Superbad

I am a few yards from the door of the high school and I already know it's going to be bad. There are steep stone steps and no ramp (isn't there a law to protect the kids in wheelchairs from this ignominy?) at the front door and I know a little bit more about how bad this is going to be. I can hear the voices of teachers floating out the windows; they are using that tone that teachers use when they know they have lost the students' attention. And in this instance they have lost it to a woman pushing a lucky green stroller up to the front door of the high school at noon-thirty on a Monday. Oh wait. That is I. Soooo bad.

A guy in a golf shirt who is probably the assistant principal or a coach or both comes to the door and looks down at me, not meaning to be condescending, but whatever AT LEAST I DON'T HAVE TO DRAG BUH-BUMP-BAH-BUMP THIS STROLLER UP THERE and he asks if there's anything I need.

"Um, this is kind of embarassing, but there isn't a craft fair here today is there?"

He tells me no, in a kind way, and says at least not that he knows of, but, of course, this being school hours, probably not.

And in this moment, we are both realizing something.

He is realizing that he is talking to a crazy person who actually thinks a high school might open its doors ON A SCHOOL DAY to gaggles of crafty moms like she, moms that would come to the door of a high school wondering where the ramp is to accommodate their strollers.

And I am realizing that he probably thinks he is talking to a crazy person who might question why there was absolutely no signage whatsoever advertising a craft fair on a school day at a high school, but, heh, let's just go see if it's one of those under-the-radar craft shows open to the public at a public high school.

But really all I am is frazzled and unable to read the internet correctly, and growing blonder by the day.

Dum Dum Didday

The other day I passed a book shop with big posters in its windows. Each poster had a big word on it advertising what I presume was sold within the book shop. The posters read, "PAPERBACKS." "SCONES." "MAGAZINES." "VIETNAMESE." I wondered what kind of shelving units they had, and how they were organized such that the Vietnamese section was just as prominent as the Paperbacks section. Was the Vietnamese rack right next to the Magazine rack? Upon closer inspection, the sign read "VIETNAMESE Spring Rolls."*** Every night that Lovey Loverpants and I are in bed reading before lights out, the age-old struggle ensues. Who will leave the warm cookie dough comfort of the bed to make the epic trek of three steps across the wooden floor to turn off the light? Lovey always makes the same clapping motion in the direction of the light. As a nod to the '80s stocking stuffer adverts for The Clapper. But we don't have The Clapper. But he claps as though we do.

It

Gets

Funnier

Every

Time.

***

Baby Girl is big into exercising the bounds of her voice, as I've mentioned. Her favorite vocal exercise is to shout MAMAMAMAMAM, and since it's sort of my name and since she does it on repeat while looking right at my face without really wanting me to respond, it sort of becomes one of those Chris Farley routines where he keeps asking Paul McCartney, "Remember when you were in The Beatles?!"

***

This is one of my favorite Fresh Prince moments ever.

Fitting Room

A couple of weeks ago, I stranded myself on the Island of No More Shorts which was not hard to do since I owned two pairs of shorts that fit. Shorts Pair One, a red and white striped long short from ATay Loft were even a little tight around the waist, but they were the only casual pair in the rotation. Shorts Pair Two are just a pair of nylon joggers, unfit for pairing with certain tops. So off Baby Girl and I went to Target for the trying on and purchase of a new pair of shorts for the rotation. I know you are wondering how I got to Target if I was stranded on the aforementioned Island. And thank goodness Baby Girl is chunky enough to hold in front of me as I walk through parking lots pantsless. Hey-oooo.

I will spare you the "I Cannot Believe How Much My Body Has Changed" spiel, but as I attempted, in the manner of a competitor in a potato-sack race, to try on shorts, I still could not believe the audacity J.Lo had in trading her post-preg body for my petite one. What was I to DO with these rumpled curves, so unseemly and difficult to negotiate non-elastic waistbands? Somewhere, J. Lo is bouncing a twin babe on each of her knees and getting mad compliments about her tautness, but why are her ankles so white and bony?

Anyway, as I was examining the folly of a size that rhymes with Twix and how my closet will not be filled with Twixes for a long long time, I glanced down at Baby Girl who, I kid you not, was looking up at me with equal parts HORROR and HORROR, as though to say, "Mom, please consider not leaving this fitting room in those pants a sincere act of mercy?"

I exited the fitting room with some tears in my eyes, putting the shorts back with the fitting room attendant. To no one in particular, I said, "I guess I am not the size I used to be!" a woman with an infant in a stroller perked up and said, "Oh please, I know!! I'm just so wiiiide!" That made me feel so much better, better enough to even find two pair of shorts that fit. In one day, my shorts wardrobe increased by 100%.

***

I later captured the face of Baby Girl had given me earlier in the fitting room.

J. Lo, eat your heart out.