Functionally ReTodded

In honor of my friend CMGD, I’m blatantly stealing this blog entry category type.  Thanks 5Heather!

Here’s a conversation GBD had with Thing Two today that she informed me of via google chat:

Thing Two walks in while carrying her purse and says "Mommy, wanna see my magic puss?"

GBD:  um..excuse me? Thing Two:  My puss…it’s magic.

GBD to herself:  (well, I’m going to tentatively say yes while squinting my eyes).

GBD out loud:  Really? (now terrified)

Thing Two:  It can do ANYTHING!!  And if you’re really quiet, I’ll show you inside where  it does even more. GBD:  To herself and the Lord (Now blind, deaf and banging head on wall - begging God to take back the last 30 seconds of my life)

GBD to me:  In Thing Two’s defense, she did have a handful of change in there.  Sorry you missed it. But maybe if you’re lucky (and apparently quiet) she’ll show you too.

GBD to me:  I’m going to sneak away now before she starts showing me more "tricks."

After a couple of not very sleep filled nights, we decided to violate Do Not Use Warning number one on the side of the Benadryl bottle, which states:

• To make a child sleepy

Yeah? Well fuck you Mr. Diphenhydramine Hydrochloride Antihistamine nazi. You haven’t been here. And don’t boss me from your ivory tower of bulleted items on the packaging either.

So this morning I had to run to the CVS here on the north end of the island. We needed pull-ups for Thing Two, a medicine dosing syringe and Benadryl (or it’generic equivalent). The CVS is about a five minute drive from where we’re staying, it was 9am on a Mondayand all of that means that there was NOBODY at the CVS. NOBODY.

I walked in and confirmed that the store was empty. There was one other customer at the checkout.

So I wandered back, picked up the stuff I came for and when I put my stuff on the counter there at the pharmacy (where I got the syringe thingy) the lady looked at me with the stink eye and said "The register up front is open."

Mmmm. Nice hospitality.

I headed up front where there was one person in line. A woman was standing off to my right looking at Philly Blunts or tacky watches or some shit, and before I realized it she had sidled up to my right. It didn’t feel like she had cut in line, but it was close.

Next thing I know, she actually does the breeze over move and she’s at the fucking register asking the cashier questions about the 96 count Sudafed dosage, costs, etc.

After much debate, she decided on the generic 96-count box (even meth heads have to be cost conscious in today’s economy). I also realized that she was going to have to fill out a passport application worth of personal information in order to buy this stuff. It’s nice to know that we can’t profile people at airports to prevent terrorism, but we can get the state department involved if I get a fucking cold.

Then, after only focusing on the woman who cut in line, I glanced up at the cashier. I am being generous when I say that she was probably "only" eighty years old. And she had glasses so thick that they’d make the guys that built the Hubble telescope envious.

And lucky for me, this wasn’t one of those "they hand you a three ring binder and you fill your shit out" ones. Oh no. This involved the use of a touch screen.

"But FRT, wouldn’t a touch screen make that whole thing faster and easier than the notebook way?"

Yes. You’d think so. But you’d be wrong.

Why?

Because this cashier (whom I think MAY have been Harriett Tubman) is holding the woman’s driver’s license in her left hand at eye level just to the side of the touch screen, she’s got her face less than two inches from the license and screen, and she’s entering the information a character at a time like she’s trying to translate from the Rosetta Stone. Oh, and did I mention that she’s using the classing "Old person using a touch screen LCD that doesn’t believe it’s touch screen, so they poke the fucking thing like they’re trying to put their finger THRU the screen?"

(Rolling a page of paper thru an IBM selectric typewriter from High School would have been faster).

Yes, that’s right. I’m now waiting for this woman as she hammers away, character by character, assaulting the touch screen and convincing me that she’s eventually going to knock that thing off the arm it’s mounted to the counter with, unless I die of old age before that happens.

After twenty minutes (that’s right kids. T-W-E-N-T-Y MINUTES), I throw my hands up and go back to the she-male at the pharmacy counter. She begrudgingly rings up my purchases after chastising me for not having a CVS card, but then spending ten minutes trying to find hers to give me the discount.

I got back to our condo an hour and ten minutes after I left. To drive three miles each way and buy pull-ups, Benadryl and a dispenser took seventy minutes. But if you get to meet the woman that ran The Underground Railroad during the Civil War, then I guess it was worth it.

I know it’s not Groundhog Day.  It’s Ash Wednesday. But my life feels like Groundhog Day nearly every day.

(Know that this grumpalong is written while not looking at the wife I have that deals with this for fourteen hours a day as opposed to my two hours a day).

6:08am:  Alarm goes off.  I may or may not snooze, and I may or may not require the alarm.  My Kramer clock is pretty accurate.

6:10am:  Shower, shave (if it’s Monday or Thursday) and get dressed.

6:20am:  Attempt to wake up the bear (aka GBD) because Thing 3 is awake.

6:21am:  Head downstairs with Thing 3 (and sometimes Thing 2).

6:22am:  Change diaper of screaming, crying child strong enough to prevent you from doing so without the help of a partner.

6:25am:  Take Thing 3 to the kitchen to pour some milk in a bottle and let him open and close the microwave and hit start.

6:26am:  GBD or I give the lad said bottle.

6:45am:  Other children awake or awakened.

Fill the next fifteen minutes with "I know you’re hungry Fia, I’m working on it.  Lauren, get dressed and brush your hair.  Patrick, stop (insert whatever he’s doing that he shouldn’t be here).  I know you’re hungry Fia, I’m working on it.  Lauren, get dressed and brush your hair.  Patrick, stop (insert whatever he’s doing that he shouldn’t be here).  I know you’re hungry Fia, I’m working on it.  Lauren, get dressed and brush your hair.  Patrick, stop (insert whatever he’s doing that he shouldn’t be here)."  And one of us makes coffees.

7:00am:  I head downstairs to get my iPod, Blackberry, check my e-mail.

7:10am:  Confirm that Thing 1 is dressed and fed, Thing 2 is fed and Thing 3 is not doing what he should be, which is every and anything he is doing.

7:15am:  Checklist with the kids (two of them anyway, since one can’t or won’t talk) -

• computer?  Check
• phone?  Check
• book?  Check
• iPod?  Check
• wallet?  Check
• coffee?  Check
• keys?  Check

And off to work.

Inevitably, sometime during the day, I get a message like this from the wife.  Here I will attempt to recreate one I received yesterday.

"Patrick just dumped out all of the diapers, emptied the entire bag of wipes, dumped out the toy bins in the playroom, poured a bag of cheddar Chex mix all over the foyer,then emptied the dishwasher including putting all the dirty silverware back in the drawer, and now he’s eating a magic marker.  GAH!!"

5:45pm:  Come home to said mess.  Start cleaning with GBD.

Fill this time with "Girls! Stop fighting!  It’s a used paper towel roll!  So honey, hold a sec.  Patrick!  Get off the desk!  Patrick! get off the kitchen table!  Patrick!  Stop eating mommy’s wireless mouse!  I was saying, how was your day?  Hold on.  Girls! knock it off!  Patrick!  Stop climbing on the desk!  Fia! I will not hold you!  Lauren, no you can NOT go to (insert any child in the neighborhood’s name)’s house.  Mine was fine.  I had a…one sec babe.  Patrick!  Bring daddy the remote!  Fia! Put your clothes back on!  Lauren!  Yes you have to wear underwear tomorrow.  Patrick!  Get out of the menu drawer!  Girls! Stop fighting! That’s Patrick’s toy anyway.  Nevermind babe.  We’ll talk later."

6:00pm:  Have the "What do you guys want for dinner?" discussion, and the answers are always Dora spaghetti O’s, hot dogs, pancakes, spaghetti or Easy Mac.

Since Thing 3 is contained in his seat for a while, we fill this time with rapid cleaning and dishwasher filling and / or emptying.

6:15pm:  More me plus GBD cleaning (only to have it undone within 15 minutes by Thing 3).

6:30pm:  bottle and pajamas for  the boy.

6:45pm:  Boy up to bed, and then we begin the "Girls, it’s time to get ready for bed.  Let’s get on our jammies and brush our teeth.  Ladies.  Beddy bye time.  Jammie up peeps.  I’m not saying it again kids.  Put.  On. Your.  PJs.  Lauren!  Fia!  Put on your pajamas!  NOW!!"

7:00pm:  Sigh deeply and then we both proceed to put pajamas on the girls.

7:15pm:  Alright girls…bedtime.

Fill the next fifteen minutes with "Awwww.   Daddeeeeeeeeee!  I’m watching this!  Just five more minutes!  Please!!  But I’m thirsty.  I’m hungry.  I don’t feel good.  I’m not tired.  Please can I just play five more minutes please please please please."

7:30pm:  Trudge up the stairs and then one of us reads a story to both girls and puts them to bed.

7:45pm:  More cleaning, then "So babe, whaddya want for dinner?"

7:46pm:  I dunno.  I’m gonna start with a scotch & water with a side of Lortab.

And yes.  This is every god damned day.

Love you babe.  Don’t know how you do it.  And yes, I’ll pick up some diapers, wipes and the zoloft.

I haven’t felt too inspired today, so I struggled to find a topic.

But then, like a kick in the nads, a topic found me:

Children’s television.

While snuggling up with Thing 3, someone (cough cough GBD cough cough) turned on "Max and Ruby." Were it not for the namesake in my lap, I may have gouged out my own eyes.

I hate this show with the fire of ten episodes of the Teletubbies. It’s a cartoon rabbit and her younger brother, and the entire show is based on him being a little boy and her being a nagging god damned bitch. She and her naggy asshole friends bitch anytime he does anything. I hate it.

Then there’s (no attempt to spell this correctly) Ni Hao Kai Lan.

Basically, it’s Dora in Japanese. Or Chinese. I’m not sure. Her grandfather is Mr. Miagi, her friends are all stupid animals and she sings 71 different songs, but to the exact same score. WHO DOES THAT?

Then there’s Dora. I hate her and her god damned monkey and her shouting and her stupid ass giant head. I heard this week that Dora is about to be a "tween." I don’t know what that means, but I hope it means she is trapped and killed beTWEEN two colliding passenger trains.

Next up, Yo Gabba Gabba. Some black gay hippie in tights lords over some stupid Diorama where retarded creatures sing songs about not hitting your friends, sharing, and other hippy shit. It may cause me to start cutting…

Then there’s Little Bear. He teaches the kids nothing. Every other bear wears people clothes but him, he’s retarded and does stupid things, and he’s friends with a girl that has a doll. That’s it. There’s a spastic duck, a snake that takes Quaaludes, a chicken that’s manic depressive, and other animals. Again, they teach my kids shit. If my kids were smoking pot, it’d be the greatest show in the world.

But they’re not. They want to, but I keep doing the egg in a frying pan "this is your brain on drugs" demonstration, and then they just want some God damn eggs.

Have a great Saturday everybody. Hope you all get lucky.
FRT

p.s. I should have titled this post "Lazy hack mailing it in," but I didn’t think you’d read far enough to get the snake on ludes, so I didn’t).

Today I had the day off.  That is to say that I had the day off from work.  I did NOT have the day off from the family.  I am going to give you a little insight into just what the first hour or so of my day is like every day.

Patrick! No standing on the couch.  Bottom down.

Fia!  No jumping on the couch.  Bottom down!

Lauren, get dressed!

Patrick! Bottom down!

Patrick NO!  Don’t touch my iPod. (Pick up iPod and take it to the middle of the kitchen table and gets a cup of coffee).

Patrick!  Don’t touch my blackberry.  (Sets down coffee, takes blackberry and case from boy, now crying, and place them in the middle of the kitchen table).

Patrick!! Don’t touch my coffee.  GAH!  (runs for paper towels to clean up coffee, walk to kitchen to throw away paper towels).

Patrick!! Don’t pull the spacebar off of / turn the power off on / stand on my laptop (runs from kitchen to close laptop lid, but set coffee down to do it).

Patrick! No standing on the couch.  Bottom down.

Fia!  No jumping on the couch.  Bottom down!

Lauren, get dressed!

Patrick! Bottom down!

Then it’s breakfast for three which could be pancakes, cereal, pop tarts (or their generic equivalent), cinnamon toast, and on the weekends that expands to the possibility of homemade pancakes, french toast, fried eggs and bacon with toasted bagels, etc.

Inevitably no one can agree, so I make different stuff, but no one wants or eats what I make.  Then 20 minutes later, they’re all hungry.

Except Patrick.  He eats.  He LOVES anything with syrup, because he can rub it in his hair, on his face, all over his clothes, in his ears, nose, eyes and more.

Lauren, get dressed.

Seriously.  Get dressed.

Fia, put your clothes on.  You are not running around naked all day.

Patrick!  Give me the remote.

Lauren! Get dressed!  It’s been fifteen minutes and all you have on is a shirt.

FIA!  GET DRESSED!

Patrick! No standing on the couch.  Bottom down.

Fia!  No jumping on the couch.  Bottom down!

Lauren, get dressed!

Patrick! Bottom down!

Lauren, it’s been 25 minutes and you have a shirt on and pants.  GET DRESSED!!

Fia!  Put your clothes back on!

Patrick! No standing on the couch.  Bottom down.

Fia!  No jumping on the couch.  Bottom down!

Lauren, get dressed!

Patrick! Bottom down!

I gotta go.  Love you, honey.  Call me later.

(repeat a few more times if, due to the lunacy, you drive all the way to work without your god damned backpack, which contains your work keys, security fob and your laptop).