There are some weeks in marriage where it’s basically peaceful bliss. You get along great, their jokes are actually funny… you don’t argue incessantly over where/what to eat. Totally in sync. Then there are the weeks where you wonder if you kill them, it’d be justifiable homicide.
If you don’t understand that joke, this blog is probably not for you.
This is what went down this week that makes me think I’d totally get off with a warning.
The week started out fine. Until Monday. So, yeah, one day. One day was blissful marriage happiness. Monday, there were torrential downpours. The kind where you can hardly see two feet in front of you, and driving in it looks like you’re in the damn Millennium Falcon going warp speed, but when you’re an adult, and you need food, you can’t exactly stay home and listen to it pound down on your roof and think “well, I guess groceries can wait”.
Thomas was home, and it was school pick up time, so we grabbed the kids and made our way to the store while there was a lull in the storm. With four people, we could get in, and out, and home before it picked back up again. In a perfect world, anyway.
As we’re leaving, the sky fucking OPENS. UP. Lucky me, I thought to bring in my umbrella. My only umbrella. My seriously over-priced Disney World umbrella. Since Thomas is being all gentlemanly and running to the car to bring it to the curb so no one else gets drenched, I give it to him. I watch him run out into the rain with it, and the car pulls around a few minutes later. Out of the car is my chivalrous husband, who braved the rain to save my makeup, with my umbrella. Broken.
Mad would be an understatement, but the storm is getting worse, we’ve got whiny kids, and cold groceries. This is where I should tell you that we’re driving my SUV, yes- mine- it’s under my name, I paid for it, and it’s not great (Thomas has the better vehicle since he has to drive a stupidly long way to work every day). That being said, I’m not a HUGE fan of driving. Especially not in storms. I have crap eyesight and I don’t like wearing glasses or contacts, so if I don’t have to, I’m not going to drive.
I find myself sitting in the passenger seat of my SUV with my broken ass umbrella and a scowl the size of Australia. BUT, we’re only a few minutes from home, and I like home. Home calms me… when the kids aren’t screaming, but, yeah, I’m really looking forward to not being stuck in a car with the husband who just broke my Disney World umbrella.
For some reason unknown to me, the man decides to take back roads to get home. Wait, no, I remember. He doesn’t want to wait at a stoplight. Perfect, rational reasoning, am I right?
The farther we got back, the closer to our house, the less drainage there seemed to be. It was looking bad. I knew it had rained a lot, but this was insane. Yards looked more like lakes. We turned a corner to what looked like a not too deepish flood type situation on a road. We’re in an SUV, it didn’t look so bad…. until it did. It was when the water was above the tires that I realized this was a bad situation. And then I saw the car in front of us– a VW Golf, with water up to the windows.
That’s when the screaming started.
TURN BACK. TURN AROUND. THIS IS BAD. THIS IS GOING TO FLOOD THE ENGINE. JUST TURN AROUND.
It wasn’t too late, he totally could have backed up, no harm no foul. He maneuvers the car up onto the curb, and I’m thinking he’s about to rip a U-Turn in this bitch. Nope. He’s trying to get leverage over the water. It doesn’t work. The water on the curb is just as fucking high. I’m still screaming.
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? TURN AROUND!
He not only doesn’t listen to me, in MY car, he plows ahead, past the poor VW, with a wake of water around us like we’re a gatdamn boat.
SHOCKINGLY, we make it through to the other side. Immediately, the check engine light turns on. I’m convinced he’s successfully flooded my engine & destroyed my car to the point where it won’t start ever again. So now he has his fancy new car and my poor old ass vehicle is ruined. I’m livid. I don’t help bring in the groceries. Groceries can suck my ass. Everything can suck my ass. Except him.
Of course, he insists repeatedly the car is fine, blah de blah. I’m concerned I will have no way to take the kids to school in the morning. Even if the car isn’t damaged, driving through that shit in MY vehicle when I’m repeatedly yelling not to, when turning around is totally doable, was not okay.
I grumble my way through making a seriously delicious dinner. I guess hatred and anger really motivates me. The rage I radiated into the turkey burgers made them amazing. I’m feeling proud, AND I have one left over for lunch the next day. I’m an absolute genius. Maybe this day is perking up! Maybe this week won’t be so awful. Let the magic of the turkey burger will my car to start again!
Much to my surprise, and to my husband’s delight, the car starts in the morning. Check engine light is still on, but it seems fine… other than the hunk of plastic now hanging down from underneath of it that some lady in the school parking lot decided to flag me down and make a huge fucking deal about. Only to be followed by my husband seriously patting himself on the back because in his intensive Google searching (he has a Google doctorate, don’t ya know?) he found out that he really “did me a favor” because now my engine has been “steam cleaned”.
THE MAN IS PATTING HIMSELF ON THE BACK FOR NEARLY RUINING MY DAMN CAR.
I am only calmed by the fact that I have my delicious, magical, hate-filled turkey burger in the fridge waiting for me. FOOD SOOTHES ME, OKAY?
I usually hate food prep, like, a lot, but knowing what the result is going to taste like? I didn’t mind it much that day. I cut up tomato, I get the bun all buttery and garlic-y and toasty, I slice some onion and slice two kinds of cheese, and then I go back to the fridge to grab my glorious Holy Grail turkey burger.
It’s nowhere to be found.
I’m not the one who put the leftovers away, so maybe I’m missing it.
I do that shit where you leave the fridge only to go back to it and look again, hoping that by some magical miracle, what you’re looking for will appear.
Shit didn’t work.
Turkey burger is MIA.
It dawns on me… there’s only one place the beloved turkey burger could be.
In a blind fit of rage, I fire over a message to my betrothed. The man who is supposed to be my support. Care about me when I’m down and out, and after he nearly RUINED. MY. CAR. he couldn’t possibly, could he?
“DID YOU TAKE MY TURKEY BURGER?”
“THAT WAS LITERALLY THE ONLY THING I WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO ALL DAY”
Yeah, uh huh. You’re over there enjoying the burger I put ALL OF MY HATE INTO to make it extra delicious, and me? I had to have a soggy ass sandwich.
A SOGGY. ASS. SANDWICH. It was the saddest sandwich I’ve ever had. And unfortunately, this time, the hate did NOT make it taste better.
I’d get away with it. I’d TOTALLY GET AWAY WITH IT. After the engine steaming and the magic burger eating…. yep, they’d let me off with a warning.
BUT. I wouldn’t do that.
Let me explain my position on this– marriage, and venting about it (and I feel the same way about parenting)
I always have slight hesitation writing blogs like this, because some people have the tendency to get all butthurt about it– like how dare I disparage the sanctity of marriage and my poor husband! Like I’m SO LUCKY and it must be torture to be married to such a horrid bitch. As though it’s a chore to be married to someone who doesn’t post sappy Facebook updates about the man sitting right next to me, BUT THEY DON’T HAVE TO LIVE WITH THE MAN. I’m kidding. Kind of. Look, marriage isn’t real unless you can talk real talk. The good and the bad. And sometimes the weird. And the annoying. We’re humans. We live together. We annoy each other, and sometimes to the point where we want to smother one another in their sleep. Yes, me too! I am incredibly irritating. I have constant anxiety. I have stomach issues that plague everything we do, and chronic pain that stomps on plans. I’m EXTREMELY DRAMATIC (ya don’t say?)- but that’s the thing. We put up with each other. It works. You have to take the ups with the downs, the good with the bad. DIDN’T YOU LISTEN TO YOUR VOWS?
So, screw the butthurt. Sorry, not sorry.
This is marriage. REAL marriage.
Lately, I feel like I’m walking around with a 5th appendage. No, I didn’t fall into a pool of bio-hazardous waste. I’m not swamp thing, and I didn’t get bitten by a radioactive spider. I have a 7 year old who is going through a stage where he thinks the best place for him is lodged directly up my ass. He’s seriously lodged in there, and most days, I can’t seem to remove him, and when I do, I get the good ol’ guilt trip.
“Why don’t you ever want to play with me?”
“I just want to sleep in your bed!”
“Don’t you want to cuddle?”
“SPEND ALL OF YOUR TIME WITH ME AND LET ME SUFFOCATE YOU!”
I love that he’s not too cool to cuddle with Mommy (though he IS too cool for kisses, since he’s apparently saving those for marriage), but it gets completely overwhelming. Minus a few days I took on a business trip, I have spent every single day of the past seven plus years of his life with him, and nine plus years of his brother’s life. I’ve had a total of three days to myself since they were born. THREE. And that’s more than some parents get.
While chatting with a fellow mom, we basically came to the same conclusion: Any time we want to take even a second for ourselves, it can be seen as a slight against the family. Reading something instead of answering a barrage of pointless questions? Slight against the family. Putting headphones on to watch a show or a movie? Major slight. Bathroom alone? How dare you! Girl’s night out? BUT WHO’S GOING TO FEED US?
There are plenty of people who have supportive families who will take the kids on a moment’s notice to give them a break, and I’m not shitting on that, I think it’s fabulous. I’m also not saying my husband isn’t supportive and wouldn’t allow me to leave the house without the kids to get a break. It’s just not that simple for a lot of people. There aren’t those kinds of opportunities. We don’t always want to have to get dressed and GO somewhere to get a mental break, to get a few moments of peace and quiet, to just have a minute to decompress.
Home is where I’m comfortable. It’s where I like to be. It’s where I can wear no pants without being arrested for indecent exposure. I put a lot of time and effort into making this house a place where I actually WANT to be, so why should I have to leave for “me” time?
I know the kids don’t understand this, at least not yet, so I’ve just grown accustomed to the “take it how I can get it” method of me-time.
Kids in time out? Me time.
Taking a poop? Me time.
In the shower? Take extra long me time.
Making dinner? Pop on the TV for the kids and make it my me-time.
Pretending to play hide and seek and just…. not seeking? Insta- Me time.
I can put something on the TV the kids hate and force them to leave the room, or turn up the volume over their whining for some me-time. I can carry an entire conversation with the kids while browsing the internet or reading a book without hearing a single word they say.
I know NONE OF THIS is as good as getting to curl up in your pajamas and being left the hell alone, or a night out of the house and away from screaming, needy little crotchfruit, BOTH OF WHICH WE ALL DESERVE, but sometimes you just have to make do with what you can get to conserve your sanity and refresh your patience and sense of self until some real, quality alone time.
Can you believe it’s already been a year since the last food & wine festival at Busch Gardens?
Funny thing is, during the off season, it feels like it’s taking seventeen years, but once it’s here I can’t believe it got here so fast. And I couldn’t be happier! Next to Howl-O-Scream, this is my absolute favorite time of year to be at Busch Gardens, and there’s always something new to try!
Along with a ton of my favorites they brought back this year (and some that sadly went away- RIP France kiosk) like the Caribbean kiosk (FRITTERS ARE LIFE), the Cheddar & Lager chowder in Canada, and the empanadas in Spain, there are new places to stop and snack.
SO, in addition to Caribbean, Canada, Spain, Ireland, Virginia, Hawaii, French Quarter, Germany, and the American Southwest, here are the new additions this year (you can also check out my roundup from last year for more yummy pictures & reviews):
I have a new love of Indian food (I’m a late bloomer, what can I say?) so I was really excited to try the fare at this beautiful new kiosk
You can smell the spices wafting through Oktoberfest as you enter the area. A mix of cardamom and curry- you’ll want to order one of everything on the menu, and here’s what they offer:
Full of flavor, but still safe enough for even a picky eater (like my 7 year old).
Now, they don’t look like much, but these soft little pockets pack a punch and have a sweet dipping sauce to cool it down a bit. Great for a quick spicy snack!
Easily my favorite from this kiosk. Tons of flavor, but not overpowering for anyone who isn’t adventurous, and the portion size is great for the price. A vegetarian option!
I LOVE mango, but I’m not a fan of coconut. Still, these were really good! Chilled, perfect for a hot day, and not too heavy. My kids inhaled them. I’m honestly lucky I got a bite at all.
All-in-all, a really great addition to the Food & Wine festival!
FOR THE ADULTS, and I KNOW you’re out there wondering- is there anything just for me?
UMMM YES. I’m not a wine, or a beer drinker, so the adult beverages for me have always been slim-pickins, and beer flights & wine tastings aren’t really for me, but Busch is on top of it. They now have an entire stand of frozen mixed drinks!
BUT THAT’S NOT ALL!
I feel kinda like a game show host right now.
Another new addition for the adults out there looking for a more private, fine-dining experience, you should seriously look into the Pairings of Note experience. This takes place in Castle o Sullivan in Ireland. You get to sit down with wine ambassadors who will serve you six sample sized plates along with paired wines for each while a live band plays.
Check out these pretty little dishes:
Once you’re done, you can even purchase a bottle of wine to enjoy around the park for the rest of your day (or to take home).
The Pairings of Note experience can be purchased separately from park admission at Guest Services for $50 per person. Definitely a date-night event!
For ALL the info, including prices on Sampler passes (the best value if you ask me), you can check out the official Busch Gardens’ Website.
The Food & Wine Festival runs every Friday, Sat, & Sun through July 2nd.
I can’t remember what I had for dinner three nights ago, but I can still clearly recall the moment my self-confidence got drop-kicked out the window.
The details surrounding it are fuzzy, but what I do recall is sitting at the kitchen counter, kind of minding my own business, when my mom’s friend walked in the room. It was a lazy day for me, I didn’t have anything to do, and I didn’t care to do anything. I must have been about twelve, and as a child constantly plagued by self-confidence issues, finally becoming comfortable with who I was. It was a major feat. It was at this moment that my mom’s friend, my mom’s most beautiful friend, gave me the once up and down and asked why I was looking so scrubby (not her exact words, but again, the details are fuzzy). My response, perhaps in snarky tween fashion, was “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
She looked surprised. Offended, even.
“Oh, honey. You should always be trying to impress. ALWAYS.”
I don’t know why that one statement had such an effect on me, why it has stuck with me for so long. Maybe it’s because I considered her to be so beautiful, and confident. Because I trusted her opinion. Because I was young, an impressionable, and not as secure with myself as I’d thought I’d become. I remember the moment, the words, and exactly how shattered I felt.
Blaming her completely would be a mistake, I don’t think it was her fault. I think her words were a feather that pushed young, unsure me over the edge, but it was the beginning of spending a really long time constantly worrying about what everyone else thought about how I looked, and as a female, a lot of people have thoughts about how we look.
It’s never been the magazines, commercials, super models, “current” fashions. It was always words, expectations, looks, and comments from the people immediately surrounding me that had the biggest impact.
“Why are you wearing that?”
“Who are you trying to look pretty for?”
“You’d be prettier if you smiled”
“You’d look better with less makeup”
“You would be so pretty if you lost weight”
“You’re too skinny, you should eat a sandwich”
Ladies, how many times have you heard not one, but all of those? How many times has the way you dress, or your hair, or your face, or your makeup, or really, just your being been put into question?
Living, and listening to those comments every day of our lives is draining, exhausting, and miserable. For me, it got to the point where I sort of dreaded doing the things I wanted, looking the way I wanted, because I knew the comments would be lobbed at me, and I didn’t want to deal with them.
Every one of these comments lobbed by not just men, but women as well, put us in the position of not caring about how we feel about how we look, but instead considering what others might think first and foremost. As if their opinions are more important than how we feel in our own skin. And suddenly, we stop thinking about what we like, and start thinking about how others might judge us. This can color our entire lives, our personas, our personalities. We don’t want to look prude, or slutty, or easy, or manly, or whatever other stupid label that gets plopped on us because of a simple choice we make in our appearance.
It bothered me for SO LONG, but what I don’t remember is the moment that it changed for me. Probably because it wasn’t a moment. It was years, and years of putting up with bullshit and getting fed up with listening to it, and letting it affect me.
I’ve lived with receiving constant comments for so long, that when I got visible tattoos, and decided to have fun with my hair, I expected them. I expected people to tell me, loudly, how much they didn’t like how I look because it is “abnormal”, it isn’t magazine beauty, it stands out. And I was right, sort of.
I’ve been called an Easter Basket because I’m bright and colorful (and trust me, it wasn’t meant as a compliment), I’ve been told I’ll regret the art on my skin when I get older (I won’t), and I’ve been told I’m frying my hair (I’m not) as a way to try and guilt me to go back to “normal”. It’s shit that we become accustomed to hearing these things, but even when we scream about it, it doesn’t seem to change.
My hair has been in the ‘fantasy’ category for about a year now. It’s been lightbulb-bright many times throughout this adventure, so it really shouldn’t be a shock at this point for me to walk into my kid’s school with a new magical color. I still get strange looks when I change it up, but the comments stopped a few months ago, which has been lovely. I like to live without commentary.
One day, one of the older folks called over to me. We chat, and say hello often– he’s one of the older men who likes to tell women to smile, because we’re not allowed not to apparently, but he’s not going to change, and I don’t have the energy to try with someone in their later years.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asks me. Odd, but I’ll bite.
“I have one brother, why?”
He sits back on his haunches a bit, a smirk on his face. “I’m just wondering if you got enough attention as a child, is all.”
Naturally, I’m caught off guard. Did he really? Is he implying….? Yes. He did, and yes, he is.
Being used to this kind of shit, especially from men, I’m quick with my reply. “Too much, really.” and I sit down, pull out my phone, and pretend he doesn’t exist until I can grab my kids and go.
The next week, another comment from another man on a photo I posted.
“Screaming ‘look at me!'”
You know that level of frustration you get where you kind of want to snap at someone, but instead, you pull air into your cheat and just hold it there until you can be reasonable? That’s about the level I was at.
“No, I’m just being me, and doing what I want.”
I HAVE TATTOOS. I WEAR A LOT OF MAKEUP. I HAVE BRIGHT COLORED HAIR, AND I’M NOT TRYING TO IMPRESS YOU.
Being a woman is exhausting.
Why is it so hard to believe that how we choose to look is how we personally want to look? That it has absolutely nothing to do with anyone else?
Unlike when I was younger, what bothers me isn’t that people don’t like how I look. Everyone has their own preference, and I’m way out there. I know there are going to be people who don’t like it. What irritates me to no end is that people think that I should care enough about how they feel about how I look to let it influence the choices I make. That I do it purely and solely to get attention, as though I have no preference of my own. That, as a woman, I’m so needy, I need people to look at me all the time. That maybe, if they make enough snide back-handed comments to me about it, I’ll change back to what they think is acceptable. What fits their perceived notion of “beautiful”. What they think women “should” look like.
It’s like it’s absolutely impossible for some peoples brains to comprehend that it’s not about them. That it’s not about attention, it’s not about “looking pretty”, or impressing someone else– which is what what my mom’s friend believed.
No, ladies– there’s no way this could be. We don’t have our own likes and dislikes! We can’t just be doing our own thing. Nope, we’re just looking for attention. Oh, but WAIT! How could I forget? If we aren’t looking for attention, we aren’t doing enough. Why aren’t we trying to impress everyone? Have we just given up? The shame.
HOW DO WE EVEN LIVE WITHOUT THE APPROVAL OR ATTENTION OF OTHERS? HOW? Do we curl up and die if we aren’t seeking validation and approval from others? If we aren’t living to please?
Sigh. It’s just… unrelenting.
I wish I were more eloquent, that I had all the answers, that I could snap my fingers and change your mind, or change other peoples minds, but I can’t. And I can’t just wrap this up in a nice little bow. This isn’t a blog to tell you to “love yourself”. That’s not enough. It would be doing you, and me, and women everywhere a horrible disservice. It’s been said too many times before. We can do better.
I’d love to think that we can change people, and we can, but we also have to be really honest with ourselves in knowing that we can’t change everyone, and that living in a world where everyone accepts everyone for who they are, no matter how they look, is not going to happen in our lifetime. I’m not saying we shouldn’t try, we should, but we should also be realistic. And the reality is also that just learning to love ourselves isn’t the answer. Neither is screaming obscenities at all the people who lob comments and looks your way. The best way to live life is to do whatever the hell you want, look however the hell you want, however makes you happy, comfortable, at peace, and know that it isn’t going to please everyone. The most important person to please is yourself.
You’re going to get comments. Some of them are probably going to piss you off. But if you like how you look, how your dressed, wearing pajamas in public, having a full face of makeup or none at all, throwing your hair back in a pony without brushing because you just. fucking. felt like it, or taking the time to style it every day, then do it.
PLEASE YOURSELF. You’re your own worst critic, anyway, so if you feel happy with you, you’re obviously doing something right.
Do you ever have a moment that makes you stop and think “I really shouldn’t be allowed to be an adult”?
I’d hate to think I’m the only one.
I’ve never really quite felt like an adult. Or, not like I think an adult should feel. I don’t have any interest in growing up. I still don’t like the flavor of Kale. I don’t drink Metamucil. Those are adult things, right? See, I don’t even know! Who let this happen?
Tossing kids into the mix forced me into the adult role I was never meant to have. Responsibilities, schedules, problem solving… all things I’ve never been great with, but here I am. HERE. I. AM. I’m not doing so bad. The kids are whiny piles of turd, but they’re functioning… for the most part. We’re making it work. Success! Well, sort of. Enough to be able to stop and pat myself on the back every now and then, which I definitely should never ever do, because every time I do, I get that lovely little bitch-slap back to reality.
I think we all know where this is going. My bitch-slap came swiftly and with a bite yesterday.
In all the five years I’ve been taking the kids to, and picking them up from school, I’ve always been on time. I’ve gotten it down to a damn science. I am the QUEEN OF PARENT PICK UP. THAT’S RIGHT, MINIVAN MAFIA! EAT IT! Well, okay, that’s kind of a lie. I was late the first day and walked in to an empty cafeteria (where they corral all the kids who don’t ride the bus) but that wasn’t my damn fault. Those turds told me pick up was at 3, so I showed up at 3. NO. IT’S 2:45! THESE TWO THINGS ARE NOT THE SAME!
Okay…. breathe… carrying on–
If I’m being honest, which I always am, I kind of avoid having to run errands. I don’t like them. They annoy me. I hate the grocery store. BUT- this whole adult thing forces me to do shit I don’t wanna do, so errands must be accomplished, and I always prefer to do them without kids present. I also prefer not to have to waste gas by going out and back to the house, only to go back out and pick up the kids again. SO, if I have shit that needs to be done, I time it with pick up at the end of the day. Down to the damn minute.
How long will this take? Okay, so however long it takes, subtract it from parent pick up time, add in traffic possibilities, leave the house a few minutes earlier to allow for a buffer. Surprisingly, it’s gone really, really well. For FIVE YEARS it’s gone amazingly. I get all my shit done before picking the kids up, and pull into the parking lot in time to have a few minutes to scroll through Facebook in my car before having to walk into the school and grab the kids.
I hadn’t planned on running really any errands yesterday until I got this lovely little e-mail in my inbox from CVS. I don’t usually shop at CVS, but they dangled a $10 off $15 purchase in my face like a starving horse, and I had to bite. I. HAD. TO. They carry the makeup I’ve been searching for, but too cheap to buy. YES, too cheap for drugstore makeup. LOOK. I OWE DISNEY MY SOUL RIGHT NOW, OKAY? I DON’T WANT MICKEY BREAKING MY DAMN KNEECAPS, SO YEAH. I CAN’T AFFORD THE CHEAP SHIT.
AHEM. I swear. I’ve got this under control.
Yeah, so, they were like “Hey, come in and try our new curbside pickup!” which is this fancy thing they offer I’ve never heard of where you order, pay online, and they send you a text when your order is ready. Once you arrive, you reply to the text with “HERE” and they bring your order to your car. It’s DRIVE THRU MAKEUP, PEOPLE. HOW CAN YOU SAY NO TO THIS???
Maybe you can, but I can’t.
I love makeup too much, y’all. The offer of cheap makeup was far too strong. It may have clouded my judgement.
CVS right now:
And I needed to run to the post office anyway, so… two birds, one car trip, right? 4 birds if you count swinging back and picking up the kids on the way home.
I put in my order. I pay. I do all the math calculations for how long this might take, and I wait until the perfect time to leave the house. I’m in a GREAT mood at this point. I love a good deal, it’s a beautiful day, and I’m about to get my hands on new makeup. Triple win! Nailing this shit right now!
To save some time, I avoid the main roads and take the back way to CVS, not realizing that in order to get into the parking lot, I have to do a U-turn in the main intersection of the road I’m avoiding to get there, and then a U-turn to get back out onto the main road and head to the post office. This adds a few minutes to my time, but with the buffer I’d already planned in because I’m super fucking smart and all and accounted for this kind of thing to happen, I’m golden. No big deal.
I pull into the parking lot, put my car in park, and pull out my phone. Just as instructed, I respond to the text message CVS sent saying my order was ready with “HERE” and I wait. A minute goes by, I’m staring at the doors of CVS waiting for them to open so I can flick on my hazards to alert the clerk that I’m the one waiting for my magical makeup delivery. Two minutes go by. A lady in scrubs exits the building and nearly gets whacked by a truck. Three minutes pass. At this point, I’m looking at the clock, watching my small, yet perfectly calculated buffer quickly disappear. This is about the point where I should mention that my car doesn’t have air conditioning, and this beautiful 85 degree day is beginning to feel like a 100 degree day in a car with no air flow, in a parking lot sitting in direct sunlight. I’ve got heat sweats, and stress sweats going strong as we hit the 5 minute mark with no one coming out to my car.
I’m beginning to curse under my breath.
“Come the fuck on. Is this why you gave me ten dollars off, because this service is straight horse shit and wants to torture me?”
“This service is shit. I could go in and grab all of this shit myself in this amount of time!”
“I’m not even going to have time to go to the post office at this point, and no way in HELL am I taking the kids to the post office with me because they’re filthy annoying animals. How dare you, CVS?”
Six minutes, and all but a few of my buffer minutes are gone. I’m sweating, I’m frustrated, and I’m tired of sitting and baking. I’m positive they’ve forgotten about me, and this curbside pickup is the thing of myths.
I get out of the car, cursing about how I absolutely shouldn’t have to, and put my way into the store, fanning out my shirt because at this point, I’m swimming in anger liquid.
I’m not an angry customer. I don’t cuss people out for screw ups, but I couldn’t hide my frustration. With phone in hand, I walk up to the counter and tell them the situation-
I’ve got this order here, and no one has come out. Chick behind the counter looks puzzled as fuck.
I’m probably looking like
She is very clearly lost.
“I’ve never even heard of curbside pickup.”
SAY WHAT NOW. I start questioning myself. Did I go to the wrong location? There are so many stupid CVSs everywhere now, popping up like pubescent pimples… but no way. I googled this location before I left to make SURE this was the right one, because I’m smart, and I plan for things like this.
She calls for a manager.
Two more minutes wash away. There is no more buffer. There’s air-conditioning but I’m sweating even more.
The manager arrives, and once again, I explain the situation, trying not to be a bitch, but it’s pretty obvious that I’m frustrated with their level of ineptitude ruining my carefully planned errand run.
“I’ve placed this order, I KNOW this is the right location because I googled to make sure- and no one came out to my car.”
Her face is completely emotionless.
“Ma’am. This is Walgreens.”
OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD.
SHE WAS RIGHT. I WAS IN THE WRONG STORE. THE WRONG FUCKING STORE.
The CVS I needed to be at? Across the street. Yeah, the one I was trying to avoid by taking the back roads.
I stand there silently for a moment, in shock, questioning my life.
Internally, I’m like
“I’m sorry. I’m a moron” are all I can manage to mutter before hanging my head in shame and leaving. Mortified. Sweating. Cursing myself under my breath.
I’ve done a lot of dumb shit in my lifetime, and I don’t embarrass easily, but holy shit, people. I have not felt so dumb in years.
Negative buffer minutes. I still have TWO errands to run, and no time. I can still do this, though. I CAN PULL IT OFF AND REGAIN MY DIGNITY.
I’m cursing myself repeatedly as I rip out of the parking lot (at a totally reasonable speed, don’t you judge me), wiping beads of anger sweat from my brow, and have to drive BACK down the back road to pull a U-Turn because in a cruel twist of fate, U-Turns are illegal out of this God forsaken Walgreens parking lot. Their ultimate revenge.
I’m yelling at old ladies to move out of my way. Questioning the validity of their licenses as I try to get my ass to CVS in record time, and for SOME STUPID REASON, do not ask me why, once I finally get there, I respond to the text again with “HERE”. Yeah, I know. I had no time. I was already late, yet still, I wanted them to bring the shit to my car. DO WHAT YOU TOLD ME YOU’D DO, DAMNIT.
I’m also not sure why I was slightly enraged when no one came out. ALL I WANTED WAS DRIVE THRU MAKEUP. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK?
I at least had the wits about me to not wait another 5 minutes I didn’t have, so I sprint-walked in, and immediately, I can see my order on the counter. Yet STILL. SOMEHOW. THEY NEED A MANAGER. And this manager has no idea what she’s doing. She’s very confused.
Look, lady. I fucked up. I pressed here when I was at the wrong place. You came out, I wasn’t there. I’m here now. GIVE ME MY SHIT I HAVE TO GO.
She fiddles around with an electronic doodad for what felt like 74 hours but was probably 47 seconds before she’s finally able to scan the code on my phone to make sure I am who I say I am, and a FUCKING ALARM GOES OFF. AN ALARM. AN ALARM SHE CAN’T FIGURE OUT HOW TO MAKE STOP.
LADY. PLEASE. THIS IS SERIOUS.
I’m so done at this point. I’m ready to throw in the towel. Actually, I NEED a towel. I’m swimming in stress sweat.
I picture my children with their chubby cherub faces crying in the cafeteria thinking I forgot about them because I’m an idiot and have never been late before. How could I not prepare them for something like this? How could I be such a stickler? How DARE I always be on time??? The last time I sweat this much was when I attempted to do a 1,000 calorie workout and got dog hair stuck all over me like a fucking human lint roller.
FINALLY she somehow makes the alarm stop and scans my shit and sends me on my way. I wish hot farts on her under my breath.
At this point, I really should skip the post office because I know I literally have NO time left, but I refuse to back down. I’m GOING to finish these errands before picking up the kids. I WILL DO THIS IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO. Stupidly stubborn? Yes, that’s me, nice to meet you.
Now, it could have gone horribly here. The post office is notorious for being horrible. As I’m driving there, I rip into my makeup order, because with my shit luck, it’s probably all wrong, but it’s not. It’s perfect. I get in and out of the post office in record time. The makeup gods have smiled upon me! But I’m seriously late. Like, not so late that they’re calling the authorities, but later than I’ve ever been to pick my kids up. But not THAT late. I keep telling myself that. I’m not THAT late. No big deal. It’s only a few minutes away.
By the beard of Zeus, I make it to the school in record time. No red lights. No grannies going 20 miles UNDER the speed limit. I breathe a sigh of relief. The parking lot is half empty already, but people are still flowing out of the back doors with their kids, which means I’m not totally screwed, here. I’m patting myself on the back. I DID IT. I MADE IT IN TIME. I power walk to the front doors and bust through the front doors, and what do I see? My children on their way to the fucking principals office to call me because they thought I wasn’t going to show up. They throw their hands up “MOMMY WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN WE THOUGHT YOU FORGOT ABOUT US WE WERE GETTING WORRIED OH MY GOD MOMMY WHAT HAPPENED WHY ARE YOU SO LATE HOW DARE YOU”
Mother of the year, right here.
When I went to pick up the kids today, they walked in and were like “Well, look who’s on time today”
I can’t. I’m done. Ordering my shit from Amazon from now on, because at least they’ll bring it TO. MY. DOOR.
All of this because I tried to be a responsibly adult. Who let me do this again??
Roads trips with Kids–Here’s what you REALLY need goo.gl/fb/yj96Mw
@selfmademummy I'd explode if I tried
"Motherhood-- the days are long but the years are short" Wrong. The days are long but the SLEEP is short.
If you enjoy working hard to prep a delicious meal only to be told "I'm definitely going to hate that" before it's served, you'll love kids.
it's what I like to call "Resting Mom Face" pic.twitter.com/DmFPcSIZjR
@Abby_NotDead My youngest looked like a cross eyed fish. Adorable now but it was a rough first few weeks 🤣
New babies look like potatoes 😂😂😂 pic.twitter.com/aCbnxRXKQq
When you told your kid they could help but now they're messing literally everything up pic.twitter.com/SgCzddoECB