Dangerous Minds Think Alike

I’m back. I should’ve known better than to leave.

Some of you may have known that at Christmas time we stole from our Pre-K age neighbor. Well, Kharma? She’s a real Nutcracker.

If you’ve ever tried to get in touch with me you will be shocked to learn that I’m not addicted to my phone. I know. I’ll let your heart rate settle before I continue.

Not being addicted to my phone means that I “lose” it often. And by “lose” I mean I can’t find it immediately so I just go to bed and think, “Ah, it’ll turn up”.

Usually I’m right. It does “turn up”. In my purse. Between couch cushions. In that space between the driver’s seat and the console. At the local alternative middle school.

Wait. What?

Last Monday I was sitting at my desk getting ready to start the day when I remembered that I hadn’t seen my phone since  leaving my parents’ house. I knew it was either there or somewhere in my house. I decided to narrow the search and check the handy dandy Find My iPhone app.

This is what I saw (this is a dramatization, you’ll have to imagine the Google marker is a green dot):

 

That is not my address. That is not my parents’ address. This is in West Nashville. I’ve been to West Nashville maybe twice my entire life. What the…

I refreshed the page because surely this was wrong. Surely this was wrong. Please, Jesus, let this app be wrong.

Nope. My iPhone with 7% battery life was in an area of town I’d never been to, and I was now given the task of rescuing it.

Some googling told me that my iPhone was not just on the other side of town, but it was in an alternative middle school.

You might as well have told me it was at Alcatraz. Here in Nashville, alternative schools are basically the step right before prison for most students. Or so I’ve heard. Because the only thing I ever got in trouble for during my entire time in the public school system was short shorts.

I was going to have to confront the meanest, baddest kids in the Metropolitan Nashville area to get my phone back. My first thought? “I could probably be cool with pay phones… there are still pay phones, right?”

I called the school and the officer said he would look into it. The adult high school was in the same building so it could be an adult and if it was then I’d be crap out of luck because you can search students whenever you’d like but adults are protected “by the Constitution” or something.

As I waited for the officer to call me back, I started praying a student had it because I wanted to help this wayward young thief get their life back on track. My new mission in life was to become some kid’s Michelle Pfeiffer from Dangerous Minds.

“Hey, Thief, let me change your life via Bob Dylan lyrics.”

Terrified Kid That Had My Phone: Are you going to press charges?

Me: Of course not. I’m here to help you, not convict you.

Terrified Kid: Thank you, Saint Maria. Can I call you Saint Maria?

Me: Well, Saint Marie, but sure. That works. Now what are your thoughts on Dylan’s Mr. Tambourine Man?

[End daydream.]

When the officer confirmed that a kid did have my phone my friend and I drove out there to get it. Apparently the kid “found” it in my neighborhood, and thought it would be a great first item for his new store, “Bad Kids R’ Us”. Yeah, he was trying to sell it, but thanks to the Find My iPhone app, the MNPD, and Miranda my chauffer into the area of town I’d never been to his plans were thwarted and my phone was returned back to its rightful, though irresponsible, owner.

*For the record, given my very real propensity for losing things I would not be surprised at all if I drove off with the phone on my car and it fell off where ever the kid “found” it. The kid is probably more entrepreneur than thief. He should try to bring his business to the Shark Tank…

I still hate my knees

*I’m cleaning out my blog post draft folder this week. These are blog posts that I wrote in 2012, but for some reason never got published. I’m looking at you, Otis.

Did you know that I turned 29 this month? I used to think that I’d always have the same amount of cheerful joy about birthdays. Back in the day, I would claim the entire week as a celebration, buy a new dress and go out to dinner, eat as much pasta as I wanted and still look cute in a two-piece bathing suit.

Needless to say, things have changed significantly. We stayed home, watched Redbox movies, and ate ice cream. I didn’t buy anything new and most of that cheerful joy energy is being shoveled into planning Otis’ birthday party. And a two-piece bathing suit? Those are stupid. Even when I was skinny.

And that might be what is floating through my head more than anything lately. I have always prided myself on having a great self-esteem. I even remember when I believe my self-esteem was born. I was in college and saw some pictures of myself from a high school trip. I remember being on that trip thinking I was fat and ugly and that I should only wear turtlenecks.  But then I saw a picture and I thought, “Holy crap. I was hot!”

I realized very quickly that I was either going to spend the rest of my life looking back at pictures finding out in hindsight that I was beautiful. Or I could just live like I was beautiful today. So I did that. Believed I was beautiful today.

For the past 9 years it’s worked brilliantly. I would look in the mirror and 9 times out of 10 think, “Hellz to the yeah”. Mark would sometimes point out the potential flaws in my line of thinking. Like, isn’t this the exact same thing as settling? And then we’d have long discussions about the nuances of words like “settle” and “accept”.

Then I had a baby. How I felt about my body started to change. I didn’t know it anymore. I didn’t know how to feel about it anymore.

I thought my body was absolutely amazing in so many ways. Like, there was a kid in there, he was jettisoned out and then my boobs made food. That’s Sci-fi crap, People. And my body did it!

But then there was how my stomach is rounder, my waist thicker and my thighs are very well acquainted with one another. I won’t even talk about my boobs.

All of those things, this softer and fleshier version of me, were supposed to be wrong. Ugly, even? I was supposed to want to get back into my pre-baby jeans as fast as possible, right? I needed to feel guilty because I didn’t look like those posters on Pinterest, right?
I hate you, Pinterest, with all your “thinspiration”.

But I didn’t. Like I said I’m really good at loving myself. Too good, maybe?

When I look at myself in the mirror now I… kind of like it. Like, seriously, I like that I look different.  That I don’t look like 18 year old Marie anymore. Like, at all. My tummy isn’t flat (or firm) and there are hints of a double chin-a-brewing. And I honest to goodness like it.

It’s like a tampon commercial: racially ambiguous girls in white clothes.
She stills looks like that. I do not. And that’s ok! I think…

Or maybe a better way to say it is that I’m not grossed out like I thought I would be. I secretly thought that I had such a good self-esteem because I really was hot and if that hotness ever left then I’d lose the self-esteem, too. But I don’t think that’s what self-esteem is.

I don’t mean I don’t want to be healthy. I do! I want to go on walks on pretty days and I’ve started a steady exercise routine of rugrat crawling races with my little man. I almost like Greek yogurt!

My only problem right now is all the wrestling I’m doing in my brain. Is it ok to be ok with having a body that, in society’s eyes, is only ok? I feel beautiful in a new way, but I wonder if I’m allowed to feel beautiful in this new way. Isn’t that funny?

Because the new way that I feel beautiful isn’t represented anywhere except in those once-a-year fashion editorials where they make plus size models slouch to accentuate the rolls.

Who poses like this? Ever?

So these are my thoughts. I’m getting older and fleshier. And I’m ok. Is that ok? Are you ok? Are we ok?

Ok.

Be Kind

*I’m cleaning out my blog post draft folder this week. These are blog posts that I wrote in 2012, but for some reason never got published. I’m looking at you, Otis.

I didn’t write an anniversary post last year. But I had a pretty decent excuse, I think. There was this little guy that moved in with us and would not shut up about being fed. So I was preoccupied. And tired. So very, very tired. And leaking if I remember correctly…

Four years ago we became a family. Yes, it was just the two of us, but that’s still a family in my book. Especially if you have animals.

I think if the word that best fits this 4th year of marriage is kindness. There has truly been so much kindness in our marriage.

Being kind isn’t something that people write about in marriage books. People write marriage books about increasing passion, decreasing arguments, and whose turn it really is to wash the dishes (answer: his).  But rarely are we reminded to be kind to this person we love and share a life with.

It was harder to be kind this year. Both of us had every reason in the world to look at each other and say “You suck right now”. I’d be lying if those words didn’t sneak out a couple times over the past 365 days. It’s just there were so many more encouraging hugs, squeezed hands of “It’s going to be fine”, and truly thankful prayers for how abundant our life really is.

No matter how hard the day had been we both knew it would end with our favorite event: bedtime snuggles. We ended nearly every night this year snuggled in bed with the baby talking and laughing about our day.

This year wasn’t sexy or exciting. But it was kind. Very, very kind.

Here’s to (at least) four more, Boo.

Thanksgiving 2012 is a success

 

You guys.

Best Thanksgiving Day ever.

My mother-in-love’s sisters and their families came to visit us in Nashville. Half of the visitors were a surprise AND WE PULLED IT OFF. Awesomesauce.

Also, my MIL and the rest of the fam read yesterday’s post. Today after the prayer she stopped everyone from getting food to do some “special acknowledgements”. I totally didn’t get it. We all said thanks to Aunt Jannett and Uncle Rick for the turkey. Tracy for green bean casserole and Trista for sweet potato casserole. It didn’t take long for me to realize what was going on, and then my MIL says, “And the most important acknowledgement of all… THE COKE GIRL” and all the ladies (myself included) died laughing. Best part? I didn’t bring any drinks! They went shopping the night before and I saw tons of canned cokes so I figured they didn’t need anymore. I died.

And at my parents’ house we played internet trivia games. Because we are nerds. And we don’t have a tv. We also stink at state capitals. Ok, fine. I stink at state capitals.

I hope everyone made beautiful memories today. Happy Thanksgiving!

Christmas can now commence.

Thanksgiving fantasies from The Drink Girl

Me: So what can I bring for Thanksgiving dinner?

MIL: Hmmm… drinks. You can bring drinks.

I had officially become The Drink Girl.

Let’s not kid ourselves. We know what it means when you are asked to bring drinks (or paper products). You can’t cook. And everyone knows it. More importantly, everyone knows you’re just going to go to the store to buy something to throw into a casserole dish or onto a plate and pray that everyone thinks you made it. Telling someone to just take care of the drinks is like saying, “The jig is up, Lady. You don’t cook. And we still love you. Now go buy us some Dr. Pepper”.

Honestly, I’m kinda relieved that I can just pop into a convenience store and I’m done sweating Thanksgiving. But let’s be real. You can’t bring something to Thanksgiving dinner and not quietly fantasize about everyone falling madly in love with your cranberry squash casserole, right? We all want to go home with an empty dish, our egos pumped up with compliments about how perfect the sweet potato pie was or shameless begging from your relatives for your tofu stuffing recipe.

Don’t front. You know what I’m talking about.

And as The Drink Girl, I can attest that even I’m fantasizing about how people will react to my drink selection…

“Who bought these drinks? This Coca-Cola is amazing!”

“I have never been to a Thanksgiving dinner with so much VARIETY on the drink table. Who is responsible for this fine selection?”

“Marie. You’ve outdone yourself. Bravo. Bravo, Young Lady.”

There might even be a few fantasies of standing ovations around the drink station. What? A girl can dream.

All that said, make sure to thank whoever is putting turkey in your tummy tomorrow, and don’t forget to throw your Drink Girl a round of applause compliment or two.

Get your pilgrim hats on, People. Thanksgiving is here.

Thanksgiving Cards are going out tomorrow morning. If you want yours gimme yo address.

I’m pretty sure that most of the year the cats are NOT Otis’s biggest fan, but they probably give him some props for relieving them of Thanksgiving Card duty…

The Dictator and the Race Car

Now that I got that last post out of my system I feel like I’m ready to get back on the blogging horse. 

Mark has this racing video game system. It has the bucket seat, the steering wheel, the gear shifty thing… all the bells and whistles.

Otis loves cars. LOVES CARS. Sometimes instead of taking him to a playground I just let him sit in the drivers seat of the car.

You know what’s going to happen, right?

Mark got to set the system up because we cleaned up the spare room. How do babies know that certain activities are not baby appropriate? More importantly, why do they act like they are dying if they aren’t allowed to participate in said inappropriate baby activity?

Well, Otis’s spidey sense let him know that something fun and exciting was happening in the spare room so he does what any 19-month old that doesn’t talk yet does… he stood at the baby gate and hollered. Just sat there yelling. I see male cheerleading in this guy’s future.

When Mark finishes getting all the cords and wheels and knobs in the right place we let Otis into the spare room.

This is where the clouds part and the angels sing. Otis is in heaven.

He can’t believe that THIS steering wheel and THIS gear shift thing and THESE buttons with lights are his. All his. He is over the moon.

We let him hang out in the race car for about 30 minutes. I’ve never seen him so happy to sit in one place for that long. More than the car, he needed his daddy in the room. Every time Mark got up to put a finishing touch on the set up Otis would holler as if to say, “Daddy, none of this is as cool/awesome/special without you watching me.”

Awww.

He finally finishes playing with the car (ok, we dragged him away, but I think he’d had his fill), and go on with the evening. He ends up falling asleep downstairs and Mark decides to actually go do some racing now that the munchkin is asleep. I carry Otis up the stairs and as we walk by the spare room to our room Otis wakes up just long enough to see his daddy. In the car.

WAH!!!!!

I was positive that I had accidentally pinched him with my bracelet or pulled his arm in a funny direction because Otis sounded like he was in physical pain. I freak out, “What’s wrong, baby? Are you ok?”

Quiet sobs and pointing. Pointing to the spare room.

He wanted the car. His daddy was in the car. He deserved to be in the car, too.

I tested my theory and took him to see Mark. Sure enough the cries stopped. The grinning started. He was ready to race.

It was 10 P.M., People. Ten. Pee. Em.

I took him back to bed. Sobbing. Screaming. Crying. Pointing. Very dramatic pointing.

“Listen, little dude. It is 10 o’clock. You’re going to bed. You aren’t going to play any video games tonight”.

And then it hit me. I just gave my very first parental video game speech TO A BABY.

He could have cared less. He knew his daddy was playing video games and of course kids deserve all the same rights as parents, right? Otis can’t talk, but I’m pretty sure the tone of his wailing meant, “If he gets to then I get to”.

And he was right.

“Mark. Dude. You gotta come to bed. Otis isn’t going to stop until he knows that NO ONE is in his race car”.

Mark is a smart man. He listened to his owners wife and child. Mark came to bed and The Dictator Otis fell fast asleep, secure in the knowledge that no one would be racing without him.

So Moms and Dads, when did you give your first parental speech and what was it about?