You Gotta Know When To Fold Em

No decent human being likes letting people down, but I really, really can’t stand it — the very thought of disappointing someone is enough to bring a tear to my eye. It doesn’t even have to be a big failure: a couple months ago I forgot to bring my mom coffee when she watched Bubba for me and I’m still feeling a bit guilty about it. Compounding this issue is my tendency to commit myself to doing things I don’t really have time/energy/desire to do (this is how I wound up making enchiladas for my entire family on Mother’s Day…the day after I ran 20 miles as part of my marathon training…when the rest of my sisters signed themselves up for tasks like bringing canned beans because they’re much, much savvier than I), which, as you can imagine, has led to stressful situations more times than I can count. Once I commit, I must deliver lest I run the risk of disappointing someone!

It’s one of the last holdovers from my many years of low self-esteem: there’s a (big, apparently) part of me that can’t quite believe that my presence alone at an event is enough. I feel I must sweeten the deal by offering to clean up after everyone or by making homemade cupcakes when no one would really care if they were store-bought, as if otherwise everyone might turn to each other after I left and ask, “why was she even here?” Contributing something ensures that my value is documented, measurable, and indisputable.

Saturday was my grandma’s 90th birthday party, and, as usual, I signed myself up to bring dessert. Since this party was big both in terms of importance and guest list, I had rather ambitious plans: for the first time ever, I decided to attempt a tiered cake (split and filled and fully decorated, of course), and, because I’m insane, I determined we’d also need four dozen cupcakes (in case anyone didn’t like the type of cake I was making, obviously). If this sounds like a plan that would involve a lot of work and an awful lot of time, you are correct, but I had everything under control. I got all my supplies the week before and set out to start baking three nights before the party.

And then on Wednesday night, right as I was getting my Kitchenaid set up, I got sick. Like, Exorcist-vomiting, everything-from-my-hair-to-my-toenails-hurts, I’m-pretty-sure-I’m-dying sick. The type of sick where you start seriously considering the possibility that an unknown enemy has poisoned you, because, seriously, how could anyone vomit that much.

And all I could think abut was those freakin’ cakes.

All day Thursday, I lay in bed sweating out my fever and fretting about the cakes. I kept looking at the clock and thinking, “if I feel better in a few hours, I can still get everything done.” As the day progressed and my health did not, I adjusted my thinking: “if I feel better by tomorrow, start baking immediately after work and don’t take a single break until the party starts the next afternoon, I can still make it happen.” And then finally, when Friday morning rolled around, one final adjustment: “there’s no way in hell I’m going to pull this off. TIME TO PANIC AND ASSUME THAT EVERYONE WILL HATE YOU FOREVER!”

I stopped panicking long enough to call my mom to advise her to order a cake from the grocery store before it was too late, and then went back to feeling horribly guilty about my cake failure. What was I supposed to do, just show up at the party with nothing to contribute, like…everyone else?

Absolutely not.

So I made five dozen carrot cake cupcakes to augment the grocery store cake.

Which was, of course, not really necessary (couldn’t I have just told my mom to order two cakes? Or one larger one?), other than to allow me the luxury of only feeling half as bad.

I need to learn when to fold ’em. If ever there was a time for me to tap out and say “I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this,” I think this was it.

On the bright side, everyone enjoyed the cupcakes, including Bubba:

At the moment this photo was snapped, he was in the middle of saying “MMMMMMMMM!” exactly like an over-the-top commercial for a sinful dessert

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PS: If you’re reading this and thinking “hmm, Mo let me down one time and she didn’t seem all that concerned about it,” allow me to assure you: I’m aware of it, I probably think about it at least twice a week whether the offense occurred last month or last decade, and I’m very, very sorry.

My Thing

I’ve always been jealous of people who have a “thing” — you know, a hobby they’re incredibly passionate about, or a skill they’ve honed, or some special talent that is deeply associated with their identity. It’s their thing.

Unlike those lucky bastards who are awesome at singing or really into making model trains or whatever, I’ve never had a thing. I like plenty of stuff, but I’ve never been passionate about anything to the point of it being a defining factor in my life (except perhaps fountain Dr Pepper, but that’s more a crippling addiction than a thing). Talent-wise, I’ve proven to be marginally competent at a wide variety of everyday endeavors (slow jogging! Mind-numbingly boring technical writing! Above-average cupcake-decorating!), but none of those are really thing-worthy.

This may sound silly (especially if you do have a thing and can’t understand what life is like for us thing-less losers), but I’ve spent a lot of time over the years lamenting my thinglessness. I felt like I was lacking something fundamental in my life that everyone else seemed to have, like I was incomplete in some way. Unfocused, maybe. Being asked to describe myself (a godawful icebreaker that should be abolished) was downright panic-inducing: “um…I like reading…and…soda? I’m really good at editing other people’s shitty writing, and…OK, CAN WE PLEASE MOVE ON NOW; PERHAPS YOU CAN ASK ME TO DISCUSS WHAT HAPPENED ON BIG BROTHER LAST NIGHT INSTEAD?!”

Worse yet, for the past several years I’ve worried that my past struggles had become my de facto thing, not because I was fixated on them but because my scars are on display for the world to see. Short of wearing a burka or getting my body covered in tattoos (I’m working on the latter but it’s just too hot for the former), it’s simply not possible for me to hide them all. This is incredibly unfortunate for me since the person I am today shares little in common with the disaster-woman who put those stupid scars there (except for our love of Dr Pepper!), and I can tell you with authority that the only thing worse than not having a thing at all is people thinking that your thing is being an unstable mental patient.

And then I had Bubba, and I found my thing.

Is that corny? Sappy? Cliche? A total thing cop-out? Probably, but I don’t care. I’ve never been as good at anything as I am at being his mom. Nothing has ever come so naturally to me or brought me even a fraction of the joy I get just from being around that ridiculous child. Of course parenting has its challenges, but I can honestly say that I have zero complaints about my son or parenting in general. Just watching him be his cute little self fills my heart with such pride and love and joy that I fear it may burst at any moment, even when he’s throwing sand at me (which we all know is the most heinous crime anyone can commit, because sand is seriously the worst).

With Bubba, I feel complete (note to TFW: do not take this as a concession to your “one kid is plenty” stance; my life would be even more complete with two or three kids…ahem). I have purpose and passion and reason. I have a thing, and it feels awesome.

(I do still wish I could draw or something, though. Dammit!)

A Few Pointers In Case I Die

It’s no secret that when it comes to raising Bubba, I’m the admiral and TFW is my lieutenant. Prior to becoming a father, TFW had literally zero experience interacting with babies, much less actually taking care of one, and thus is more than happy to follow my lead (this could also be a diversionary tactic on his part in an attempt to get out of doing work; he didn’t even feel comfortable bathing the kid until about a month ago because he “didn’t know how to do it” — suspicious?). Furthermore, I am both a control freak and a major stresser and fear that if I don’t do something myself or at least provide explicit guidelines and over-your-shoulder hovering, tragic consequences could ensue.

This system has worked well for us for the past 19+ months. I’m in charge of everything Bubba-related, and I simply delegate tasks to my second-in-command as needed. Everything gets done to my liking, and while he definitely does a lot to help out, TFW never has to do anything he doesn’t know how to do!

There is, of course, one potentially critical (and totally obvious) flaw to this system: there’s a lot of stuff TFW has never had to do or even think about. This isn’t an issue on a day-to-day basis, but what if I were to drop dead tomorrow from a bout of avian bird flu or get kidnapped whilst out for a jog and then enslaved for years in some psycho’s sex dungeon? I’ve previously discussed my suggestions (*cough* demands *cough*) for TFW’s second wife if such a fate were to befall me, but I neglected to consider the full ramifications of my demise with regard to TFW’s solo parenting.

I am rectifying that now!

TFW, if I should meet a sudden end, dry your tears and consult this list as soon as possible (and then you can cry some more, because you’re seriously going to miss me…right?!):

1. Sometimes Bubba’s bath toys get gross and moldy. You have to wash them. The fact that they get kinda rinsed out in the tub with him does NOT count as “washing.”
2. You have to change his sheets regularly, not just when milk or poop gets on them. Yours too, for that matter (although if milk or poop is on your sheets…I don’t even wanna know what’s going on in my absence).
3. Don’t teach him to say stupid or inappropriate things just because it’s funny (even though it totally is).
4. WWE and Ultimate Fighting really aren’t appropriate programming options for kids under two. Neither is anything on Adult Swim (animation does not necessarily mean “kid-friendly;” you need look no further than Beavis and Butthead to prove my point).
5. You HAVE to clean sometimes. Like, mopping and stuff. Not just because it makes things look nice, but because your ridiculous son rolls around on the floor like a damn dog (and will not hesitate to eat things found on said floor).
6. Motrin is every 6 hours, Tylenol is every 4. It’s OK to combine them, BUT THE DOSAGES ARE DIFFERENT! BE CAREFUL!
7. Popcorn is a choking hazard! Actually, just google “toddler choking hazards” and memorize everything on the list.
8. You have to wrangle the toothbrush away from him and brush his teeth yourself. He will not like this, but too bad: him gnawing on the brush for thirty seconds a day doesn’t really count much towards oral hygiene.
9. At some point, you’ve got to ween him off the whole drinking-bottles-in-bed thing. I was totally gonna do this soon, but I’m dead now, so….good luck with that.
10. Don’t ever leave the house without wipes, diapers, and at least one spare outfit. Trust me. Once he’s potty-trained (and dear god, how are you going to pull that off?! Call my mom for assistance), you can skip the diapers, but I’d still recommend keeping wipes and spare clothes with you at all times.

Okay, never mind: I’ve decided I’m just never going to die. Not that I don’t trust that these two goons would eventually figure things out…

But better safe than sorry.

Rulebreaker

Despite what my tattoos and love of punk rock music might lead you to believe, I am not a rebel. In high school, I never drank or smoked or did anything cool like sneak out to go to a raging party (perhaps because I was never invited to such an event? Eh, minor details). I ditched class from time to time (ok, I ditched class all the time), but that hardly counts as teenaged rebellion since I always told my mom what I was up to. One time in sophomore year I lied to my mom about my plans with a super-hot 17-year-old (I wisely assumed she wasn’t likely to sign off on “we’re gonna drive around and then stop somewhere to make out in his Jeep”), but the deception stressed me out so much I wasn’t able to enjoy myself (the whole night I kept envisioning the two us getting murdered mid-smooch by a lunatic serial killer and my poor parents having to deal with not only a dead daughter, but a dead lying daughter; their angry-slash-heartbroken Dateline interviews would be so humiliating to my pathetic memory) and I stuck to the truth from then on.

(And I’m such a square that making out really was as far as things went in that Jeep. Hmm, I wonder why that budding romance fizzled out shortly thereafter?)

Even as an adult, I remain firmly in the goody-two-shoes camp. The thought of pirating music or software makes me nauseated (I can just picture my arraignment: “Mrs. Wachter, our agents found an illegally-procured Social Distortion album and three episodes of Secret Life of the American Teenager on your computer; what do you have to say for yourself?! Not just about the pirating, but about your decidedly bizarre entertainment choices?”), and you’ll never catch me parking in a loading zone or trying to sneak a 5oz bottle of contact lens solution onto an airplane. Bending the rules or breaking the law just seems so obnoxiously self-centered — who am I to think the speed limit applies to everyone but me?

(Wait a minute, psychological breakthrough pending: perhaps my lifetime of non-rebellion all stems from a fundamental lack of self-confidence! Maybe I just don’t think I’m worthy of breaking the rules! Someone call a therapist and arrange a consultation.)

Knowing this, it should come as no surprise that when I signed my son up for daycare, I read every word of the provider’s 10-page packet of rules and guidelines. I drop him off and pick him up right on time, I never forget to send extra clothes, and since they have a “no trash” lunch policy, I bought several tupperware lunch containers with dividers so I could neatly pack up all the components of his lunch without requiring ziplock baggies or foil. This makes packing lunch a bit of a hassle, since I have to do silly things like unwrap string cheese and peel bananas instead of just tossing the stupid things in the container like a normal human, but I never thought twice about it — rules are rules!

For over four months I packed his lunch this way, until one morning last week when I discovered I was completely out of fruit — not even an emergency can of peaches in the pantry. I wanted to send Bubba to school with more than crackers and a sandwich, so I decided to be rebellious by sending a “veggie pouch” (if you don’t have kids or if you are one of those insane moms who made all your own baby food, I’m referring to those little pouches of pureed fruits and/or veggies that the kid consumes by sucking on a spout-thingy; technically they’re for babies, but Bubba still loves them and it’s the easiest way to get him to eat fruits and veggies!). When TFW left to do the daycare drop-off, I gave him strict instructions to explain about the lack of fruit in the house and to apologize profusely for the pouch.

I spent the rest of the day obsessing over my lack of consideration for this simple rule, certain the daycare owner was going to hate me forever and probably complain about me to all the other moms. I truly felt bad about this, folks! I mean, really: how hard is it to follow the rules laid out by your child’s daycare provider? I thought about calling her to apologize but decided that might be just a tad overboard (plus, then she might hate me for bugging her and for breaking the no-trash rule!).

When I finally went to pick the dear boy up at the end of the day, I was ready to grovel. As the owner handed me Bubba’s things to head home, I apologized again for violating the no-trash rule and assured her I had gone to the store on my lunchbreak to stock up on real fruit for the rest of the week.

And she laughed and laughed.

“I think you’re the only parent that has ever read my rules….no one else follows that rule; don’t worry about it! You can send the pouches anytime, I don’t care.”

So you’re telling me I’ve been knocking myself out every morning for the past four months to make trash-free lunches when I could have just been throwing string cheese and veggie pouches in there and calling it a day?! And wait a minute, why do I feel like the fool for reading and adhering to the rules?

I think I need to listen to a little more early-80s punk rock; the messages clearly haven’t been sinking in for me. ANARCHY!!!

 exhibit A: contraband!

Your Name is Mo?!

My name is Maureen, but growing up, I was primarily known as Mo. My family took to calling me Mo when I was a baby, and it stuck. Even at school and in extracurricular activities like Girl Scouts and softball, I was never Maureen, I was just Mo. I never minded — Mo’s a super cute name, right? — and there was never any confusion surrounding my name; I’m from a small enough town where everyone just sort of knew that my name was Maureen but that they could call me Mo. I liked my real name well enough, but since I didn’t grow up in 1850’s Ireland, it wasn’t exactly the most common name, so Mo was just easier and better-suited to a small child.

In junior high, I discovered that some people apparently aren’t familiar with the fact that Mo is a perfectly legitimate nickname for Maureen (again, maybe because no one under the age of 100 is named Maureen). My best friend introduced me to her grandmother, and it just confused the poor old lady — she looked me up and down and retorted, “your name is Mo?!” (a sneer that retained its power to send my friend and I into hysterical giggles any time either of us repeated it for years after). Another time, I was waiting along with my teammates for our softball coach to tell us which positions we’d be playing for that day’s game, and he pointed at me and ordered, “Maurice! Second base!” He’d never heard anyone call me anything but Mo and made the ridiculous leap of logic to assume that it was a derivative of Maurice as opposed to, say, ANY GIRLS’ NAME IN THE WORLD.

After being scoffed at by an elderly woman and presumed to be a jaunty French lad by my softball coach, my love for my nickname began to wane. I began making sure I introduced myself as Maureen to new acquaintances, and if someone introduced me as Mo I was quick to jump in to clarify that my name was really Maureen and that Mo was just a nickname. I knew there was no stopping my family or friends from calling me Mo and I tried not to mind, but I became increasingly self-conscious about it. Anytime someone called me Mo in public, I felt a pressing need to run around and explain to everyone in the vicinity that I did indeed have a normal name (don’t worry, I didn’t actually do this; instead, I just suffered constant anxiety that everyone was judging me and thinking I was some sort of a weirdo, or, worse yet, that my name was really Maurice).

When I went off to college and later started working, I didn’t have to worry about the issue as much. Everyone was “new” to me, so I was introduced to them all as Maureen. Sometimes someone would hear someone else call me Mo and I’d just explain that it was a family nickname; a few people took a shine to it and started calling me Mo themselves, but for the most part Mo became reserved strictly for family and old friends. It was as if Mo was the childhood me, and Maureen the adult.

And it felt weird.

As much as it embarrassed me as a teenager when someone didn’t “get” my nickname, the reality remained that it was a great nickname! Say it aloud: Mo. It just sounds friendly and fun and uncomplicated and down to earth — all things I’d like to be. Sure, it also sounds like it could possibly be a nickname for Maurice, but oh well. Mo sounds like a person you want to get to know (at least to find out if her name is short for Maurice). I’d want to know someone named Mo.

I’ve made a lot of big life changes in my twenties, and my feelings about the nickname situation was one of them. I decided I no longer cared if a few idiots couldn’t figure out that Mo was a nickname for Maureen. It’s a perfectly fine nickname, and I like it! I still introduce myself as Maureen, because it does sound more professional (and I am such a professional person, obviously), but if someone hears me being referred to as Mo or picks up on it somewhere, I’m really quite happy about it.

Because Mo is the type of person who is friendly to everyone and doesn’t take things too seriously and makes delicious enchiladas, and that’s the person I want to be.

See? Mo made these enchiladas.

Why I’ll Never Get a Boob Job (Even Though I Really Want One)

A couple weeks ago, my husband posted a photo of my boob to Facebook, and no one noticed.

TFW didn’t notice when he took the photo, and he obviously didn’t notice it when he uploaded it to Facebook, either (he certainly wasn’t trying to show off my goodies). Facebook’s notoriously overzealous censors didn’t catch it, nor did any of our hundreds of Facebook friends — several people commented on what a cute photo it was, but no one seemed to notice that an adult woman’s breast was in full view!

Of course, when I fired up Facebook sometime later in the afternoon and noticed the photo on my page, I saw the offending boobage immediately. I will confess to briefly debating the merits of leaving it up there since it is otherwise a fairly flattering photo of me — my hair, in particular, looks nice and frizz-free — but ultimately I decided that I was not interested in displaying my nipple to the world without at least getting paid, so I made him delete it.

Now, you’re probably wondering two things at this point:

1. Why was your boob hanging out in the first place?
2. How the hell did no one notice?! Surely you can’t be serious!

The answer to both of those questions is the same: my boobs are very, very small. My boob was exposed because I was bending over and there was a giant gap between my child-sized brassiere and my breast (because the aforementioned tiny bra was still too large for its even tinier occupant), and no one noticed because, well, there’s really nothing for anyone to notice. They probably thought my nipple was a button on my sweater or something.

Here’s a tasteful Photoshopped version of my debut as a topless model:

See?

Anyway, while this incident was amusing, it obviously wasn’t alerting me to a new problem; I’ve been small-chested forever (with the brief but glorious exception of those fleeting breastfeeding days, of course). It did temporarily reignite my desire for a surgical fix, though. The option of getting an augmentation has crossed my mind many times over the years, and with this latest reminder of the ridiculous non-size of my poor boobs, it’s been on my mind a lot.

Alas, as usual, I’ve determined that it simply will never be reality.

I’m not worried about the possibility of looking ridiculous — my hypothetical boob job would be very modest indeed, perhaps enlarging my breasts just enough so that they would fit into normal human-sized bras instead of leaving gaping spaces that make me vulnerable to unintended flashing when I bend over in low-cut tops. And the cost isn’t prohibitive, either. I’ve crunched the numbers, and a boob job could easily be saved up for in short order if I were to make subtle changes to my budget, such as not drinking my weight in Dr. Pepper every week.

No, my concern is that damn anesthesia.

Specifically, the fact that people DIE while under anesthesia. It happens, you guys.

And do you know how stupid it would be for Bubba to have to go through life saying “my mom died while getting a boob job” every time someone asked him about his family?!

Very, very stupid. The requisite sympathy he would be due for having a deceased parent would go out the window immediately; people would be choking back guffaws as they listened to the poor lad tell the tale: “yeah, she was perfectly healthy, but she really wanted to fit into this cute 32B bra from Victoria’s Secret…”

I can’t do it to him.

But if anyone knows of a plastic surgeon who is willing to shove some silicone under my skin without the aid of anesthesia (can’t we just use some novacaine like a dental procedure? I have a high pain tolerance!), I will gladly accept your referral.

The Time My Former Teacher Called Me a Disappointment

Ten years ago, when I was in the midst of the first of my two major life crises (you can read up on that here if you enjoy a good trainwreck), I took a job as a waitress at a local restaurant while I tried to sort out my life and my plans for the future. I wasn’t planning on being a waitress forever (not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course), but I certainly wasn’t ashamed of my job. Considering all my other problems, my career path was at the bottom of my list of concerns. Plus, I was an awesome waitress, if I do say so myself (and I totally do).

The restaurant was in my hometown, so naturally I ran into a lot of former classmates, teachers, and neighbors. I know some people cringe at the very thought of having to encounter (and wait on!) past acquaintances after leaving town, but it didn’t bother me. Again, I had more important things to worry about than what some random girl from my high school was wearing or what my sixth grade softball coach was eating for dinner. In fact, I quite enjoyed seeing people from my past — they always seemed happy to see me, and after such a miserable couple of years it was refreshing and reassuring to be reminded that there were people in the world who knew me just as “that nice girl I went to school with” rather than “that poor pathetic chick whose life is a shambles.”

One day, I came out from the kitchen and was delighted to see my beloved second grade teacher being sat at a table in my section. This woman was a true gem: the type of teacher who calls her class a “family” and never loses her patience with oversensitive crybaby little girls (ahem). She was a favorite of everyone who was taught by her, myself included, and I always felt that I had been a favorite of hers, too — she was so very kind to me when I was her student, and whenever I saw her in the years that followed she always expressed genuine interest in how I was doing. Even though I hadn’t seen her in about five years, I was certain she’d remember me when I told her my name.

As it turned out, I didn’t even have to refresh her memory — she recognized me instantly. She smiled broadly when she saw my face, but it faded as she gave me a once-over. I watched her expression change from one of friendly recognition to one of…disgust? I started to panic. Had my shirt come unbuttoned? Did I have something in my teeth, or hanging out of my nose? Was I emitting an offensive odor?

I addressed her tentatively, bewildered by her very apparent unpleasant reaction. “Um, hi!” I stammered. “It’s me, Mo.”

Her response was more an attack than a greeting. “What are you doing here?!” She sounded truly appalled, and my confusion mounted. “You’re supposed to be DOING something with yourself!”

Her disappointment was palpable. I almost vomited. My heart literally ached. I knew that my life was off track, but to hear it from someone else — someone who had once complimented my super-fast multiplication skills and given me stickers to cheer me up when I cried at recess — was crushing.

I don’t recall what I said in response (I probably apologized or something, knowing me!), but I remember escaping to the bathroom as soon as I could break away. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw what she saw: a sad-looking girl with haphazardly-dyed red hair and entirely too much eyeliner. The scars on my arms suddenly looked alarmingly visible — they might as well have been outlined with highlighter to emphasize their presence. (As a sidenote, can you believe the jerkface owners of the restaurant wouldn’t let me wear a long sleeve shirt under my uniform t-shirt?! I tried and they said it wasn’t part of the uniform.)

I looked like I had given up on life.

I was a far cry from the little girl who posed outside this woman’s classroom in 1991:

(Although I do look a teensy bit sad there…I had probably missed a word on a spelling test or something; have I mentioned that I was the biggest stress-case crybaby on the planet as a child?)

To say that this incident shook me up would be an understatement. I wasn’t angry with her, although I probably should have been (I was 19 years old and doing the very best that I could; at least I had a freakin’ job! What a judgmental old bag!). I was just embarrassed and deeply ashamed. People had expected me to be “something,” and I had failed to deliver. I wondered who else had been harboring similar thoughts about me but just hadn’t had the effrontery to tell me. I felt like I owed the entire world an apology for not being…more.

Even now, nearly a decade later and with miles of emotional distance between myself and my past struggles, thinking about that conversation makes my heart skip a beat. I have come a long, long way, but there are still moments in which I mourn all the wasted time (I could have gone to medical school or penned a book or built a damn house!) or worry that I haven’t utilized my intellect or talents (I swear I have some; did you know that I am an above-average cake decorator?!) to their fullest potential. And if we’re being honest, those feelings are completely valid: I did waste a lot of time sitting around crying when I could have been doing something productive, and I don’t really do anything that requires any particular talent or skill.

But so what?

I have a wonderful life — better than I ever would have imagined possible. Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed with happiness and gratitude that my heart feels like it might burst under the strain of joy. I am not a doctor or a lawyer or a second-grade teacher, but I am happy and healthy I have a husband who thinks I’m funny and a son who smiles non-stop and gets really excited when airplanes fly overhead:

So I consider myself an unqualified success.

And I hope I see my former teacher again someday, so she can see what I see.

How To Make Your Girlfriend Cry On Your Fourth Date

On our first date (8+ years ago!), TFW took me to see a documentary about Che Guevara. He was trying to impress me with either his worldliness or his pretentiousness.

A few days later we went miniature golfing and I tried to impress him with how fun and laid back I was (don’t laugh).

For our third date, we watched both volumes of Kill Bill at his apartment. We both just wanted to make out with each other.

The fourth time we got together, TFW tried to force me to eat pho at a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant on San Marcos Boulevard and made me cry.

Now, to understand this ridiculous tale, you must realize two things about TFW:

• He is Jewish and thus any wasting of food is akin to a cardinal sin in his eyes
• He’s an idiot

And four things about me:

• I have the palate of an obnoxious five-year-old child
• I used to be extraordinarily, pathetically, off-the-charts sensitive (this has since improved; I only cried in sympathy of a fictional character in a book once this week!)
• I used to have a crippling need to make everyone around me happy and hated saying no to anyone
• I’m an idiot

Prior to this fourth date, we had only dined together twice: we had Greek food before our mini-golf adventure (even a picky eater like me can’t find fault with pita and chicken), and we made some popcorn during our movie marathon. So to be fair, TFW was not yet familiar with my dietary preferences, and he certainly hadn’t been exposed to my sheer lunacy at that point (I tried to keep it under wraps).

Anyway, on the night in question, we didn’t have any firm plans laid out ahead of time — just a vague plan to get together and grab some dinner. In my mind, since I’m a normal (humor me), non-pretentious, down-to-earth gal, I naively assumed this meant we’d wind up at Chilis or something low-key. Instead, he picked me up and we had this conversation:

TFW: “So, do you like Vietnamese food? There’s a great pho place by my office!”

Mo (horrified): “Um, well, um, I’ve never tried it…”

TFW: “GREAT YOU’LL LOVE IT LET’S GO!”

(The Che Guevara movie should have tipped me off that there would be no Chilis dates in our future.)

I spent the 10-minute drive over there trying to psych myself up. How bad could it be? I’d eaten Chinese food before and lived to tell the tale; perhaps this was similar? Of course, that was Panda Express and probably doesn’t really count as “authentic,” but…this dude seems fairly normal, so if he likes it, it’s got to be edible. Right?

When we arrived, he “helpfully” insisted on ordering for me since I had never experienced these culinary delights. I mustered the courage to meekly inform him that I wasn’t very adventurous and didn’t tolerate spicy foods too well, and he assured me everything was nice and mild. “Pho is like Top Ramen, and spring rolls are like egg rolls! You’ll see!”

LIAR.

Pho is indeed similar to Top Ramen, if you don’t know what the word “similar” means. And Vietnamese spring rolls are like Chinese egg rolls, if you like your egg rolls wrapped in a weird doughy wrapper and served COLD.

exhibit A: vomit

I was not a fan, and this is where the trouble began. Unlike a functional adult human being, I was unable to simply tell him I didn’t like it, nor was I able to just suck it up and eat it anyway (in all honesty, it wasn’t really THAT bad; I’d just never had anything like it before and it surprised my delicate palate), so I just sort of sat there awkwardly while TFW enthusiastically chowed down. And unfortunately, unlike a non-idiotic adult human being, that imbecile failed to pick up on my obvious discomfort and proceeded to encourage me to eat my dinner. “Just TRY it!” he continued to implore. “It’s soooooo good! Just eat it! You’ll LOVE it! Don’t waste it!!!!”

Seriously, folks, he was incessant.

And I. Was. MORTIFIED!

Eventually, he gave up and ate my meal for me (god forbid we waste an ounce of broth!) while I sat there blinking back tears at my own awkwardness. Fortunately, he was blissfully unaware since he was so excited about the damn pho, but it took me a solid hour or so before I was able to speak without my voice quivering in that pitiful on-the-verge-of-crying manner you’ve surely all experienced at some point (although hopefully over something more worthy of your emotions than goddamn Vietnamese food).

A couple months later, when our relationship had progressed significantly and I was fairly confident that my not liking something he enjoyed wasn’t going to send him running for the hills after all, I brought up the pho incident and admitted that I had actually cried ACTUAL TEARS about it. He was completely surprised (seriously, he hadn’t noticed!) and thought it was hilarious! “Why didn’t you just tell me to shut the hell up?!” He asked. “I wouldn’t have cared. I just thought you would like it!”

He’s a keeper.

Since then, I’m happy to report that not only have I developed a functioning backbone and can now (usually) tell people what I like and don’t like, but I’ve also taken a cue from my dear husband and become a more adventurous eater!

Sort of.

exhibit B: that burger had caramelized onions on it AND I DIDN’T EVEN PICK THEM OFF!

The Crazy Files, Volume VI: The Search History of a Paranoid Nutjob

Someone got to my blog this week by googling a very peculiar query: “newborn gives me dirty looks.”

Like any sane person, my initial reaction was a mixture of amusement and curiosity. I imagined a wild-eyed, sleep-deprived new mom — covered in spitup and leaked breastmilk, obviously — desperately trying to interpret her baby’s facial expressions and growing more paranoid with each passing sleepless hour. “What a lunatic,” I chuckled. “Why would someone worry about such nonsense?!”

And then the part of my brain that is self-aware caught up, and I remembered that I myself am a lunatic and have turned to Google with a myriad of my own cringe-worthy concerns over the past couple of years. Here’s a sampling of my humiliatingly deranged search history from my pregnancy and the first fifteen months of Bubba’s life (and sadly, NONE of these are fabricated or even exaggerated; I am, regrettably, truly this crazy):

• Odds of miscarriage at ___ weeks pregnant. I was very, very terrified of miscarrying, right up to the third trimester, at which point I transitioned my fears over to stillbirth.
• Does being startled affect a fetus? I got startled by a loud noise (it was my shampoo falling down in the shower…don’t judge me) when I was about six months pregnant, and my heart was a-poundin’ for a solid ten minutes. I started to worry that that the baby’s blood pressure would be impacted and that the poor little lad would suffer some sort of problem thanks to my weak nerves.
• What does the death rattle sound like? Bubba was three weeks old and making a really weird snorting sound in his sleep…I was concerned. And tired.
• I hate breastfeeding. Poor Bubba. I tried!
• Infant Motrin accidental overdose. I got confused between Tylenol’s and Motrin’s respective dosing regimens and dosed Bubba about an hour earlier than I should have. Panic ensued. (He’s fine.)
• Long-term impact of daycare on mother-child bonding. Legitimate concern.
• Toddler refuses to say “mama”. I suspect it’s personal and deliberate at this point. Perhaps because I sent him to daycare!

Thinking your newborn is showing some sass by shooting you dirty looks doesn’t sound so crazy anymore, does it?

Dirty look? Sweet smile? You be the judge.

Sickness Is For The Weak!

I often say “I never get sick,” because it’s basically true: I am very, very rarely down for the count. But “I never get sick” is more than just my nature — it’s an essential facet of my life philosophy. A mantra, if you will.

Being sick is for weak people, and I ain’t no bitch!

This attitude is deep-seated and has served me well for years. Growing up, whenever one of my sisters or I would ask to stay home “sick” from school, my mom would bust out her classic line: “get up and eat a bowl of cereal and see how you feel.” She wasn’t cruel or insensitive; she just had no patience for minor maladies and was not one to coddle a minor cold. Rub some dirt in it! It’s the Irish way! She was right, of course: nine times out of ten, by the time you got out of bed and ate the damn cereal, you had perked up well enough to get your ass out the door and off to school.

Eventually, I adopted this m.o. myself and became a serious believer in mind over matter. Who’s got time for lazing about or calling in sick? If my child or husband is sick, I don’t worry about catching it — I proclaim that I will not get sick and I soldier forth. If I start feeling a little tickle in my throat, I don’t moan about it and create a self-fulfilling prophecy, I chow down on some delicious Ricolas and suck it up.

And I’m telling you, folks, this mentality works!

After a week of taking care of my poor sick baby, I started feeling a little off on Saturday morning. My throat felt really raw, and I may have even coughed once or twice (the worst!). But I brushed these symptoms off and moved forward with my plans for the day, including a 10 mile run.

Well, I made it through the run, but within three hours of returning home, I was shivering in bed with a 102 degree fever, lamenting to my husband that my scalp hurt (it really did! What is that about?!). Nevertheless, I weakly assured him that I would be perfectly fine by the morning and that I just needed a little rest. “Don’t worry,” I croaked. “I never get sick…I’m not wasting my Sunday…you’ll see…I bet I’ll even feel well enough to run again tomorrow!”

AND GUESS WHAT, YOU SORRY SONS OF BITCHES?! I DID INDEED FEEL BETTER IN THE MORNING AND I WENT ON A THREE MILE RUN!

And then I wanted to die.

And now I’m seriously sick.

And I’ve probably said “I’m gonna feel better aaaaaaany time now” about six hundred times, and it still hasn’t worked.

And TFW keeps mocking me for all the times I said I never get sick.

HELP!!!!!!

At least Bubba is well again: