Motherhood Uncensored

Tales from the Consignment Sale

Consignment sales are like some underground cult around here. I'm certainly not averse to buying other people's used things, but not enough to buy a ticket just so I can peruse through a shitload of used sleepers and plastic toys before all the lowly people do, or worse standing in line to rush through the doors like crazed animals just to get last year's well worn Gymboree outfit for $5.

My philosophy with these sales is that it has to be a pretty damn good deal for me to fork over a few bucks for an outfit that's been washed, worn, and very likely peed or shit in. Call me picky, but when I can hop over to Old Navy and snag a brand new outfit for $7 on their sale rack, I'm not so motivated to buy one that's drenched in Dreft and is thinning in the butt.

And sure, these sales can be a great place to snag toys, but in all honesty, plastic toys are a dime a dozen, so I am not swayed by how nice of a ziploc you packaged your Fisher Price Little People. I'd just as soon hit a garage sale and get them all for 25 cents. Or free from my local Freecycle.

When it comes down to it, when you buy something new or hit the Freecycle list, you don't have to deal with crazed mothers nearly snatching clothes right out from under your nose, piling their strollers high with stuff that they haven't even actually looked to see how much it is and will probably not even buy at the end of the day, but insist on snagging just so someone else doesn't get it.

Since attending a few of these [sporting events; wrestling matches] sales, I've come up with my own set of rules, that until now have remained unpublished, but are implemented without warning - with extra gusto thanks to my "just take the baby out now" status. Granted, I've seen some of the actual rules they post on their websites, like how the clothes have to be in excellent condition, but apparently that doesn't include how they smell, because if the outfit smells like my dead Aunt's smoky apartment or baby puke, I'm going to pass. Yes, "excellent" is indeed quite subjective.

And this whole "price your own" bullshit is ridiculous. If I can buy the outfit cheaper at a regular store (like say that used Ralph Lauren newborn dress you're trying to pawn off for $20 - c'mon), then you can forget it.

But what really kills me is when the moms become so ridiculously territorial about their potential purchases, like it's the freaking Hope Diamond and if any other hands go to touch it then all hell will break loose. Granted, I'm not going to mess with their castle of crap that's now denting their stroller and slowly inching towards their screaming kid's head, but just because I glance over at what they have doesn't mean I'm concocting a plan on how to swipe it. Paranoid, much?

Even better is when these moms tell your kids to keep their hands off because Lord knows a 4-year-old girl is most definitely going to walk right off and purchase that dirty plastic push toy you covet so desperately. Best not let another child taint it or covet it so desperately that she will throw a raging fit over not being able to have a toy that have clearly seen way better days.

"Don't touch that. Someone's already buying that, little girl," she said to Quinlan.

"I'm pretty sure she was just looking at it" I replied, looking over from my position in front of the loads of newborn girl clothes.

"This is the 'reserved' section" she said, like it was literally some freaking limited edition Coach bag that she had snagged and Quinlan had climbed behind some shiny glass counter. 

"Well, I don't think you need to worry about her running off with it," I responded, beckoning Quinlan to come back my direction from the crazed plastic toy obsessed mother, or "anyone else for that matter," I said under my breath.

I mean, I'm all for finding a damn good deal, but if it means scolding an extremely cute four-year-old to get it, I'm just thinking you've got your priorities all wrong.

Fart Powered Cars - An invention I can get behind. Er rather, in front of.

Unless you live in the Atlanta area, you probably wouldn't know that we're in the midst of a serious gas crisis.

No really, it's pretty damn bad. So bad, in fact, that people are driving across town just to find one lousy gas station with a working pump. And most of them are super premium gas for upwards of $5/gallon.

How that's not considered price gouging I'm not entirely sure.

It's one of those things where I tend to try not to get my gigantic preggo panties in a wad and run to fill up all my vehicles, gas cans, and whatever containers I can find (tupperware? sippy cups?) full of gas. I was never one to stock up on bread and milk in a threat of a scary two-inch snow dusting, so why would I stockpile gasoline?

Then I mistakenly watched the news last night, mostly to catch a possible 60-second shout out to Cool Mom Picks on ABC (did you see us in Portland, San Antonio, Ashville, or Baltimore? We were on!) and all they had on, save some 83-year-old woman who shot some old dude four times in the head because he cheated on her with some floozy at the nursing home (for real), was the damn gas crisis, in particular, the misadventures of a lovely pregnant couple trying to get the hospital.

Literally five gas stations (and half a package of Fig Newmans -- well, that was me) later, the couple still hadn't found gas.

And so, my hormonal, anxious, and overtired brain went into overdrive. Granted, I haven't done the "Tour de Gas" of the city just yet, but I'm basically planting myself in this house until the gas returns. Or until I can figure out how to power my car with pregnancy flatulence.

And considering how slowly these last days tend to go, I might just be able to do it.   

Just Don't Call Me Stupid

The huz is officially back on the flight line, leaving my very pregnant self, both kids, and the dogs to fend for ourselves for the next few days. At this point in time, I'm basically in survival mode, reaping the benefits of modern civilization in the form of fast food and Noggin.

As you well know, when he's in town he most certainly does more than his fair share of work. Take yesterday morning, where he vacuumed the entire house in between weight sets. Granted I probably don't vacuum the entire house, or any of it except under the kitchen table while he's gone, I definitely pick up the slack that is so generously split between the two of us when he's here.

So, when he arrives at his final destination for the night and proceeds to ask me if I've fed the dogs, it's no wonder that I flipped my lid, right?

The truth is, he asks me that same fucking question EVERY single time he leaves. Mainly because, well, that's the point. I'm not sure why he asks me the question. To me, it's like asking me if I fed the kids. Or if I wiped my ass after I took a big flaming shit. The dogs are living beings in our house and as a clinically confirmed non-sociopathic human, I make sure that they are fed and taken care of. Just because it happens to be his job when he's home doesn't mean I just don't do it when he's gone.

And yet, he still asks. 

I usually have a fabulous snarky comeback that gets the point across, at least until his next trip, but the achy crotch, sore back, and overall underwhelm of being 39 weeks pregnant took over and I just said "Yes I did. Now do not ask me that question ever again."

Of course, he doesn't understand why such questions would bother me. Why would I be so annoyed with him asking me if I cleaned up my daughter's crap off the floor when she didn't make it to the toilet way back when? Or what's the big deal about his father asking me if I knew how to put a plastic bag in a trashcan or if I understood that Pacific Time Zone is different than Eastern Time Zone?

Because you can call me Carnie Wilson, Free Willy, or whatever other dumb "big pregnant woman" analogy your little brain can conjure up, but for God sakes do not call me STUPID.*

*Thanks to Suebob for nailing why I was so pissed off right on the head.

Tribond Anyone?

Mr. Clean

I've decided that my husband's intimate relationship with our vacuum cleaner cancels out most of his goofy "foot-in-mouth-disease" comments. I mean, it's pretty hard to hate a man who makes it a point to clean the kitchen floor on his hands and knees at least once a week, no sexual favors required.

For all that I lack in the knowledge and understanding of cleaning products, my husband ensures that we spend what should be a tax deductible amount of money on everything from magic erasers to swiffers to inhumanly large quantities of Pledge All-Purpose spray.

Granted, his penchant for cleaning can get a little annoying, like when he asks me to walk up the stairs like I just had anal sex with a prize zucchini so to even out the wear on the carpet. Or when he's scrubbing the bathtub with the children IN it. Um, call me crazy but I'm thinking tile cleaner is not the greatest thing for the kids' skin.

But in those cases, I just offer him a bit of friendly redirection, generally in the form of a discreetly placed middle finger or a "mmm, I love when the kids smell like toxic chemicals" and that usually sends the message home.

However, just yesterday I was laying on the couch, and I heard a weird scratchy noise on the carpet behind me. I peeked over the back to see him on his hands and knees, scraping the carpet with the backside of my son's plastic toy hammer in an obvious effort to fluff it up. And you could just tell from the enthusiastic rhythm of the scraping that he was quite pleased with himself and the newly rejuvenated one square foot of carpet.

So I did what any self-loving wife with a crazy hammer scraping carpet cleaning freak would do.

I offered him a blow job to get him to stop.