That's Not a Mint, Moron!

Today I'm dusting off a gem that I first penned as a guest post on my friend Travis's HILARIOUS blog, I Like to Fish. If my opinion of his comedic genius doesn't influence you to go check him out, perhaps this photo of him will (he's the one on the right):

You're on your way to his blog right after this, right? 

I thought so.

Anyway. Please enjoy the story of how I almost made a complete fool of myself at a fancy restaurant. *curtsy*

I come from a small, rural Midwestern town. And by “small” I mean no stoplights, a couple of cops, less-than-40-people-in-my-graduating-class small. The cows far outnumber the residents. When you’re late getting somewhere, it’s because you were stuck behind a tractor. So you can imagine what a culture shock it was when I moved to … wait for it … Las Vegas.

I know. What’s a country bumpkin sweet small-town girl like me doing in big, crazy Las Vegas, right? Well, I blame the government. My husband Curtis was in the Air Force at the time, and the military stationed us there, at Nellis Air Force Base. So we called it home for three (very interesting) years.

When your beginnings are as backwoods redneck humble as mine, and you somehow end up in the presence of cosmopolitan, city-fied peeps, you end up doing a lot of pretending. Like, you see things that would normally make your mouth hang open, but you just act all nonchalant like, “Oh really? I didn’t even notice that one-armed prostitute kicking the crap out of the homeless guy with the NEED MONEY FOR BOOZE sign.” You pretend certain situations are old hat – even when they’re anything but – just to avoid looking like the naïve and un-worldly dork that you actually are.

  

Anyway, the reason I tell you this is because while we lived in Vegas, I landed a sweet gig writing for a local magazine that catered to the upscale. It was direct-mailed to the wealthiest households in town. I had a monthly feature called “Hotspot,” for which I got to review some of the fanciest, priciest restaurants in town. Awwww yeeeeahhh.

The very first time I did a restaurant review, I had no friggin’ clue what to expect – but I put on my most beautiful dress ($19.99 at Charlotte Russe, y'all) and hoped for the best. It was a little unnerving when the valet guy parked our (used) Jeep whose front passenger window may have been held up with pieces of wadded up paper jammed into the frame amid Ferraris and other pricey sports cars, but we went in with our heads held high like we always went to places like this.

When a restaurant knows you’re the person who’ll be reviewing them in a magazine, they pull out all the stops, which is all kinds of awesome. It took all the self-restraint I had not to jump up and down and squeal when I saw “VIP” penciled in beside my name in the reservation book. I mean, me? A VIP at a fancy restaurant? I laugh hysterically at fart jokes and can blow a snot rocket further than anyone I know (be jealous). If only they knew.

The meal was out-of-this-world. We ordered everything from appetizers to dessert – it was all free. I had scallops on a bed of illuminated rock salt and a frosty, multicolored martini that emanated wisps of “steam” from a chunk of dry ice. Fabulous. The executive chef even came to our table to chat, bringing with him a jaw-droppingly expensive platter of Kobe beef medallions, explaining how everything was prepared. And through it all, I was silently congratulating myself on appearing like I was accustomed to dining in such a luxurious establishment. 

Go Ri-ta, go Ri-ta.

At the end of the meal, our waitress brought a little squeegee over to the table and cleared off the crumbs. Then she put down a platter of mints. They reminded me of Altoids, just slightly bigger: white, round, compact little tablets.

I was just reaching for one of the mints when, to my horror, the waitress poured water over them. And then – it was amazing – those little “mints” magically transformed. Just a little water was all they needed to bloom into huge ... white ... 

... napkins. 

  

I had been thisclose to putting one in my mouth.

Let that sink in: I almost ate a napkin at a fancy restaurant, y’all.

To this day, I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t reach for the “mint” more quickly. I could have really made a major fool out of myself. I can just picture the entire restaurant of rich people laughing at me as a napkin exploded forth from my mouth. “Riffraff,” they’d say, and then throw me out on my impostor-ous posterior. (That’s rich-people words for butt.)

Gourmet meal at a fine dining establishment: $230

Not eating your napkin by accident: priceless.




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Mundane Mother's Day!

So as you know if you a.) watch TV, b.) read the newspaper, c.) use social media, or d.) have - or are - a mom, yesterday was Mother's Day.

After my fancy champagne brunch and manicure, pedicure, and massage at the spa, I took a long, uninterrupted nap - then woke to a huge bouquet of flowers, a gorgeous and shiny new mother's ring, and sweet handmade cards from my children. Then we all went out to a nice dinner, where the boys were exceptionally well behaved and just couldn't stop talking about what a great mommy I am. When we got home, Curtis bathed the kids and put them to sleep while I took a bubble bath, slipped into bed, and got lost in a good novel.

Oh wait - that was my fantasy Mother's Day. Bahahaha! I'm lucky if I get to poop with the door closed on Mother's Day, let alone have that many luxuries crammed into one 24-hour period.

It might not have been full of celebration and pampering (side note: does anybody else hate that word? Pampering? It just reminds me of diapers), but my Mother's Day was actually pretty decent - if a little bit mundane. First of all, Colin has just learned to use the toaster, so he proudly made me breakfast in bed:

When I say "learned to use the toaster," I mean that he learned to put the waffle in and push the little handle down to get it toasting. I must have failed, however, to show him the dial that controls how brown you want your toast ... which is why my waffle was barely above frozen. But whatever. He used a mini cookie cutter to cut it into the shape of a heart (that's the stack at the top of plate) and wrote "MOM" in syrup.*

*Getting it all over the counter in the process and then trying to clean it up which resulted in a sticky mess with little bits of paper towel stuck throughout the syrupy smudge. Which I had to clean up later.

Curtis cleaned out our garage, which was so full of crap that it required an industrial-sized dumpster - so obviously, this is a task that's been on my "honey-do" list for quite some time. Meanwhile, I stayed inside and cooked a fat-girl lunch (fried morel mushrooms, collard greens and blackeyed peas, cornbread, and sweet tea - my country roots were showing, y'all) and put all the kids' winter clothes in storage for the season. Plus mediated a screaming, knock-down drag-out squabble over ... wait for it ... a plastic fork. And I did get to run to the store for milk and eggs without the kids.

Aw yeah.

While "my special day" may not have been over-the-top or extraordinary, it was productive, and that feels good. As always, I sent out an extra-special heartfelt prayer for those who are suffering from infertility and those who have lost their babies and those who have lost their moms. And Curtis came up to me while I was cooking and gave me a big hug and told me how much he appreciates everything I do for him and the kids.

That might've been prompted by the gargantuan midday meal I was preparing - I know the way to my man's heart - but hey. I'll take compliments (and cold waffles) where I can.

I hope you had a great Mother's Day!

(For more mediocre posts from Mother's Days past, click here and here.)

Don't Let the Flowers Fool Ya

If you've got school-aged kids, or are a teacher yourself, I'm sure you're aware that this was Teacher Appreciation Week.

I appreciate my sons' teachers immensely. Of course I do. After all, they take the kids off my hands every day are responsible for much of the kids' education. They put up with quirks that make even me grind my teeth. And they do it with a smile, while simultaneously dealing with twenty other quirky kids: something I could never, ever, ever, ever, ever - did I mention ever? - do. (And while being underpaid to do it? No thanks.)

Teachers, man. They're practically saints.

So last Friday we got a piece of paper from the school saying that for Teacher Appreciation Week, the kids should bring one item each day. Monday was candy. Tuesday was fruit. Wednesday was a handmade card. Thursday was office supplies. And today - Friday - was a flower.

Despite my mad pinning of cutesy crafty things on Pinterest, there was no actual cutesy craftiness going on up in here. Because Curtis was out of town all week and it was all I could do to feed and dress and bathe and clothe and attend to homework and such all by myself ... let alone do anything extra-fancy for the kids' teachers. If circumstances had been different, perhaps the big bags of Rolos I sent on Monday would have had, say, an adorable little card saying something like "You're On a Roll-O" or at least "Thanks for Putting Up With My Kid." Or the apples I sent on Tuesday would have had, like, ribbons tied around the stems.

But ... no.

This has been such a hectic week that I forgot, until this morning, that today was bring-a-flower day. Because, you see, it's also Beach Day in Colin's class and I was busy scraping together an outfit that's a.) beachy but b.) also works when it's fifty degrees and rainy because that's how it is today. And locating his sunglasses and a beach towel which was, for some reason, crammed inside the caddy that carries all my vacuum attachments. (WTF?) Anyway, that pretty much took up all of my mom-brain capacity this morning.

So when Cameron was like, "Hey Mommy! What's today's Teacher Appreciation gift?" and looked at me all eagerly, I was like, "........??" *blink blink*

Flowers. Must find flowers. 

Since it's spring, you'd think flowers would be easy to come by. But the flowers in my flowerbed aren't blooming yet because the weather has been a real asshole. I did swipe a few lovely sprigs of lilac from the park the other day (hey, it was a big bush, there were plenty), but they've long since withered.

Then my eyes fell on the bouquet on my kitchen table.

Weeks ago - I'm talking almost a month - Curtis went to the store one Saturday morning to pick up some ingredients for French toast, and he came back with a sweet little bouquet of brightly dyed flowers for me. To show you, and give you an idea of just how long these suckas have lasted, here's a picture of them from back when I wrote the play-dough post. Remember that? Yeah, these are some old flowers.

Unlike me, they look good for their age.

Anyway, the paper from school didn't say "bring your teacher a huge fancy bouquet of flowers." It simply said, "Flower." Indicating one single flower. So I grabbed my bouquet and picked out the freshest of the bunch. They were beginning to brown and curl a little bit on the underside, so I trimmed off the older petals. Good as new! ... Practically. For Colin's teacher, there was a big purple-and-pink bloom. It was like four inches across. For Cameron's teacher, three blue-and-white daisies.

So I shuttled them off to school. And when I pulled up in the dropoff lane, there were tons of other kids bringing flowers too.

Bouquets of flowers.

Big bouquets of flowers.

With ribbons. 

Curly ribbons.

And fancy tissue paper.

Probably no one else's kid brought used, month-old, single flowers that their mom trimmed the dead parts off of.

But hey ... I suppose it's better than nothing, right?

(Which is, coincidentally, what I sent yesterday because I wasn't going to drag four kids into the store to buy office supplies. Ugh. I'm such a horrible failure as a conscientious parent sometimes.)

I hope the boys' teachers know that despite the barrage of crappy gifts I've sent this week, we do appreciate them. Like, a lot. And that it's really the thought that counts. And that I was acting as a single parent this week and I'm losing my mind and I'm just not crafty and creative, dammit.

Maybe I'll write them a poem.

Pinterest Houses vs. My House: a Poem

The home of my dreams is immaculate, clean;

An abode where the rooms are all fresh and pristine. 

Free of all manner of cluttery hoards,

Like these that I've pinned on my Pinterest boards:

But when I was blessed with my bundles of joy,

It so happened that I received multiple boys.

Boys expertly generate dirt and debris

And couldn't care less where they aim when they pee.

So as far as a house that is lovely and gleaming?

It appears that I'll just have to keep up the dreaming.

'Cause the bedrooms are strewn with shirts, pants, and socks

And my counters are littered with wrappers and blocks.

The carpet, at one time, was kind of okay

But now all the beige is more of a gray.

With streaking and stains and dark patches galore

Thanks to the kids spilling crap on the floor.

And my bedroom? I'd love it all spruced-up and tidy,

But the presence of children and pets is too mighty.

The bed's stripped down right now, and I'll spare you the deets;

Let's just say somebody peed on my sheets.

Lest we forget, or blame it all on the kids,

Check out what my non-clean-freak husband just did.

He trimmed up his face-pubes all over the sink

Then "cleaned" it by "rinsing" (so he seems to think):

For the next eighteen years I'll be scrubbing and sweeping

And looking at Pinterest and bitterly weeping

It's pointless to wish, with the fam's constant sabotage ... 

Maybe I'll re-do my decor in camoflage?