Meet Me at the Hotel, Motel...

Hotel rooms can really make or break a trip. I don’t care where you are—Tahiti, Hawaii or even just down the street if it gives you a break from your everyday life—if your room is horrible, you aren’t happy.  I just got back from a business trip where, coincidently, I stayed in a hotel.  (I had the BEST roommate ever… the kind of roommate that quits 24 hours before said meeting, thus ensuring I had a single room!) I have been very fortunate to have stayed in many hotel rooms, from down the street to the other side of the world.

Once we had a room in Cancun with no electric lights.  Another room in Bloomington, IL had a car alarm outside that wouldn’t shut up (it was totally our car, but whatever). The most expensive hotel room I ever stayed in (if I tried to write the cost per night, my keyboard would burn up.  BTW the only way that I got myself there was as a guest of my husband’s employer… when he told me he had a trip to Antigua I informed him that if I wasn’t going on that trip, niether was he) had the lumpiest, worst mattress (the floor was more comfortable).  There was that room we had in Paris that doubled as a set for snuff films and our “roommates” in China (roaches, roaches everywhere)   …

Sometimes, the room is perfectly fine—it’s the idiots who are staying in them who render them terrible.  One of the first ‘dates’ my husband and I had was in Jacksonville.  (Because my husband and I lived about 800 miles away from each other when we met, and because he is a pilot, many of our “dates” lasted 72 hours and were in different places around the country.)  The first day I was there, my husband had to work all day. So I did what any woman who was bored and had more than five dollars of disposable income in her pocket and more than ten minutes to herself (gosh I miss those days) would do—I went to the mall.  I found a candle store, and, determined to ‘make it special and memorable’ (shout out to Cosmo), I purchased a few small candles that smelled divine—not too strong, not too flowery, but the perfect mix of spice and floral notes. Or at least they did in the store.  When I got back, I unpacked the candle… and instead of smugly congratulating myself, I was second guessing myself.  I must have had sensory overload when I finally made my selections at the store (possibly due to an expected high from candle sniffing for an hour), because those candles STUNK.  BAD.   The suite at the Embassy Suites was quickly becoming more of a tiny cruise ship cabin than a nice, spacious suite. However, I was undeterred.  After all, I had read Cosmo, and, remember, this was going to be a Special And Memorable Night.  Thomas came back to a beautiful candle-lit (albeit stinky) hotel room.  The evening was in fact, memorable… Right before we got into bed to go to sleep, I leaned over to blow out the candles… and engulfed my entire head in a fireball. Yes, a fireball.  During this time of my (young, silly) life, I thought I was a blonde (I will say, though, I have definitely had more fun as a brunette. Also more money in my pocket as I don’t have to cough up $$ (edited due to husband’s reading of this blog) and more time on my hands (as I don’t have to sit for three hours at the salon every six weeks). As you can tell, I have DARK brown hair… dark brown hair that gets very fragile when bleached to a lovely, brassy, bleached out color. Also, I am very accident prone (many more stories for you to enjoy on that topic in the future)… Basically, I was a walking recipe for disaster.  As the smoke cleared (yes, there was smoke), and I calmed down (as you can imagine,  hysterics were involved. I mean COME ON, MY HEAD WAS ON FIRE), I inspected the damage.  I lost all my right eyelashes, over half of my (way too skinny) right eyebrow, and I now  had what could best be described as a ‘fringe’ standing straight up from my scalp at my hairline.  I was a hot mess (and that’s being generous). The flame extinguished itself; and thankfully, no one and no property was permanently damaged.  However, some damage had been done… namely to me and more specifically, my face.  As I am pondering how the hell I am going to make myself presentable to the general public for the next several weeks, my husband spoke up.  I turned and looked at him, ready for some comfort—a hug, a smile, any sort of reassurance would have worked.  Instead of A) inquiring about my charred head, B) giving me a hug to comfort me after my near death experience, C) telling me some nonsense like ‘it’s not that bad’ (it really was that bad), or D) offering a cool compress/ washcloth if I needed one, he picked E) laughing so hard he cried, and then F) ordering me to take a shower immediately because I smelt so horribly of burning hair.

Hotel rooms can be a glimpse at what living with someone might be like.  I learned about my husband in that room.  I learned that he is sensitive—not to me and my near death experience, but to smells.

On the Job Training

On the job training may seem like a good thing, and it generally is.  On the job trial by fire not so much… My first job out of college was at Nordstrom, working the cosmetics department.  As I had worked for Clinique in college, I felt confident I had the ability to demonstrate how to use different makeup products (like eye shadow).  I mean, I totally rocked at using Q-tips to smear No-Show Taupes on customers. Q-tips are the same thing as brushes, I was sure. It was a little troubling that there were so many different types/ sizes of brushes, but I was/am a college-educated sorority girl. Also? I totally wear makeup. How hard could it be?

My job was to manage the Trend Cosmetics Department.  Sounds really big and important, but not really. One of the claims to fame of the “Trend” lines (Urban Decay, Hard Candy (now at Walmart WTF?!), Too Faced, and Tony & Tina) is the high level of pigment in the products, i.e. a little goes a         L-O-N-G way.  (As I am sure you learning, I am not subtle, reserved, or afraid to ‘go big’, so this point was a little lost on me.) As any “Nordy” (dedicated Nordstrom shopper) knows, it is the job of all associates to go the extra mile for the customer. (The store has a policy to take EVERYTHING back.  Returning a lipstick with a receipt from the store at the other end of the mall that is a direct competitor—no problem, m’am! Legend has it that one Nordstrom refunded a customer for a set of SNOW TIRES.) In the cosmetic department, going the extra mile means makeovers.  (A lot of makeovers. For free.) We did a tremendous amount of bridal makeovers.  As any self respecting bride knows, one must look perfect on her `Big Day.  Hair stylists and makeup artists are vetted more carefully and thoroughly than many that hold political office.  (Not going there.)  The typical selection process went something like this: a bride would scope out a makeup counter before initiating any conversation.  Once contact was made, the bride and the artist would do a ‘run through’ to see if the bride (her mother, sister, and bridesmaids) liked the look. After the run through, an appointment would be made for the Big Day.

One Saturday, we noticed a group of young women wandering around the department. (This particular store was in Indiana, and was the ‘big city’ for a lot of the residents of the farm towns that were relatively close.) After they made several passes around the department, they approached a counter and spoke with the salesgirl… turns out they were a bridal party and wanted free makeovers for the wedding, which was in 4 hours. What? Seriously? This girl needed to have her ‘bride card’ pulled! But, this was Nordstrom and we were going to make the customer(s) happy! The members of the bridal party were placed around the department at different counters.  I luckily did not pull the actual bride; I got some junior bridesmaid/book signer person.  Although I am confident in my abilities, I am a little nervous as THIS IS A WEDDING! I have watched my fair share of Bridezillas and My Fair Wedding; I am totally feeling the pressure.  I led my ‘assignment’ over to my station, hoping that my walk looked authoritative and in control.  The girl sat down, and we briefly discussed what ‘look’ she wanted.  At no time did she indicate she wanted black glittery eye shadow from her eyebrows to her nose.  Guess what she got. (Since the wedding wasn’t Goth, I was pretty sure she wasn’t going to appreciate this look.) I swung into Full On Panic Mode.  I located the makeup remover, and after using half the bottle, I managed to eliminate the Panda Eyes she was sporting.  (A couple of times she asked to see the progress- perhaps she was concerned when she noticed the amount of black eyeshadow on my brushes? I assured her everything was going according to plan, and that I wanted to ‘surprise’ her… I’m not sure why she didn’t push the issue and demand to see her face—perhaps I was authoritative? I’m guessing she was scared and just didn’t want to know. The girl wasn’t the only one I was hiding my work from during the ‘make over’.  Other members of the department wandered by several times, wanting to make sure I was OK since I was new.  Thankfully, I had stationed her behind a large display, thus blocking all lines of sight from the main aisle.)  Somehow, I managed to get the job done.  I credit my guardian angel and also my Grandma from heaven.  When I was done, and I had handed her the mirror I gave my sales speech.  She needed the lipstick, right? How would she reapply during the hours and hours of photos/dancing/eating? And really, I had just spent over an hour working with her and I was paid on commission.  Of course, she didn’t want anything. She assured me that her lips were super sticky and thus the lipstick would stay put.  All night long. Well, super.  I was so glad that she had magic lips.  The girl and her magic lips seemed pleased with my work when she looked in the mirror at the end of the makeover (ordeal).  I mean, she didn’t scream, cry, or faint, so I am counting that as a win.  She left the counter, taking some of my youthful optimism (over confidence) with her. 

My time in cosmetics did not end that afternoon.  I started hanging out with the department makeup artists, under the guise of wanting to be their best friend (but really to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with all those brushes!). I don’t think that they bought my story, but whatever. And I can still tell you the difference between a smudge, crease, angle, blending, brow, and fan brush (to name a few).

Green Beans- Its what's for dinner

 I recently outed myself—that I am in fact willing to lie to my kid. It turns out I am also totally OK with tomfoolery…. Steamed green beans are one my favorite things to eat. Not super exciting, but less fattening and more socially acceptable on the job than some of my other favorites, namely Chardonnay (as I have a company car, Chardonnay consumption is generally frowned upon during working hours). Also, quit hating.  I grew up in the Midwest, the daughter of parents from the East Coast, where vegetables taste like vegetables… What a surprise I had in store for me when I moved to the South (or God’s Country as my Georgia-born and raised husband claims)…. I knew I wasn’t in Kansas (Missouri) anymore when I attended my first F (for our last name, not anything else!) family Holiday Gathering (my in-laws have ‘gatherings’, my parents have ‘parties’. Guess who is better behaved?!) I did not recognize any of the dishes on the table, except maybe for the rolls.  Not one thing.  (I won’t go into detail here but just know that apparently it is acceptable for gravy to have HARD BOILED EGGS IN IT).  I made my way down the food table, with my then-boyfriend-now-husband whispering descriptions of what each dish was.  This system worked until we got to the green beans. Or should I say grey beans.  These beans were so cooked that the green had been cooked off of them.  Also? They were flavored with MEAT! I ask you—what is the point of eating a vegetable if it tastes like meat? If you want meat, eat meat. If you want a vegetable, eat a vegetable! Unbeknownst to me, cooking green (grey) beans like that is standard. Order green (grey) beans at any Southern style restaurant and that is what you get.  When we have my in-laws over for dinner, I call my Mother-In-Law at least a week in advance and let her know that I have started to cook her green (grey) beans.  (To be fair, they are just as horrified at my version of green beans as I am with theirs.  The crunchiness is not really a selling point to them. The first time I served green beans Julia Style, she very politely pulled me aside and expressed some concern that the green beans hadn’t been cooked enough.)

Since I love green beans. I had high hopes my 2 year-old daughter would embrace the correct way to eat a green bean (crunchy, with a little salt and garlic).   Out of the gate, things went well. She loved it when we mixed pureed green beans in her baby cereal. (Baby cereal, it turns out, is its own food, and not super soggy rice crispies as I had suspected.  Yes, I thought that is what everyone was talking about when they referenced baby cereal. One day, I asked another mother for clarification on this ‘baby cereal’, explaining that I thought it meant super super soggy grown up cereal.  Care to guess whom I asked?  My boss. That was super comfortable, let me tell you!) Back to Emma and the pureed green beans- she gobbled them up! As she moved to table food, I just knew she would love them as much as Mommy does… As it happened…not so much.  If by ‘liking’ something, one pitches a fit complete with Broadway style theatrics and emotions, then Emma LOVED THEM. So she wasn’t really digging Mommy’s favorite. (I would have settled for “Southern” green (grey) beans at that point).  One night, I was desperate. It was becoming a Battle of The Wills (anyone who knows me knows I am COMPETITIVE), so clearly I wasn’t going to lose this battle.  I thought long and hard, and then I enlisted that secret weapon that Mommies have in their arsenal—SUGAR. Yes, I did. I rolled those damn green beans in sugar and SHE ATE THEM AS FAST AS SHE COULD CRAM THEM IN. AND THEN LICKED THE PLATE. My husband was out of town, and at first didn’t believe me when I triumphantly relayed the news of my victory.  (I did come clean. He was impressed with my resourcefulness!)

What a Tangled Web We Weave….

When we first begin to deceive. That’s what I was always taught anyway. But as I am now a grown up and a mother, I have found myself questioning this logic.  And so….I find myself crying “BS!” at the source of this so-called wisdom. 

As a child, I had fond memories of playing a little game called ‘Candyland’.  We didn’t get to eat a lot of candy as little ones, but the supply was unlimited with Candyland.  I remember my game piece quickly traveling around the candied color squares, with nary a backstep.  Playing Candyland with my mom meant two or three chances to claim victory (and way superior CL skills!)  And so armed with these wonderful memories, I felt prepared for any Candyland battle any day, and against anyone.

Back in the day, I had a very brief interest in babysitting.  (Very brief. To this day, I maintain my mantra developed during those difficult afternoons: “If it’s not mine, I don’t really care/like/want to hold/pick up/listen, etc.” (However, if you are my friend and I  love you, then I do love your children, even if they are misbehaved/whiny, and even though my own child is perfect in every way.) Anyway, back to babysitting.  My client has just left me in charge of her two darling (hateful) boys, who are staring at me and getting ready to WHINE.  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot my salvation- Candyland! I grab the box, set up the game, and shuffle cards under the watchful eyes of my charges.  I’m so excited because I just know this will be the easiest $5 an hour (BTW I now pay over $10 an hour for sitters.  CASH!!! I might be in the wrong business… although again with the not liking kids thing…) I have ever made! Only things don’t really go as planned. The first problem is the amount of backwards movement on the game board. Huh? I don’t remember ever going backwards.  The reverse momentum of game pieces is directly proportional to the amount of complaining, whining, and disinterest in the game.  And that’s just me! In a desperate move, I hide in their coat closet and call my mother.  I explained the situation to her, and I can practically hear her nodding over the phone.  She acknowledged my fond memories, and then asked me a key question- “had I ever seen her shuffle the cards?” OOOH! No way! I never had! She explained the key to a successful Candyland experience- Always Stack the Deck.  Made sure the kids are always moving forward, and that all obstacles are removed.  No Molasses Swap (now the Chocolate Swap.  We are raising sissy children, but that’s another post.)   She said to make sure the cards played out in such a way that the game was less than 10 turns and that the kid won every time. Armed with this knowledge, I marched back into the family room and announced a “re-do” because I had not followed all the rules when shuffling the cards.  I explained that the shuffling must be in absolute secrecy, and only one person could in charge.  I ran to kitchen, did some creative shuffling, and BAM! Instant success. I worry a little that when those boys grow up and try to play Candyland with their children that they will have the same panicky sweaty palms when the memories they have of Candyland aren’t matching up to their  situation. (BTW according to Wikipedia, in 2004 the rules to Candyland were changed.  The new rules make it easier to win and shorten the time the game takes to play.)

I never thought I would be one of those holier than thou parents who Never Lies To Their Children, and who believes in Total And Full Disclosure.  In my estimation, one of the best perks of being a mom is getting to say “Because I’m the Mommy, that’s why”. Recently, the Today Show did a segment on “When is it OK to lie to your kids?”  (This post could suddenly take a turn for the worse and become a soapbox for the special type of stupid that exists today. I’m going to try really, really hard to not have that happen.)  For this Mommy, it’s OK when it avoids both danger and temper tantrums (especially in public and/or in front of extended family); when the truth isn’t really relevant (does it really matter if one needs 4 pink pieces or 2 to win a boring long drawn out game), or when one is defending Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny (should be self explanatory).  I fully plan on shuffling in the kitchen, stacking the deck, hiding batteries, and using “BECAUSE I SAID SO”.       

Why?

BECAUSE I SAID SO. 

Superstitous

Ah, a new year. New resolutions.  I wish I had stock in weight loss companies and gyms this time of year.  Especially gyms.  This year, I am going to try to get my superstitious, karma-fearing self a break.  As an Irish Catholic, I’ve got superstitions for my superstitions! And I am so scared of the karma train; ‘OCD’ has been whispered in my presence.

“Never sleep with your feet facing the door.” This is a cornerstone of my decorating mantra, especially when decorating a bedroom.  Think about the only time you are carried out of a room, feet first… probably not your best day (although it will be your last).  My mother has repeated this to me every single time I have moved (all 14 times). (A special thanks to all past boyfriends! Not to my Daddy, who announced after move #7 he was done and didn’t love me that much after all.) (BTW one of the best checks I have ever written in my life was hiring MOVERS!!)  My now husband is also very well acquainted with this particular rule.  He became aware of this particular rule our first night living together.  Our day had started out very early, and rather poorly… I was moving from St Louis to just outside of Atlanta, and my parents had thrown a going away party for us (really for me since Thomas never lived there, but “us” sounds so much nicer than “me.”)  Our morning started early, as I swear the alarm when off before t he sun came up, (possibly not but that is what is felt like), and really regretting all the AP Special Sangria from the night before. (My mother’s tip for perfect Sangria is to forget to cut it with club soda. Delicious every time!) So there we were—hung over and not so excited about spending the next 10 hours in a U-Haul towing a Jeep behind it. (Marriage retreats should be conducted in a road trip like environment.  Depending on the intensity of the retreat, different variables could come into play- no AC on a hot day, no radio, flat tire, etc.)  I sobbed the first three and half hours of the trip, which really set the mood.  I was OK by the time we got to Nashville, where we stopped for lunch.  That is, I was OK until I found out that Taco Bell had discontinued its standard chicken soft taco.  A nasty fake cheesy thing covered in scary white sauce had taken its place.  Seriously Taco Bell? You are going to play me like that?! Um, no thanks.  That set off the next round of crying. Just short of the Georgia state line, we started hearing some strange noises.  Because we did not have eyes in the backs of our heads (I do now because I now have a child), we stopped… and discovered that the Jeep was very close to coming unhinged. Not really sure of the hows or the whys as that is above my pay grade. Would speculate but might lose creditability.   Super. Thankfully, Thomas was able to fix it as all I was able to do was cry.  We continued on, and made to the house a very very long 11 hours later.  Thomas had the place painted (by a one armed painter. Thankfully we did not need any wall paper hung.), new carpet installed, and a deep, deep cleaning done. He wanted everything to be perfect, which was so sweet that it made me stop crying.  He opened the door with great fanfare, and… I started crying again. Thomas might have teared up as well.  The bargain deal on carpet laying did not include removing the unwanted/unused part of said carpet… Another couple of hours, a lot of elbow grease, and some crying, and we were done. We have set up our bedroom. (We have put a mattress on the floor and have moved enough crap so we can navigate around said bed.)  As Thomas comes into the room and is about to collapse into bed… but… THE BED IS FACING THE DOOR.  UNACCEPTABLE!!! Thomas learned about the “Never sleep with your feet facing the door” rule very quickly.  Then he started crying.  In the end, we had a great night’s sleep on our mattress with our feet facing the window, and, because of my vigilance, lived to tell about it!

My Wreathend

So Martha and I are “like this”.  At least in my head…  Seriously, she is SO AMAZING. I aspire to be her.  And, for a brief period in my life (mid to late twenties), I TOTALLY was her.  My girlfriends actually nicknamed me Martha! This period was short lived. Things started to go south when I got pregnant (wait till I tell you THAT story) and it has progressed from there.   I used to think that everyone that used their kids as an excuse was a total cop-out. I mean, come on, having kids couldn’t really be the root cause for tardiness, could it? Those folks must just be of the variety that run late, right? Also- I was the best Back Seat Parent ever. Every kid that was loud in a restaurant was treated to an icy glare and a whispered promise that my children would never, EVER, behave that poorly. My fictional children were also always exceptionally well behaved in grocery store checkout lines, at fast food lines, and in the Toy Department at Target….

  To every parent out there, I am officially sorry.  You were right.  Good Lord what a handful (and to be more fair, I am not using my ‘vocally gifted’ daughter as the measuring stick. I have to assume that some kids aren’t as loud?)… even leaving the house is such a tenuously coordinated event it might make the Joint Chief cry… I wonder why that position isn’t filled by a mom. Perhaps all the moms are too busy packing diaper bags and going through airport security with a stroller… (You cannot imagine.  Unless you have lived it, you would swear I was making it all up.)

Anyway, here is my Martha Moment of the weekend. So Martha might not shop the after Christmas Clearance Sales for bargains on home décor.  She might not get a little competitive with the other patrons in the store for the coveted glitter twigs. Whatever. Her loss.  I do, and it is with great pride that I share with you my beautiful new wreath! (Michaels 80% off of all Christmas merchandise is genius! And just because it says Christmas doesn’t mean it isn’t acceptable 11 other months out of the year because #1 it is sparkly (love me some glitter!) and #2 it is 80% off!)  And really, Martha is nothing if not creative!

Hope you love it! (Either way, I love it.)

Julia Math

Julia Math is brilliant.  It is a complex system of checks and balances, designed to keep the balance of power intact. Oh wait. That’s the government. Julia Math is how I justify, well, almost everything.  It is how come I can tell my husband that we can leave our house at 5 to get across town by 530- knowing damn well it is a minimum of an hour to complete this journey- it is OK in my head, and gives me license to use my well practiced myriad of sighs in the car on the way there.   It is why paying with cash doesn’t count, especially if one is buying something in a wonderful sale. Unless someone else wants to use cash. And then IT TOTALLY COUNTS.  In short, it is genius.  And it is all mine! I would share, however, according to a scientific study, it is unexplainable/ a nightmare/ totally false and misleading  to anyone but me. I am hoping my daughter will inherent the gift; this is my husband’s worst nightmare. I maintain he is just jealous.

Welcome to my running commentary on life in the suburbs with a husband, a mortgage a rental house, a cat, and the most fun, a daughter.  I know there are many choices in working- ducking blogs, and why is mine so different? Because mine is funny.  You and I? Are going to be besties!