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Are you there God? It’s me, Beth, about to go all Abraham up in here. #winesday @scarymommy

May 22, 2019 by Beth

Dear God:

I just want to thank you for all the times that speaking your name and that of your son has helped me not to murder MY son.

You know which one. Dominic. It’s always Dominic.

This child tests me every damn day.

  • He has barely turned in any school work this whole year but won’t take responsibility.
  • He asks questions but won’t listen to the answers. (Then gets mad because he doesn’t know what is going on.)
  • He refuses to do what he is told but wants rewards.

Dominic is supposed to be putting together the shelves he is using as a pillow. (Meanwhile, his brother put together an entire bed by himself.) Then this slacker had the nerve to ask to be paid. He wanted $30!

He is about to go out of town with his father, brother, aunt and uncle. I secured the tickets a month ago based on his aunt’s instructions. He didn’t pay any attention, of course. So when I reminded him this week, he lost his mind.

My reaction?

This line really gets me:

He genuinely thinks this is my fault, not his. Does not understand cause and effect, actions and consequences.

What’s worse is that his teacher is the wife of one of my colleagues. So his poor performance — in language arts no less — is a smidge embarrassing for me.

He wasn’t done. But I was.

You know what else I don’t like? His Gen Z abbreviations. No wonder he is sucking so hard in language arts.

Perhaps it is Dominic who should be calling on you for assistance.

Your Obedient Servant,
Beth

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Descent into the fourth circle of Hell, aka IKEA #SundaySale #SundayNotSoFunday

May 19, 2019 by Beth

Dear IKEA:

I love you. I hate you. I love to hate you. I hate to love you.

Eddie and I entered you to get stuff to furnish an investment property. Let’s call this place a charming, evocative name — a name like “El Pozo De Dinero.”

It will, we hope, be Eddie’s primary source of income this summer.

We had to get so much. But the quantity of necessary items was inversely proportional to my amount of patience.

I lost my will to live in the lighting section.

You didn’t care. You still made me trek through bath fixtures, throw pillows and plants to taste freedom.

I have so many questions:

  1. Why don’t you have the entrance on the main floor?
  2. Why don’t you have carts on the second floor where the showroom begins?
  3. Why don’t you have any staff on the floor?
  4. Why do you have to snake through the entire damn place to get from entrance to exit?
  5. Why can’t you get out of the café without going through the whole place again?
  6. Why won’t you open another register when you have 637 people in line?

Eddie contemplates death in one of only two checkout lanes open.

Even your oft-heralded meatballs are not enough to erase the memory of this torture.

We’re not done, though, so I’ll see you in a week or so.

Your best enemy,
Beth

Posted in Apartment life | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments »

Houston, we have a problem. #humpday (for real)

May 15, 2019 by Beth

Dear Biofreeze:

I just want to say thanks. You are the only thing keeping me going at the moment.

Every year, I get a pinched nerve in my neck. Just once a year. It’s weird, I know, but it has been happening like clockwork since I was in college.

And for a couple of days, I walk around like Quasimodo.

Felt cute. Might delete later.

My former go-to remedy was this amazing balm I bought in France. But when I opened it up this time, I discovered it had liquefied. Ick.

Sometimes my pinched nerve resolves itself in a day or so. When it doesn’t, my next step is massage therapy.

“Houston” (really) tried to help me yesterday. During the massage, he shared with me all of his knowledge about the various muscle groups and trigger points and fascia and the arm bone connected to the blah blah blah. The guy would not shut up.

(Seriously, though: Please don’t try to chat during my massage. I’m not paying you to talk.)

It didn’t help. Biofreeze, you got me through the night.

I finally cried “Uncle!” and went to the the chiropractor.

Dr. Eric practically wrung me out like a dishrag accompanied by sounds like a pine log on a fire.

I assume I’ll feel better soon.

In the meantime, you are making movement manageable.

Gratefully,
Beth

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Ode to mothers everywhere: It’s a tough job, but we have to do it #mothersday

May 12, 2019 by Beth

Dear Fellow Moms:

Today I celebrate you. Actually, I celebrate you year-round. After all, you and I work our asses off every day, not just one Hallmark holiday.

I’m also celebrating you because, chances are, your family is not. If you are like me, you are the one in your house who plans the events, gets the cards and gifts, wraps them, and makes sure they get where they need to go.

Also, if you are like me, you recognize that no one is going to step up and do it for you for any holiday.

So, like me, you have to take care of yourself.

This is why I go to New York every year for my birthday. Alone.

Eddie doesn’t have to worry about planning or buying anything. He’s happy.

I get to be by myself, eat what and when I want to, go where I want to go, and have peace. I’m happy.

Last year, I stayed in bed for half of one day, drinking red wine and watching a “Friends” marathon. It was fanfreakintastic. (Could it BE any better?)

I return with patience restored. (And shopping bags, but that’s another story.)

Everyone wins.

My family “celebrated” Mother’s Day last Sunday because they forgot when it actually was. I came home to this:

It’s thoughtful, yes, but let’s take a closer look.

Do any of you really want to be called the “boss?”

That aside, let’s take a peek inside the card.

That’s Gideon, who usually is the nice one.

Here’s the other weighing in:

Perfect sentiment, even down to the signature. Dominic actually does have some self awareness after all!

Anyway, Happy Mother’s Day from one beleaguered mom to another.

I’ll raise a glass (or seven) to you.

Love,
Beth

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Not to make waves, but SHUT UP! #WorkoutWednesday

May 8, 2019 by Beth

 

United States Olympic Training Center this ain’t.

Dear H2Oldsters,*

Now that I’ve lost the equivalent of nine five-pound bags of sugar (!), it’s time to firm up what remains. Taking on those wobbly bits means I take on water — aerobics in the YMCA pool.

Why that and not some other group exercise class?

  1. I don’t like to sweat.
  2. It’s easier on the joints.
  3. I feel like a badass when I can do all the exercises you can’t.

Sorry. (Not sorry.)

Yes, I’m about 30-40 years younger than you. Wet behind the ears, even. (Yuk, yuk. Sorry. I am sorry.)

But it isn’t that.

Here’s the thing:
I bet you COULD do all the exercises if you would SHUT YOUR BIG YAPPERS and try.

Elderly avengers assemble!

From the moment you get in the pool, you do not stop talking. The class begins, you keep at it. People like me who are there to GET STUFF DONE have to swim around you.

Why you gotta be like that?

For real: Why are you there? Why bother putting on a bathing suit? Just meet the other crones at Starbucks or whatever. Or hang out in the Y lobby and chat. There are comfy couches there. Easy on the bones.

At the very least, go to the other end of the pool.

If you do, all this will be water under the bridge. (Sorry. I can’t help it. It’s too easy.)

Yours through hell and high water,
Beth

* Come on! That’s a little funny, no?

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Irritant, thy name is Dominic: The retainer tale #SundayRead

May 5, 2019 by Beth

Dear Dominic,

Yes, I’m writing to you again. Yes, it’s because you are driving me crazy. Again.

Want me to stop writing about you? Stop being a buffoon.

You had your new retainer for exactly a week. Then you threw it away with trash on your lunch tray.

No big deal, right? Call the orthodontist and ask for a replacement.

Oh, it IS a big deal. Here’s a timeline of why:

Friday, April 19: Braces off. There is much rejoicing.

Friday, April 26: The incident. (What were you thinking? Expensive retainer? Who needs that old thing?)

Monday, April 29: I call the orthodontist in Savannah — four hours away — where you completed your braces plan. “Oh, we don’t keep those molds. We need him to come in to get a new impression.” Not happening.

So I call the orthodontist on our health plan in Atlanta at the location that is closest to us. There is no answer. All day.

Tuesday, April 30: Resume calling. Finally get a voice mailbox. Leave message.

Wednesday, May 1: Call again. Get human who says the orthodontist is only in that location on Tuesdays and every other Thursday. What the flock? Human says we can take our chances during walk-in hours early Thursday morning in a different part of Atlanta.

Side note: Shall I remind you that Atlanta traffic is so bad that a five-mile journey might require us to tune up our car and pack a lunch?

Thursday, May 2: Wake up before dawn to make it to the walk-in appointment first. Beg the people to get you in and out quickly so you can make it to school. Your grades are not good enough for a day away from instruction. They make an impression — of your lower teeth. Why didn’t you tell them you needed the top instead? I had to tell them. Come on, Dominic!

They tell me to come back in the afternoon to pick up the finished product. So I battle rush-hour traffic to get there. Yet, they will not give me the retainer. They need to try it out on you.

For the love of God.

Couldn’t someone have told us this during the morning visit? I wasted 1.5 hours driving. Yay for the My Favorite Murder podcast. (Stay sexy, and chain your kid’s retainer to his body.)

Friday, May 3: Wake up before dawn to meet “Zane” at the orthodontist location closest to us. How dare you be cranky because I rushed you to get out the door on time! Don’t make me use what I learned via MFM.

Here you are with your new $200 retainer on your $3,000 smile. The sign indicates my feeling about all this business.

Don’t ever doubt my love for you. The fact that you are still breathing after all this should be proof enough.

If you lose this retainer, I’m going to make you earn the money to replace it by cleaning my car with your toothbrush.

I’m serious.

Try me.

Love and kisses,
Your out-of-patience mother

 

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Show me the money! #WinItWednesday (Warning: #GoTS8E3 reference)

May 1, 2019 by Beth

Dear Lottery God:

My chicken sacrifices to you are getting nowhere. (Granted, they are of the grocery cutlet variety — I’m not a monster — but still.)

So I’m making this public plea.

My family and I need your help.

Our savings have been wiped out as fast as the Dothraki horde in the Battle of Winterfell.

Why? Here’s a short list:

1. A replacement retainer for Dominic. Yes, already. He had the new retainer for exactly a week before throwing it away with his lunch trash at school. [HEAVY SIGH]

2. New shoes for Dominic. He now wears a size 11. 11! At the age of 14. You saw the photos from my last post. Puberty, thou art a bitch to the budget.

3. Income taxes. Effing Pat.

4. Truck-repair expenses. Eddie’s truck is 16 years old. That’s about 112 years in our capitalist, material culture. But I’d rather fix it than take on a car payment and higher ad-valorem taxes. Call me old fashioned.

5. A speeding ticket. Don’t yell at me that this is my own fault. I promise I wasn’t speeding — I was on my way to see some important people perform in Athens but I was driving in heavy traffic! (It’s Atlanta, after all.) I disputed the ticket, but the Chamblee Municipal Court judge was not having it. I shouldn’t have even tried. She tacked on $50 extra to the fine because I had the nerve to go to court instead of paying outright. Harumph.

Those who say “money can’t buy happiness” must already have money. I promise I would do good things with the winnings. I’d send some family and friends on well-deserved vacations, fund important initiatives for others, give money to my four alma maters for student scholarships.

Oh yeah, and buy a villa in Spain on the Mediterranean. You know. As you do.

May the odds be ever in my favor.

Thank you for your consideration in this matter (and for helping me stop wasting broilers),
Beth

 

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Becoming a not-so-fat-bottomed girl (#SpotlightSunday on my de-whaling journey)

April 28, 2019 by Beth

Dear Trish,

Hope you and Irv are doing well. I miss seeing you on a regular basis, trying new beers, playing Cranium, and complaining about Ed.

I do want to take this opportunity to say thank you for inviting me to your wedding. It turned out to be the catalyst for an important journey for me.

I didn’t realize quite how fat I was until I couldn’t squeeze into the dress I brought to Sedona for your big day. This dress had always been my go-to dress. (Full disclosure: It’s a maternity dress. It doesn’t look like a maternity dress. Nothing maternity about it except that it has an empire waist. I just like it because it’s a pretty green silk.)

But I had a rude awakening when I was getting ready for your event.

Houston, we have a problem.

The dress must have shrunk at the drycleaner, right?

My Spanx waved the white flag.

I’m sorry I ruined all your wedding photos trying desperately to either avoid the camera or hide behind my children.

Look here. Dominic is not large enough to cover me:Let’s take a closer look:

Yes, yes, I know this is counter to the whole body-positivity movement. But let’s be honest: We all know when we are not the size we should be.

No one wants to feel like their seams are screaming.

The week I got back, I went out to dinner with my friend Kim. She had dropped 30 pounds and looked great. We have the same feelings about diets and working out (i.e., hate them with a white-hot passion). She shared her secret (and I will too if anyone wants to DM me), and I was off and running immediately.

I started my program the last week of September. This week, I hit my goal weight.

I’ve lost 45 pounds. That’s like losing a first grader.

And three dress sizes for me.

Here I am in the wedding-attendance dress that I now need to have altered. (Dominic has changed considerably too.)

Here’s the side-by-side before-and-after image for your viewing pleasure.

And here’s one of me the day I started this journey next to how I look today.

I feel so much better about myself.

It’s not a physical thing — I could always do stairs and whatnot.

It’s a mental thing. Being about to reach deep into the back of the closet and grab pre-kid jeans? That’s some real joy right there.

This is not PC (Kate Moss even regrets saying it), but it’s true for me:

Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.

So thanks, Trish. Inadvertently, you started me on a better path.

Congratulations on your eight-month anniversary coming up.

Your not-so-fat friend,
Beth

 

 

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File under “never again”: Career Day #thursdaythoughts

April 25, 2019 by Beth

Dear Ms. Tiffany,

Thank you for contacting me regarding Career Day at the boys’ middle school. Here is my answer:

Last year’s experience was plenty for me, in that it was terrible, and I will never do it again. It was worse than Field Day at their elementary school. (Note to those who just subscribed to this blog: Please follow that link, and read the post. It’s one of my favorites, in a laugh-to-keep-from-crying kind of way.)

I spoke to four classes of sixth and seventh graders. No one cared about my current job at a university. They cared marginally more about my freelance work as a TV meteorologist and writer.

In my younger son’s class, his teacher didn’t even introduce me. She was too busy checking Facebook at the back of the room.

No one even made eye contact with me in two of the classes. It was like I was screaming into the Fortnite, hormone-filled void.

My older son’s class was the best. His teacher gave me a great intro, and his peers asked plenty of questions. Later, Dominic said he didn’t tell anyone his mom would be one of the speakers, which sounds about right.

But then, one of his friends turned to him and complimented my hindquarters.

(Hormones.)

Dominic told me he said, “DUDE, that’s my MOM!”

What can I tell you? I’m a hit with 13-14 year olds. Lucky me.

But the adoration of prepubescent males is still not enough to make me endure another Career Day.

I wish you all the best in your search for speakers.
Beth

 

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The weekend with a 14 year old: A dramedy in three parts/moods

April 22, 2019 by Beth

Dear Dominic:

There’s nothing that brings people closer than a road trip. I’m glad we had this weekend together, though it did not start off well. You seem to have three moods: angry, goofy and asleep.

The first was fully on display on the way down to Savannah so you could finally (FINALLY) get your braces off. If I hadn’t grabbed your phone, rolled down the window, and threatened to throw it out, I’m sure you would have stayed in attitude mode the whole damn weekend.

I think you are angry so much because you need more sleep. Your prefrontal cortex isn’t developed yet, so you haven’t figured out why a regular bedtime is a good thing. Let me show you some pictures that illustrate just how freakin’ tired you are.

 

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And because you are tired, you have no energy and move slower than a snail.

Here I am, waiting 30 minutes for you to be ready to leave Tammy’s house for the orthodontist.

Maybe it was the excitement of getting your braces off, but suddenly your funny side emerged. I tried to take a “before” picture of you. You didn’t like this one, saying you looked challenged. (Not your word. Yours was a non-PC one that I’ve asked you repeatedly not to use.)


You didn’t like this one either, saying you looked like you had witnessed a murder but were trying to pretend like you hadn’t.

But these two photos passed muster. You look great with your new smile.

Maybe that’s why you tolerated my happy hour with Bingo/Goat Yoga Lisa so well.

At any rate, it was a turning point that lasted the rest of the weekend. I came home early from Ladies Night Out because I had fallen and hit my head. You actually showed concern:

And you even wanted to take a nice photo with me yesterday.


So what do I have to do to get you to be like this all the time?

What’s the secret?

For the love of God, please tell me. I’ll be straight: Angry Dominic might find himself shipped off to boarding school.

Don’t try me.

Love you!
Mama

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