband that his lovely wife was now awake & ready for some pampering.  Surely I didn’t want to spoil their surprises by getting OUT of bed & coming to find them!

Minutes went by and I could hear The Husband negotiating with The Boy to bring in my cards.  There was bribing and threats.  Then more minutes went by, and the door flung open followed by a very rambunctious Boy, half naked, hair wild, running toward me, waving cards in his hand and screaming.  Too early for screaming unless alcohol was involved, and it wasn’t.

I opened the card from The Boy and he grabbed it away, nearly ripping the card.  I retrieved it and thanked him, kissed him, and we discussed the card at length.  There was a blue dog on the front & The Boy was very impressed with this dog.  I was impressed that he had chosen the card himself.

Then I opened the card from The Husband.  Out fell a lottery ticket that The Boy tried to confiscate!  I seized the ticket and he fought me, in tears, nearly ripping it into pieces!  All I could think was “this is the winning ticket and this kid is going to destroy it and I will never forgive him … and I’ll never be able to afford his college tuition without this winning ticket!!”  It was stressful to say the least.  The Husband was nowhere to be found at this juncture.

Then came the breakfast tray carried by The Husband with room temperature griddle cakes & a bowl of berries.  The bowl was not filled to the brim with berries, rather, it was a like a ration of berries.  As though berries were some very expensive commodity & we could only afford to purchase 3 strawberries a month.  No juice, no coffee.  Syrup and butter on the side.  Question: How are you supposed to spread butter on a nearly cold griddle cake?  It doesn’t melt.  So either you skip the butter altogether, OR you eat a thin layer of butter on top of your chilly griddle cake.  I know, I know, “First World Problems.”  I should praise the effort, and I did.

The husband left me alone with the tray full of food and The Boy while he went to get me some beverages.

During this time, The (wild) Boy was jumping around the bed, trying to crawl under the breakfast tray, wanted to lay on my lap & also stole all of my raspberries!  NOT RELAXING!

I ended up hand-feeding him a griddle cake to avoid getting syrup all over my bed and us.  The Husband made his entrance again with coffee in hand and there was NO WAY I could drink it with this crazy kid flailing about – I nearly spilled twice while trying to get enough of it in my gullet to deal with the situation!  When I asked The Husband if he could remove said child so that I could eat, Husband, (on the verge of a meltdown,) proclaimed that he needed to nap because he had been up for hours.  So I was on my own.

Not that I’m complaining … Ok, maybe I am.

I will spare you the details about needing to make brownies & discovering that we were out of  eggs and The Husband nearly having a stroke because I asked him to run to the store, and all that nonsense.  I will skip right to when we get in the car and head to The Grandparents house for more festivities.  The Husband & I “restarted” the day, kissed, made up and smiled as we drove off for our 90 minute trip to my parents’ house.

I had The Boy all dressed in a cute outfit, hair perfectly gelled and iPad, water, snacks and other accoutrements at the ready for our trip down the 405 on a Mother’s Day Sunday.

Cut to: The Boy eating a PB&J.  Then barfing.  ALL. OVER. THE. @#($&% CAR.  Off the road we pull, strip him down, clean him up, change his clothes, clean up the car seat, put him back in, stop at Del Taco to pee & continue on with our journey.  Ok.  I don’t know about you, but puke was NOT in my Mother’s Day directive!  Thankfully the fact that it was Mother’s Day relieved me from clean-up duty, and when I got to my parent’s house I was greeted with a large glass of Chardonnay.

We then proceeded to have fun, grill ribs, open gifts, hug and kiss and laugh.  Ah, that’s motherhood.  That’s life.

So, in summary,  although Mother’s Day did not go as planned, as expected or  as fantasized, it was all in all a pretty good day. May have gotten off to a rocky start, but at the end of the day, when I looked back over all of it, I smiled, chuckled lightly and thought this was one I would never forget.  All that really matters is having your family around you … and family is imperfect.  Well, at least mine is imperfect.  And I wouldn’t change that for the world.  Because you know what I say: You don’t have to be perfect to be awesome.


Just so we’re all clear about this fact, I hate Coscto as much as I hate Walmart.  But while Walmart is NOT a necessary evil, Costco unfortunately is.  I go there because we roll through paper towels like a Sumo wrestler with diarrhea.   Like we can blow through 3 rolls in a day sometimes, (3 cats and a preschooler = puke piss and poop!) but the average is a roll a day.  (That’s the one thing about parenting they don’t mention in any books:  Paper Towels are a staple!)

What do I hate more than going to Costco?  Rude mo-fo’s up in Costco.  I have a system, you see.  I try to get there at 9:48am (they open to the public at 10am,) so I can avoid the general public.  I’m nice and they know me, so they let me in a little early.  I’m a Costco Ninja – I can be in and out in under 18 minutes before most people are parking their cars.

But, the other day I had to go in the afternoon.  3:44 to be exact.  The place is jam packed with slow-walkers scouring the place for free-bees, hungry grey hairs & couples who think that Costco is the perfect romantic setting to take a leisurely stroll while holding hands and lackadaisically pushing their carts.

I gritted my teeth and tried to muscle the cart around a large man shuffling in front of me, chomping on an egg roll.  He CLEARLY saw me out of his peripheral vision, as I tried to maneuver around him, and just to be “that guy” (a nice way of saying arse hole,) he made sure that I couldn’t get past him.  THEN, he crumpled his egg roll wrapper and tossed it on the ground.  As though the “help” would be by any moment to pick up his trash!

I felt my blood pressure rising as I leaned into The Boy, (who had also witnessed this man littering,) and whispered to him, “that man is rude. It’s rude to litter.”  At least if I was going to be stuck behind Mr. Heart-Attack-Waiting-to-Happen, I was going to use it as a teaching moment.  The Boy agreed.  And about 25 seconds later, I was able to dodge between him and 3 other carts.

As we passed him, The Boy looked at him and proclaimed in a clear voice, “You’re rude.”  I nearly peed my pants!  Oh geez.  The man either didn’t hear him, or English wasn’t his first language because he smiled at The Boy & said hello.  The Boy scowled at the litterbug & repeated himself.  “You’re rude.  It’s not nice to litter.”  The little tow-headed parrot strikes again!

I quickly high-tailed it down the next aisle, laughing and kissing The Boy on the head.  I explained that sometimes we cannot tell people what we’re thinking even though it might be the truth.  We talked for a minute about why we don’t litter & why we need to remember to never come to Costco after 10:30am.

Kids Show I Can’t Stand: Max and Ruby

I first caught a glimpse of this ridiculous mess of a show when The Boy was a baby, just before he turned one.  I immediately thought the show was obnoxious and annoying, and vowed to never let The Boy know of its existence.

photo credit: Nick Jr.
photo credit: Nick Jr.

My plan was going well for a little over 2 years, and then somehow, someway, The Boy was exposed to this hellacious show.  (I blame The Husband.)  And like trying crack for the first time, The Boy was hooked!  Max and Ruby is a gateway show – next thing you know, he’ll be jonesing for Caillou!

How can I hate a couple of bunny siblings you ask?  Let me tell you:

  1. Max, who is supposed to be three years old, talks like a 20-month old baby, “Frog.  Frog.  Frog.”  He utters one syllable words while his bratty sister tries to decipher what he wants or what he’s talking about.  
  2. Where the hell are their parents during all of their insane escapades?  These 2 rabbits, (ages 3 and 7) apparently live alone & the only authority figure, their oblivious Grandmother, lives clear across town!  Someone seriously needs to call CPS!
  3. Max is a brat & Ruby is a bossy little twit who is more interested in chit chatting on the phone with her best buddy rather than babysitting Max.  And how can you blame her!??!  At age 7, I wouldn’t want to be the sole caretaker for an obnoxious rabbit either.

So we went through a Max and Ruby phase for roughly 2 weeks, which resulted in The Boy speaking like this flipping idiotic rabbit, Max, and me nearly losing my damn mind.

“Milk! Milk! Milk!” Screeched The Boy.  I handed him his milk just to get him to knock it off.  “Blanket, blanket!”

“Use your big boy words to tell me what you want, you know how to talk like a big boy, stop this baby talk.”  I said through gritted teeth.

“No, I’m Max, mama, and you’re Ruby.”  He whined, sad that I wouldn’t play.

I had to have a Max and Ruby intervention & it had to happen immediately.  So, I erased any and all shows that The Husband had dvr’d and promptly informed him that we were never to utter the words “Max” or “Ruby” in my house again.  If The Boy asks, Max and Ruby are dead.  Kidding.  Kind of.

“Max and Ruby! Max and Ruby!” He chanted when I asked him what he wanted to watch the other morning.

“Awa, Max and Ruby show has been cancelled, Boy.” I lied, feigning disappointment.

Parents, beware, these two rabbits are NOT good role models!  Keep your children away from this travesty!

7th Portal to Hell: Walmart on a Saturday … while I’m bleeding

Not just any Saturday. No, the Saturday before Easter! What was I thinking?  I wasn’t.

walmart sucks  | The Fairly Good Mother

I had a prescription to pick-up from there.  One that I have been meaning to transfer because EVERY.SINGLE.EFFING.TIME I go in there, I lament my decision to do so.

But I did it.  Again.  Because I apparently never learn.  So, I dart and weave through the drones pushing baskets full of kids and laundry detergent.  I get to the pharmacy & wait for my turn.  I tell her my name & she is perplexed by my request.  She asks me when I called my prescription in, “is it new, or did the doctor call it in?”

Me: “No, I called to renew it 2 days ago, the automated recording said it would be ready yesterday.”
Her: “Hmm … well, it’s not.”
Me:  “How come?”
Her:  “I don’t know.”
Me (getting agitated):  “Welllll, can you please find out?”  JHC, is it too much to ask for someone to do their damn job?  

She shuffles off to the back of the pharmacy for about 7 minutes, then returns.

Her:  “Seems like we are out of this medication and have ordered it, but it won’t be in until Tuesday.”
Me:  “And no one called me to tell me that because …???  You just want me to waste my time coming down to the 7th portal of hell on a Saturday.  Before Easter.  I hate Walmart, do you realize that?”
Her:  “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am.  But, well, they usually do call.”
Me:  “Ma’am?  Ok.  Yeah.  Well, no one called me.”
Her:  “Are you sure?  (off my death-stare) Maybe we don’t have your number.”
Me:  “Oooo Kaaaaay.  Can you please double check, then, to make sure you have my correct number?”
She passes me a slip of paper and a pen.  I push it back.
Me: “No. I want to know what number you have on file.”
She looks shocked and waddles back to the computer in another area.  She returns with a slip of paper that has my number on it … I tell her that’s the correct number and she promises they will call me when it’s ready.

Not wanting to waste a trip to the 7th portal of hell, I dart and weave some more up and down aisles, retrieving items like pull-ups, wipes, “It’s The Easter Beagle Charlie Brown” dvd for The Boy’s Easter basket, and make my way to the check-out.

Holy Lines, Batman!  It’s crazier than Costco up in this mug!

I sneak into what I think is the shortest line and am practicing deep breathing as the people behind me have ZERO concept of personal space.  Why is that?  Every time I’m in that $hithole, every customer is always up on my heels, with absolutely no concept of personal space.  I’m texting The Husband, telling him that I hate this place and they’re lucky no one has lost an eye yet.  Yet.

back the f^k Up 'fore U git scratched the f^k up!
back the f^k Up ‘fore U git scratched the f^k up!

It’s my turn, finally.  BUUUUUUUUT, before the checker can even pick up my pack of pull-ups to scan, the lady behind me thrusts her hand full of ice cream at the checker’s face.  “How much is this ice cream!?!”  She grunts.

Deep breath by me.

“I don’t know?  Doesn’t it say?”  Says the checker.

“No.” Says the lady who, in my opinion, does not need to be eating ice cream.

“Hmm.” The checker muses while steam starts to puff out of my ears.  “Val?!!”  She screeches to the checker in the aisle next to ours, “How much is this ice cream, do ya know?”

Big sigh by me.  And I’m running my tongue across the top of my lip in an effort to temper my growing frustration with the situation. I bite my lip.

Val yells back that she doesn’t know.  My checker offers to the lady, “I can scan it to find out if ya want ….”

“Yeah, you can scan it AFTER you’re done checking me out!!!!”  I finally erupt, smacking my hand down on the register area.

Everyone is taken aback by my outburst.  Checker apologizes and calls me ma’am, (which only further pisses me off.  That’s 2 ma’am’s in one Walmart trip!)  Ice cream lady stares at me, and I stare back, daggers in my pupils, daring her to confront me.  I’m bleeding and I hate Walmart.  I dare you to say something to me and see how fast I can lodge that ice cream where the sun don’t shine, sweetheart.

She didn’t say a word.  Smart move.

Moral of the story:  Do NOT go to Walmart EVER.  And if you need to go there, make sure it’s not on a Saturday.  And NEVER on a Saturday before Easter Sunday.

Reason #289 Why I Hate The Medical Field

So, I have this night time cough – I’m guessing because it’s so freaking windy & dry in my little piece of Southern California Paradise.  My skin is cracking & my hands are as dry as a bone.  (P.S. I hate the wind!)  I don’t feel sick, but my voice is hoarse.  Yes, mother, I’m gargling with hydrogen peroxide & drinking tea with lemon and honey before bed.

HOWEVER, COMMA, none of that has helped!  I have woken up for a total of 5 hours the past two nights due to a dry cough.  It’s obnoxious.  But not as obnoxious as being told that I can’t have a refill of cough syrup.

After a night of coughing fits on Monday, I called first thing Tuesday morning to request a refill on some cough syrup that I was prescribed in December for a similar condition.  I called the Pharmacy back in the late afternoon to see if the Doctor had filled it & if it was ready to pick up.  Nope.  Weird.  Too bad the Doctor’s office was closed, so I couldn’t call them to see what was up.  Well, thankfully, I had a smidge of cough syrup left from the previous prescription.  And I do mean just a smidge. Like, I had to fill the bottle with water to get the stuff that was lodged on the sides of the bottle & that didn’t even really help.

Cut to Wednesday morning, I called the Doctor’s office to see what the deal was & after I was put on hold for 4 minutes and 36 seconds, I spoke with Lydia, who was cold, unsympathetic & told me that my request for a refill had been denied.  “Cough medicine contains codeine and codeine is an abused substance.”  I was really pissed at the innuendo … I’m an adult woman, a mother, a wife, a responsible, upstanding citizen, NOT a 13 year old crackhead trying to get high on codeine!

Not only was I incensed at being denied for a refill, I was flabbergasted as to WHY no one from their office bothered to call me and inform me of this fact yesterday.  She claimed the Doctor did call me!  Um NO.  I have caller i.d on both phones, so show me the records.  Lydia accused me of being hostile.  W.T.F.?  I asked Lydia why I had been denied, she said that it was because I hadn’t been into their offices recently.   Well, Lydia, I haven’t been sick!  And also, your office is about 20-30 minutes away from my house & there is an average wait time of 60-90 minutes in your office until I’m seen, so that doesn’t really jive with my busy mom schedule.  It’s not a convenient outing for me, feel me, Lydia?  And it’s not like it’s some mystery as to what is wrong with me – I HAVE A NIGHT COUGH – I can self-diagnose & know what I need.

Lydia challenged me: If I really wanted a refill, I’d come into the office.  Oh really?  When?  Should I take my son out of school to make him sit in your petri-dish of an office just to get an ok for a cough syrup refill?  Or should I skip one of his therapies in the afternoon and get charged for a missed session?  She said I should get a sitter.  I asked her if the Doctor was planning on paying for a sitter.  She asked me to stop being rude.  I asked her if she had children, she said no, and I asked to have the Doctor call me immediately.  She informed me that he only returned calls at the end of the business day.  Oh, great – what good would that do me?  I’d have another sleepless, coughing night.

I hung up with Lydia, quietly cursed her in my car & then called the office back and got a Jennifer on the line…. Jennifer was much more sympathetic & I had calmed down some.  Just some.  Not a lot.  But enough.  I explained the situation to Jennifer & asked her if she knew how it felt to be a mom when you’re tired from not sleeping & don’t feel good & on top of that just started your period.  Do you know how hard that is?  To my surprise she said “yes.” She promised that the Doctor or at least his nurse would call me back quickly.  Stupidly, I believed her.

Cut to 5pm … no call from the doctor or any of his cohorts & on a whim I decided to call the pharmacy to make sure they didn’t get the refill request, so that I could call the doctor and get crazy on him. Oh, nope – to my surprise, the Doctor’s office DID, indeed, call in a refill & I had The Husband pick it up on his way home.  I open the bag and there is this HUMONGOUS bottle of cough syrup, as if to say “Please don’t ever call here again.”  OR, “We’re sorry, we fucked up.”  I’m not sure which, but it made me laugh on a day where I’d been upset and frustrated for the majority of my waking hours.

Anyway … Off to codeine dreamland and hopefully a more restful sleep.  Sweet dreams, dear reader 🙂