Breezy's Mommy

Etsy is like Craig’s List?

2013-03-22T16:13:00.000-07:00

Yeah. So I decided to give Etsy a whirl. Quickly I discovered that it’s not just your average crafty mom, (the ones who are crocheting huge baby head pieces with large pink flowers) that are looking at your Etsy page.

So, when I made a small sale of some Spanish teaching stuff, It didn't even occur to me that I could be communicating with a violent criminal. It was a whole predatory scam, just to meet and contact women. I sent my product to their address, and got it back with a huge stamp on it saying that I needed their inmate number... Great!

I didn’t realize that Etsy is a bit like Craig’s list… except instead of abused furniture and shady apartments for sublet, its upcycled children’s clothing and monogrammed mom jewelry.

I knew that Craig’s List was a place for serial killers to schmooze their way into your home, but Etsy? Don’t they specialize in moms who sell other moms their homemade crafty wares? Like cozy knitted scarves and sticky wall murals and vintage crap made into oversized bags? Is there nowhere safe to do e-commerce?

Here are a few tips to avoid getting stalked by an inmate on Etsy.

1. No pictures of yourself. Anywhere on the site. You might not need to be told this. However, if you are like me, where pastel web design lures you into a false sense of security, you need this spelled out for you.

2. Just clicking the button that says “female” on your profile really is all it takes to excite the lonely inmate… so don’t do that.

3. Use a fake name – whitepages.com is a bitch.

4. Get a P.O. Box… for all the obvious reasons.

So let’s say you’ve made contact with a lonely inmate.

1. When they start begging you to call them on their phone during their allotted payphone time, cancel your account.

2. Have your mom phone harrass their social worker, to find out exactly how violent they are, when they’re getting out and if they are allowed into your state. (Thanks, Mom!)

3. Start thinking about who is going to star as you, when this whole thing goes to pot and Lifetime purchases the rights to your story. “The Etsy Killer; Crafty Moms, Monogrammed Jewelry and Murder”

I guess I just don’t think like a lonely inmate. Where, instead of match.com or e-harmony, I would try to find “the one” by creating an Etsy account and feigning an interest in beginner level Spanish worksheets for middle schoolers. It just seems like a roundabout way to find love.

Then again, don't knock it til you've tried it?

An Untellable Truth that all Moms Share.

2013-03-14T11:51:00.000-07:00

Walking into the gym today, I happened to meet up with a mom friend I see from time to time. From this point forward, I will refer to her as “Mom Friend I See from Time to Time at the Gym”. We both had the same disheveled appearance that could only mean one thing – The aftermath of daylight savings time when children are involved.

We hopped on side by side treadmills and began to trudge along.

Maybe it was our mutual exhaustion. Maybe we didn’t have enough coffee this morning. Maybe it was because we were forced watch this guy on a treadmill directly in front of us slowly lose his pants due to excessive sweat. His butt crack, ever so slowly, escaping from his sport shorts. Whatever it was, we bridged a gap between us today. We told an untellable truth that all moms share.

We were both wearing yoga pants we had slept in.

How this came to be known was due to a blurt I happened to blurt out. It is possible that if I wasn’t living an hour into the future, I wouldn’t have said it. However, it just popped out of my mouth.

Perhaps, “Mom Friend I See from Time to Time at the Gym” on a normal time day wouldn’t have offered up the same truth. She might have acted horrified and laughed at me for my unkemptness. She might have very well tossed her hair over her shoulders, in ridicule and disgust. Instead she shrugged and said, “Me too. And I’m going to Target after this.”

This leads me to believe that if I’m doing it… If “Mom Friend I See from Time to Time at the Gym” does it… then who else is doing it? Hmmm?

I can't seem to figure out if this makes me feel less skuzzy or more skuzzy.

My Cat Loves it When I’m Sick

2013-03-07T16:02:00.002-08:00

So I came down with a nasty little bug this morning, and the most beautiful thing happened. No one wanted to be near me.

They high tailed it out of there, the moment they saw my green face. I was left alone, with a gallon of Gatorade and the remote control. Oh yeah. What’s a little stomach bug when I get to watch whatever I want on TV? And at least when I’m puking in the bathroom, no one is “keeping me company” while I do it. I get to sleep! Sure, it is a fitful feverish crazy dream sleep where I wake up feeling like death is upon me, but it is uninterrupted.

The cats are thrilled. For them it is an ideal day. The little noisy human is gone, they sense my weakness and they get to lie all over me. They get to do that thing, that weird cat thing, where they bite my hair and kind of mold it into a pillow for them to sleep in. I never let them do that when I’m healthy enough to shoo them away. I also let them drink my Gatorade.

I cannot believe I’ve lived this long without seeing some of these Lifetime movies. These are classics. Here are a few that I would say are “Must See”:

Co-Ed Call Girl – Tori Spelling is a struggling college student who can’t find any part-time work to support herself, so instead of putting in some hours at the mall like the rest of us did, she is becomes a high-end prostitute. Fascinating points of the movie– Tori’s hair is very very blonde. Moral of the story – Men are bad.

To Be Fat Like Me – This is a very serious movie, where Kaley Cuoco (pre- Big Bang Theory) stars as a popular skinny girl who decides to dress up in a hysterically comical fat suit and video document her struggles during summer school. Fascinating point of the movie- the fat suit looks like a sumo wrestler fat suit, but is somehow convincing to everyone around her. Moral of the story – Men are bad.

She’s Too Young – A goody two shoes high school girl gets a venereal disease! So shocking. Fascinating point of the movie – Throwback! It was made ten years ago and the high school kids all use instant messaging. Moral of story – Men are bad, even in high school.

As the end of the day draws near, I will eventually be reunited with the people I live with. They will greet me in the same clothes they left me in, but surrounded by tissues, cats sleeping in my hair, half empty glasses of Gatorade and germs. Lots of germs.

The cats will give them irritated looks, as they slink off to retreat to higher ground so as to avoid the little human they dislike so much. Thanks to the Lifetime Movie Network, I will be slightly more of a feminist than when they left me in the early morning. The cats and I will have bonded.

Get Your Floppy Newborn in a Rose off Facebook, Please.

2013-02-28T12:05:00.000-08:00

What is up with these photos of newborns all crumpled up and sleeping in a flower? Do you know what I’m referring to? It’s those photos, where brand new babies are photographed in a flower.

They are naked. The picture is always in “sepia”. The edges are all airbrushed. They are all over Facebook.

Listen. I don’t want to see your crumpled up newborn, flopped over and sleeping in a rosebud. Or a bed of pansies, or daisies or whatever you think is effervescent and metaphorical of the new innocent life experience you are witnessing when you look at them.

These pictures make me nervous. I was told that babies needed head support and to be kept warm. No one ever said it was okay to get them naked and prop them up in an Easter basket so that you had that perfect photo for your scrapbook collection.

Not safe.

It was one thing when these pictures just appeared in coffee table books, but now I have to see them every time I look at the newsfeed in my Facebook? Seriously?

Why are they always wearing huge headpieces, of a flower? Why are they in odd places, ones where you’d normally get a visit from CPS if you kept your baby there. Like a bed of yarn. Or a wicker laundry basket. Or in a burlap sack. Or the top of a freakin’ bed of roses.

Freaking me out.

I don’t know. Having said all that, newborns propped up next to cats are okay.

Bre and Rowy.

2013-02-17T16:15:00.003-08:00

Always works for me...

Mom Jeans and Other Horrors from a Wardrobe Gone Mom.

2013-02-15T17:09:00.002-08:00

Today when I was getting dressed a realization hit me hard. I was wearing Mom Jeans. It came to me as I was zipping up the fly. The zipper kind of pinched my belly button, and that’s when I had the following interior monologue,

“Hmm. Why does this zipper go past my belly button? Hey, this is a really long zipper, oh my God. These are Mom Jeans. NOOOOOOOOOO!”

I stared up at the sky, and continued to scream in agony. Rain fell, an indie song started to play, and my hair got really wet and stringy. Yes, that is exactly how it happened.

After I calmed down a bit I had to reflect. I had bought these jeans a year ago. I have been wearing them often. How had I not noticed this? Looking in the mirror I saw all the Mom Jeans characteristics in full display. Long butt. Very long zipper. Extremely high waist. Very large pockets.

What else in my wardrobe has been mommed out? I was at peace with my Mom Bag situation. However, now I had to look into my closet with a new perspective, and give myself a reality check on what other mom outfits needed to go.

Hey you. Why are you here little guy? Why did I buy you? Is there a reason I felt compelled to buy something that kept my body warm but my arms cold? When have I ever complained of really hot arms, but a really cold torso? OOO you are fleece. I think that all that cat hair enhances your appearance.

Oh my God. Are you sneakers? Are you shoes? WHAT ARE YOU? You are freakin’ comfortable that’s what you are. Do I wear you with socks? Because that’s what I’ve been doing. Wearing socks with you, nice fluffy white socks.

Hey guys! Ahhh… remember when we first saw each other? It was right after the baby was born. Nothing fit me, but you did. You never judged me. Oh yes, you’re fleece too. I must have been in a fleece stage or something? Anyway, why are you periwinkle?

Oh you are so tricky! Full of surprises. No one would ever know that you are ONE shirt… a sweater over a fitted blouse, that’s what they think you are. But oh no… you are not. Very classy.

Yeah, you just say it all, don’t you? “I am not getting dressed today. I just want to be left alone, with a Lifetime movie on and a box of something chocolaty.” This was also bought off QVC, which makes it all the more awesome.

Who am I fooling? I am not throwing any of these golden staples of my wardrobe away. That just isn’t happening. These things are kind of like “Mom” herself, cozy, non-judgmental, cuddly, a bit unfashionable but always loveable. And even though I will try to stop wearing them in public, the truth is, I probably won’t. In fact, I’m wearing my periwinkle fleece pants right now.

Just Sayin’… The Bachelor Looks Like that Show, Sister Wives

2013-02-12T16:34:00.001-08:00

Watching The Bachelor on ABC has really made me wonder if I’m actually watching a better version of the TLC show, Sister Wives. He seems to really love all of them constantly, all the girls really get along well, and they talk about him all the time.

I’m pretty sure that isn’t their intention, since all they ever blab on and on about is love and one love and true love and being in love and metaphors about love. How love is like a rock climbing, parasailing, scuba diving, cooking, running, helicopter rides, picnicking, hot-tubbing, sneezing, peeing, etc.

However this week, when I saw the previews for the “hometown” dates, I got confused. Why does the bachelor always have to ask each of the dads for his “blessing”? Did anyone (besides a polygamist) really have 4 girls that they wanted to marry at the same time?

After I was confused, I got angry. Who the hell are you, Sean, to go and ask some poor dad for his blessing when you are dating THREE OTHER WOMEN!

How come the crazy “villan” girl always has the most valid points? Valid points if you are shooting for a monogamist relationship anyway. They really paint her out to be cray cray, when all she is saying that she hates all the other women who are dating her boyfriend. Shouldn’t you hate other women who are dating your boyfriend? That sounds like an okay feeling.

Then they always pan the camera back to the women, who are in their pajamas, eating, bitching about the girl with the valid points, no make-up, hair all floppy. They look exactly like I do when I am watching the Bachelor. I think that hanging out with each other looks like fun, maybe even more fun than hanging out with Sean.

I want to ask Sean if he’s even seen that show, Sister Wives. They seem to make it work.

Just sayin’.

A Letter to People Who Hate Children in Restaurants.

2013-02-08T12:11:00.000-08:00

Dear Crotchety People in restaurants,

I saw you cringe when my husband, daughter and I entered the restaurant and the hostess led us to the booth behind you. I know you were wondering why I brought a Princess Tiana backpack. Do you even know who Princess Tiana is?

I know it’s noisy when she starts emptying the backpack and 4,000 princesses spill out all over the floor. We are going to meet in a second when I politely ask you to move your feet so I can crawl under your table to get Sleeping Beauty.

Yes. I realize my child is singing to herself as she colors in her coloring book and occasionally screams when a crayon drops on the floor. Of course I am telling her to go get it herself, so that is why she is ducking under the table and popping up saying, “I got it!” in a loud and proud way.

Sure, she is most definitely kicking the back of the booth we share and trust me I am noticing your looks, loud sighs and grumbles.

I’m apologizing in advance for the way she is going to stare at you while you eat. She isn’t going to stop. She might even point and say something inappropriate about your appearance out loud. She is three and she doesn’t understand subtlety yet.

You are going to hear my husband and I pretend we are princesses while we wait for our food. She will yell at us if we break character, so our family conversation is going to sound kind of odd. I will try to make her be Ariel, that way she won’t have a voice. That is my gift to you.

The waitress will be coming over to us a lot, because;

A: There just aren’t enough napkins in the world, and

B: We will probably spill at least one of our drinks.

It will be everywhere, maybe even entering into our shared under- the- booth space. Bus boys will come with mops and rags and it’s going to be really annoying. My child will try to “help”.

There will be at least two times you are going to hear in the loudest voice ever, “I HAVE TO GO POTTY!” That will be 10 minutes of peace for you to enjoy eating.

So, I’m sorry crotchety people that we have ruined your dinner. But honestly, if you dare to say anything to me, I’m going to call you crotchety to your face.

Fondly,

Megan

My Kid Has a Black Eye Because She Fell Down the Stairs… For Real!

2013-02-04T14:00:00.001-08:00

When you have a child suddenly something happens. Everyone expects you to know everything. You gave birth, but apparently you also were supposed to pass your medical boards too.

Your husband asks, “Why is the baby ____?” (You can fill in the blank with anything here, crying, pooping, screaming, making that weird noise, blue, grey, yellow, smelly, refusing to look at me etc.) And you feel like you are supposed to know the answer, how to fix it and why it’s happening. But you don’t.

So you take them to the doctor, which is what I had to do this week when Bre fell down the stairs and busted up her eye, Rocky style. I get there, pay the co-pay, and sit with children who are looking slightly green.

The waiting room has signs up that clearly say “WELL CHILDREN” and “SICK CHILDREN”. We all sit across from each other, staring at the invisible and apparently impermeable division between the areas. Personally, when I wait, I envision the germ exchange between the sick hacking child across the room and my own less sick, less hacky child.

When I’m finally called, I rush to get all my stuff, grimacing when Bre’s sippy cup falls to the floor. I grapple with whether the dishwasher will clean it or if I should just burn it. For whatever reason they make my child take off her socks and weigh her. I shudder.

In the waiting room, the surfaces are all vinyl, but I’m seriously doubting they’ve sanitized it to my standards. I cautiously sit, and my daughter who was acting as if she was in major discomfort now finds the energy to dance barefoot all over the small room. The nurse asks me what happened. I am forced to say, “She fell down the stairs.” I feel her judgment.

The doctor comes in, asks me what happens, and every time I repeat “She fell down the stairs.” I feel myself overcompensating with a high pitched laugh. Being a nervous laugher is really a disability. She watches me until I abruptly stop laughing and asks Breanna, “What happened, honey.” Bre refuses to speak. But the purple eye that is swollen shut really does all the talking. The doctor gives me the once over with her eyes, and checks Bre head to toe for other signs of how I beat her.

Check up over, Bre is fine. The doctor lets me know I can leave, but as I walk out the door I see her fishing in the filing cabinet. She takes out a neon yellow piece of paper and begins filling it out. The receptionist gives Bre extra stickers. The people in the waiting room are all staring at me. I feel like screaming, “She really did fall down the stairs! That really does happen!”

We get out to the car, Bre sneezes. Of course.

Valentine's Day Gift Ideas for the Crazy Cat Lady

2013-01-31T06:14:00.000-08:00

Its almost Valentine’s Day, and that can be tough for some people.

But honestly, who loves you more than your cat? So instead of worrying about how on earth you are going to handle that day, think about how you can make your cat feel even more entitled than he already is.

I’m one of a subgroup of people who will eventually fall into their destiny of becoming The Crazy Cat Lady. I will have a house full of strays, and name them things like General Fuzzy Mittens and Miss Kissy Whiskers.

It has not happened yet, due to the two people I live with failing to support me in my unyielding fate; however I am sure one day I will get there. Until then, here are some Valentine’s Day gifts I can add to my future Crazy Cat Lady shopping list.

A book of poems “written” by cats about their humans? Filled with pictures of the kitty authors doing human things? Yes. Sold.

I pick up so much cat hair during the day; it only makes sense to make some finger puppets out of it.

Of course your cat needs their own yoga matt, and on Etsy you can buy one. Because you know they require an appropriate place to practice their favorite yoga pose; Kitty Licks Own Butt.

You’ll need to use this twice, once after the first time you clean the litter, and then again when your cat comes in immediately after to do (as my daughter would say) “a fresh litter doodie” .

Because your cat doesn’t look cool when he’s scratching a post. Okay? He is DJ Scratchy Pawz.

So, change it up this year. Get an awesome gift for the cat, and embrace your inner Crazy Cat Person. The cat won't even appreciate it, he will just expect it. But its still a way better idea than roses and chocolate.

5 Step Plan to Developing Your "Teacher Look"

2013-01-29T17:38:00.001-08:00

Teachers are responsible for teaching rooms full of adrenaline crazed children. If there is one thing I could say that can control a classroom full of nutty adolescents, it would be the "teacher look".

You too, can develop your own "teacher look" and use it in your daily life to great advantage.

The “teacher look” is the first and best tool in the teacher’s arsenal. Because a teacher must use it four million times a day, it is quickly mastered. It’s a look that is so frightening, so unnerving, that the recipient shudders. The good teachers have it to where a student will quickly cease and desist the unwanted behavior, but the best teachers can invoke fear and even tears in a mere ten second stare down.

Why is it so effective, if its just a look? Well, there really is no consequence that can come after the look; most consequences are pretty much illegal nowadays. The “teacher look” is simply very uncomfortable. Once learned, you can pretty much control any one's behavior.

I’ve used it when grown men have cut me in the checkout lines at ice cream stands. I’ve thrown the “teacher look” at misbehaving children in the mall. At times, I even apply it at home with Bre and my husband.

I’m going to break down the “teacher look” into 5 steps.

1. Really feel the quiet rage within.

2. Envision the clear message you need to project (i.e. Stop talking, get away from me, don’t hit her, quit eating your boogers, etc.)

3. Imagine your eyes are able to communicate the message to the recipient, as if you can enter it in their mind.

4. Be cold. Ice cold.

5. Practice on the cat.

Now, you should never try the “teacher look” unless you are ready. You could potentially ruin your reputation forever. It’s all about credibility… No pressure.

You will probably develop your own style, as a student once pointed out to me; I tip my head to the right while simultaneously raising my left eyebrow.

So good luck, and let me know how you do.

“No! Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try. “-Yoda

Toddler Treasures to Behold! Website Review for Ultra Quirky Tot

2013-01-26T14:33:00.001-08:00

I was asked to review this website, and I am so glad I did. Ultraquirkytot.com is an online store for all things toddler. They have so many unique gift, décor and clothing options for your child. They also personalize a lot of their things, which is always a nice touch. Here are a couple things I just put on my own wish list!

Tutus are probably the cutest thing you can put on a girl. Anything that makes a child look like an adorable cupcake must be purchased, worn and photographed before they are old enough to figure out that you are trying to make them look like an adorable cupcake.

I am a mean mommy. I won’t buy Legos. I don’t want to fish them out of my vacuum, or surgically remove them from the bottom of my feet. I also really don’t want to hear the cat playing with them for hours in the middle of the night. But you know what? If I had this easy clean up matt, I could buy Legos.

Remember my blog about traveling on planes with children? This easy to carry art bag could have given the guy in front of me 15-20 minutes of peace and quiet. And in the world of children, that is a really long time.

I so wish I had a changing pad cover like this when Bre was still in diapers. I was carrying around a tube of Clorox wipes for two and a half years. I looked like a picture perfect example of a lady with extreme OCD. This is genius and fashionable too.

This girls room carpet doubles as a doll house. It's nice to see Barbie can live in something other than a 4 foot tall pink plastic dwelling.

A floor pillow is such a better option than just a floor, for all the obvious reasons.

It is so impossible to find unique children’s room lamps. They have a ton of them on this site.

Such a different piece of furniture, and can teach children how to be more independent with getting dressed in the morning. Because at this point I feel like I might be chasing Bre around the house with her clothing every morning for the rest of my life.

I am loving this website, so check it out for yourself and tell them Breezy’s Mommy sent you!

I Had an "Aha!" Moment, YES! I Knew it Would Happen Someday!

2013-01-19T11:56:00.000-08:00

Today I did something very impulsive. I bought an impractical pair of shoes online. They were on sale however, so I know I’m not having a nervous breakdown. But still, I am asking myself; Megan… Why did you buy a pair of Pretty Woman hooker boots online today?

I reflect. Every day I wear the same thing. Cutoffs, a brightly colored t-shirt, and flip flops.Hang on though, let me translate this for my Buffalo people; Jeans, a brightly colored long sleeve t-shirt, Ugg boots.

This is all I have worn for the past 4 years. It has gotten so bad, that once when I put on ballet flats and a khaki Capri pant, my husband looked at me funny, like I was expecting him to take me out.

Anyway, the point is I have no reason to go out and buy these trampy boots. Where the heck could I possibly wear them? To the park? Its a million degrees outside. To the mall? They don’t look too comfortable to walk in. To a playdate? I’m going to look a bit ridiculous when my daughter won’t leave the playground and I end up chasing her up the slides with four inch heels.

I feel as though I had an opposite life moment. If you’ve never had one of these moments, it’s when you purchase something that represents what you want your life to look like.

I totally saw this on Oprah. (Aha! moment here.)

It is similar to when people go out and buy a ton of gourmet cooking supplies and then shove them in their closets and never use them. They just thought if they bought the items, they would magically become that kind of person, the person who cooks gourmet and has fabulous Barefoot Contessa types of dinner parties.

So obviously, my subconscious was thinking; Hmm, if I buy these trampy hooker boots I will magically have a place to wear them.

Well that place will probably be Chili’s, on a date night. But it’s not getting more interesting than that. At least Bre will have something new to try on when she plays dress up in my closet.

Why Middle School is Hell On Earth-From A Middle School Teacher

2013-01-15T17:01:00.002-08:00

Sometimes, when someone is speaking to me, I totally space out. I wonder if they notice. I’ll snap back into reality when whatever they’ve said requires a specific response; laughing, nodding solemnly or shaking my head in disbelief. Usually I will just randomly pick one of these responses and hope for the best.

I had this experience yesterday outside of my daughter’s playschool, when one of the mothers was discussing with me the dreadful changes her daughter has undergone since entering middle school.

“She doesn’t smile anymore, she is so shut down.”

This was the statement that propelled me into my zone out phase. As the woman continued to talk, I reflected on the hell hole we refer to as middle school.

We have all been through middle school, but teaching in one for several years really kind of solidified how wicked of a place it is. Witnessing it as an adult allowed me to see the what a perfect storm of horrors it truly is.

1. Puberty.You have no idea what your body is doing or what to do with it. You probably remember snippets of your own awkward period, but imagine teaching 125 kids going through one. You see the whole spectrum of what can happen to a person during this time. And even though they are all going through it, they do not cut each other a break. Try getting called on in class and answering it while your voice changes. Or maybe you just haven’t figured out deodorant yet. Oh yeah, that will lose you a spot at the lunch table.

2. Girls are EVIL. Oh, girls. They have perfected the art of exclusion. This is where it happens; the social configurations of women perfect themselves in these years. They become total bitches.

3. Boys are EVIL. This is where boys decide to attack each other’s sexual orientations and then proceed to beat the crap out of each other all the time. When a parent talks about why their boys don’t cuddle anymore, this is why. This is where they have to build a wall just to survive the day.

4. Technology makes it so easy to ruin your life. Children haven't developed common sense yet. They are operating on a moment to moment basis, with adult hormones raging throughout their little bodies. So they tend to do really dumb things that will follow them forever. Like taking naked pictures of themselves, sending it to their “BFF” and then before they can say “Can I have a pass to the guidance counselor please?” everyone has seen it.

5. Bullies.It’s not just an encounter at recess where you get shoved in the dirt and walk home with a bloody nose. It’s no coming of age story. There are all sorts of social media that can follow you home and bully you there too. The need for some kids to exclude, disrespect and destroy is so strong, stronger than any person could ever handle.

So when the mom gave some indication that she needed a response from me, I snapped right back to present moment with a solemn nod. “Middle school is hell on earth,” I responded, “just give her a lot of hugs and try to be a good listener.”

“Um,” she looked at me with a puzzled face, “I was asking you when the next playschool session started.”

“Oh, um next week I think.” I stammered. Crap. That happens sometimes. Bad Megan.

Barbie Has Her Head On Straight... Until My Kid Rips It Off One Day.

2013-01-11T08:32:00.000-08:00

Children have a tendency to choose the most direct, honest and rational approach to situations. They are fresh and pure; untouched by society’s expectations and moral corruptions. Maybe getting advice from the unmarred perspective of my three year old could prove beneficial? Recently I tested this hypothesis with a Barbie play session.

I was handed my designated Barbie, in her inappropriately short dress, stripper shoes and hooker make-up, and really took a moment to get into character. The only stage directions I was given were that I be the bad guy, and she be the good guy.

My Barbie, or as my daughter had named her, “Doris”, was the bad guy. Bre’s multicolored hair Barbie, so aptly named, “Hair Cut Barbie”, was the good guy.

"I am FABULOUS!"

Scene – outside the Barbie dream house, in the “garden”.

Scene 1, Act 1

I decided to base Doris’ character on a mean girl experience I had at the playground when I moved to my new neighborhood.

Doris: Welcome to the neighborhood, Hair Cut Barbie. I really don’t have time to be your friend, but if you want to hang out with my nanny you can.

Hair Cut Barbie: You are so not FABULOUS! Karate chops Doris with long purple/pink/blue hair.

Scene 2, Act 2

Doris was based on a lady that stands way too close to me in Zumba class.

Doris: Let’s dance; I’m going to stand this close to you. I’m not going to move, and I’ll hit you with my hand all the time. I also don’t know my left from my right, so grape vines are going to get messy. Starts dancing.

Hair Cut Barbie: Karate chops Doris with long purple/pink/blue hair.

Hair Cut Barbie celebrates her victory over her foes.

I suppose living life like a three year old playing Barbies could have its benefits. Maybe we should all go out there, figuratively donning our platform heels, blue eye shadow and spaghetti strapped cocktail dresses and give the world the preschooler version of ourselves.

South Florida, Baby -Part 3- The Return of Jefe

2013-01-10T11:07:00.002-08:00

A low moan was heard around The Court that day. When my husband and I went to investigate, we ran into our fellow Court neighbor, Ben. Ben was an older widower, who enjoyed long days of sunning at the pool with the rest of us. “You guys hear that?” Ben asked us immediately. “Yeah,” I responded looking over the gate to the pool, “sounds like its coming from in there.” We opened the gate and exchanged awhat the hell is going on look with the 16 year old female lifeguard. She motioned us over to her and whispered, “He’s been here for hours. He just keeps crying.” She pointed at the huddled mass of towels weeping on the decade old lounge chair in the corner. “Oh my God,” Scott gasped, “It’s Jefe.” A collective sharp breath of air was taken, as we surveyed the scene.

Jefe was last seen outside of his garden level apartment two summers previous. Following the debacle described in South Florida Baby part 2.

We slowly walked over to him. We followed a trail of Affliction merchandise to his sobbing body. A hat, a shirt, some flip flops. “You okay, Buddy?” Ben gently asked. Jefe peeked out from under his towel. Two beady red eyes focused in on the three of us. “Oh, my sister, she died.” He barely said it when he started heaving into howling tears again. “Oh my goodness, Jefe, I’m so sorry!” I sat down next to him, immediately feeling guilt for all the fun we had telling the “South Florida, Baby!” story over the years.

“Sí,” He continued, in a sudden unexpected Cuban accent, “she was mi hermanita! Oh Díos!” He produced a bottle of Patron from under the towel and started guzzling it.

Ignoring his sudden ethnic reorientation, we decided the best thing to do was get some food into poor Jefe’s stomach. Within 15 minutes, pizzas were delivered to the pool, and we all sat down to eat at a table. “You are mi gente, my people. They don’t have people like you in South Florida, no way baby. Different way of life, thank you for being my people. Oh, you are mi gente!” He wept into his pepperoni.

“Of course we are your people, Jefe!” We all responded while eating our pizza. “I’m going to make you mi mama’s tacos cubanos!” he continued, “You are good people; I never met good people like you until I moved to Buffalo!”We exchanged worried glances at each other.

After what seemed like hours at the pool, talking and counseling a grieving Jefe, it was time to go. We exchanged phone numbers and all agreed that friends stick together, and that Jefe needed to start reaching out to us for help and friendship from now on. Jefe held his heart with his right hand, and put his left hand on Ben’s shoulder. “You,” he said with a powerful voice, “are mi gente. Its not like South Florida, Baby… no way.”

We parted ways feeling like we made a true connection with a lost soul. Oh, poor Jefe, we all agreed. He was alone and isolated, he needed friendship, not ridicule. I went to sleep that night really feeling like I learned how to be a better person that day.

To Be Continued….

My Cat Hates My Child.

2013-01-04T17:41:00.001-08:00

Upon picking up the hundreds of family photographs my three year old had strewn around the house, I noticed an eerie similarity. Each photo had been taken from the first three years of my child’s life, and in each one, was a very angry looking cat. The cat is Rowy, a 7 year old tabby male I rescued as a kitten.

I picked up a picture, noticing his grimacing face in the background. A photo of Bre's first roll over, in the background Rowy licks his paw, one eye focused on me. A photo of Bre asleep in her baby swing. Rowy perched above her on the coffee table, leering. Picture after picture that capture the precious “firsts” of my daughter’s life, there is an angry cat, seething with hatred.

On an impulse, I decided to check out some of the home movies. There he is, watching her intently; at times he slowly turns his gaze to me, with hate filled kitty eyes. In each video, I am oblivious to his obvious issues with me, as I ooo and ahhh over her baby accomplishments.

Transferring children to bed when they fall asleep somewhere else is something that requires the stealth of a ninja master. Of course every ninja has his nemesis. Mine is the cat. I face Rowy at the top of the stairs. We stare intensely at each other. He watches me as I take the first step, ever so cautiously. At the third step he makes his move. He rushes me, bites my calves and tries to trip me.

I desperately try to use telepathy to communicate my hatred for him in this moment. When I have maneuvered the steps without dying or waking the child, he decides to stand by his food dish and produce the most pitiful meow he can muster. Bre stirs slightly; I shut him up by making a hissing noise at him. He hisses back.

Walking into her dark room is a danger. There are about 1,000 toys strew about. My ankle gives on a Barbie accessory. I steady myself. As I lift Bre over the bed rail into her bed my furry nemesis reappears. He sneak attacks my feet from under the bed. I grab Rowy and take the slow painful walk out. “Mama?” Bre moans. I hit the floor, taking Rowy with me. We crawl out silently, closing the door behind us. What is that smell? I wonder until I pass Rowy’s litter box. The little ahole had decided to use the most powerful tool in his evil plan.

We look at each other. I feel kind of guilty for ignoring his little accomplishments over the past three years. He learned how to jump on top of the fridge. He learned how to open my closet door and scare the crap out of me in the morning.
He caught a lizard and trapped it in the Christmas tree.

I pat his little furry head and give him some food.

Movies About Teachers Really Piss Off Teachers.

2012-12-31T15:21:00.002-08:00

Maybe it is the holiday season, or maybe I’m just not watching enough television to notice a pattern here, but they show a lot of inspirational teacher movies on TBS. When I can wrestle the remote away from my child, I watch them and cringe.

As a former middle school Spanish teacher, I am going to tell you something. Movies about teachers are ridiculously inaccurate.

Even in the TV show, Glee, why isn’t Mr. Schuester spending more time with the students he has to teach Spanish to? How does he have time to sing with his extracurricular club constantly? The school would be on his ass about that.

I’m going to say something else about Mr. Schuester and all the other teachers in teaching shows, They like the kids a little too much and that’s borderline fishy. There is a bad message here. Teachers shouldn’t like your kids too much, that’s where the trouble begins.

When you are a public school grade 7-12 school teacher, you have over 100 students, at least. In these movies, why do they only have one small class of lovable misfits? Why do the dismiss bells always ring in the middle of their lessons, like some flipping surprise? Don’t they lesson plan? Why are the teachers always single or on the verge of divorce? Why are the lovable misfits always easy to butter up, if you relate any lesson to their gangsta’ life? Why does one kid in the class always get shot? Why does that make the teacher almost want to give up, until all the other kids show up at their house and say really inspirational messages to them?

I’m going to break it down, and discuss with you why these movies are wrong. It will shatter some of your hearts, and for this I apologize.

1. Lean on Me(1989): Is a baseball bat the best way to organize a school full of bad kids? It sounds cool in a movie, but think about the real life implications here. He wouldn’t get away with this for more than one day, when a kid would tell his mommy, who would call the superintendent, who would in turn tell him to knock it off. Also, the bad kids sing really well, and that’s funny.

2. Freedom Writers (2007): I don’t think I ever got over Hillary Swank’s performance in Boys Don’t Cry, and in this movie it distracts me. Anyway, she sets up her class by comparing how they don’t like each other for their respective multiracial background differences with the Holocaust, or something like that. Of course, they are totally into it. And then she just keeps on the topic for the rest of the year. Doesn’t she have a curriculum? What kind of school is this? I don’t care how well your kids are responding to your current lesson; a normal school is never going to let you do your own thing for the ENTIRE YEAR! Why does she only have one class of 20 kids? In addition to everything else, she loves her class so much she keeps moving up the grades with them until they graduate. That’s weird.

3. Stand and Deliver (1988): When I was student teaching in Lackawanna, NY, my supervising teacher used the lines from this movie all the time. I think he thought he was Mr. Escalante, and we were in the bad part of town. He wasn’t though, and we weren’t. Plus it wasn’t a math class, it was a Spanish class, which made some of the lines he was using not quite work (“A negative times a negative equals a positive”). This guy wasn’t even Hispanic, he was Italian. Now that I think of it, it was a pretty good movie, made more entertaining by the 8 weeks spent watching some Lackawanna high school Spanish teacher pretend to be Mr. Escalante.

4. Dangerous Minds (1995): My all time top pet peeve with teaching movies is showcased here. The teacher lets her students go to street fairs with her, out to nice dinners and even sleep over at her house! Basically, she is dating them. That is really inappropriate, and someone would probably say something. It’s not okay to like your students that much, she’s a weirdo.

5. The Ron Clark Story (2006): Now most of you haven’t probably seen this movie, but it’s so bad it’s hysterical. It’s a made for TV movie, I think it was on Lifetime. Matthew Perry is in it, and he raps history lessons. Enough said. Except that he also only has one class of kids.

There needs to be a teaching movie that, in the words of Mr. Escalante, has the ganas to be better.

Yes, an appropriate teacher.

Mom Bag - Its not very stylish, but it will save your a$$.

2012-12-29T14:19:00.000-08:00

I felt compelled to write about a topic known as the Mom Bag after writing my last blog, ILostMyS#$TatToysRUs. The Mom Bag saved my Christmas after all, and it deserves a little recognition.

For anyone who isn’t sure, you don’t make a Mom Bag, a Mom Bag makes itself. After you have a child you have something called a diaper bag, out of this evolves the Mom Bag.

A Mom Bag has a variety of items, and can hold up to and including the weight of at least one of your children. It is thoroughly indestructible.

It has various clothing options for every type of apocalyptic climate change you could fathom. With the general “end of the world” theme, you will also find full meals and drinks that if rationed out could keep you alive for days on end, or at least, your child relatively calm on a mall trip.

I won’t forget to mention the medical supplies; band aids, fever reducers, alcohol swabs, and leftover antibiotics. There are at least two sippy cups, from various stages in your child’s development, and there are miscellaneous restaurant crayons. Mom Bags hold your car keys; you just will never find them. Your cell phone will ring at the bottom of your Mom Bag; it will come out with a sticky substance all over it. Mom Bags have your stuff in them also; make up, wallet, etc. However, whatever that sticky substance is, will totally be all over it. There is at least one dollar worth of pennies hanging out in the very bottom of the Mom Bag, but you’ll never use them, because of that damn sticky stuff.

If you happen to go somewhere without your child, you will bring your Mom Bag. This is because you yourself start to depend on the Mom Bag for your own needs. You start to wonder what you ever did before Mom Bag. How did you live your life without wet wipes? You need that sippy cup to take your vitamins. You start to shake if you touch something and cannot Purell afterwards. What if the sun gets too strong, and you need an SPF face stick? You realize that you have low blood sugar and those gummies that stick to the pennies in the bottom of your bag are necessary for moderately long car rides!

I don’t care how much you paid for your Mom Bag, they all look the same. So much so, that my husband took to going through another woman’s Mom Bag at the park the other day, thinking it was mine. He was looking for my car keys, but he didn’t find hers either.

Me and my awesome Mom Bag. Bre stares lovingly at it.

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It’s Christmas Eve, don’t be a Wal-Mart person.

2012-12-24T09:45:00.001-08:00

It’s Christmas Eve, and if you are like me, you still have shopping to do. Whatever you do, don’t go to Wal-Mart.

I know it has been said before, that Wal-Mart is full of Wal-Mart people, it’s dingy and gross, the workers look suicidal and the cashiers really hate your guts. It’s just that, well, they have everything. Damn them!

December 23^rd 2012 9:38 PM

The world didn’t end, stupid Mayans. That means that all the stuff I was putting off doing for the holidays, just in case, has become quite overdue.

As soon as I walk in, I’m impressed at how many people are holiday procrastinators, just like me. I’m also terrified, that I fall into the same category as most of these people. I’m immediately thankful I didn’t over dress for the outing. Most people I see are in very short booty shorts, dirty pajamas, and flip flops, sorely in need of a shower and a 90 day food cleanse.

I settle on a cart, after realizing that every single one of them has a wheel that will always go left when you are going right, and get my essentials in record time. I head to the line at the “garden center”; BIG mistake. As I stand in line waiting for every single person to price match their items, I begin reconsidering how many of these things could be lived without if I just left Wal-Mart now. Then, I hear a mother and her 4 year old daughter screaming at each other.

Let’s set this up, shall we? Standing in front of me is the Mom. She is in a tweety bird sweatshirt, non-matching sweatpants that have dragged on the floor for most of their life and a pair of flip flops that really have been over flipped and flopped. Daughter is a miniature version of Mom; she is holding a stuffed Christmas kitten toy.

Daughter: “Mommy, can I have a jingle kitty?”

Mom: “I said no, and I mean NO!”

Daughter: “Please momma, pleaaaaasse! PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE! It’s so furry and it has jingles and…”

Mom: “You better stop askin’ me for that jingle kitty, or I’m gonna beat your hiney!”

Daughter: “No momma, no don’t you beat my hiney! I want my jingle kitty!”

Mom: “I’m gonna beat your hiney, I’m gonna beat it! You better believe it, I’m gonna beat your hiney!”

The daughter kicked her mother in the shin, ran out the door with the jingle kitty, and Mom ran out behind her, screaming about her hiney.

None of the workers seemed to care that we were all witness to blatant shoplifting. Not only did I have to see child abuse, but I was still looking at another half hour in this line, at least. I wonder if being a Wal-Mart person is contagious. I shudder at the thought. This stuff never happens at Target.

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Who Doesn't Love a Story About Kids Getting Kicked Off Planes?

2012-12-23T10:38:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while, when the news gets slow, they bring out the stories about toddlers getting kicked off planes. Everyone just loves to hear about a 3 year old getting the boot on a southwest flight.

Before motherhood, if you saw me on a plane, you could tell I was hostile territory for you to sit next to with your kid. Everything about me screamed, “Keep your kid away from me. I’m not approachable. Back off.” Generally my anti-kid vibe reverberated well, and parents stayed away.

Then I had my own child, and my tune changed for good.

Kids are adorable on planes! Please, sit next to me and drown out my own child’s whining. I really hope your kid is the one to have a temper tantrum, and it’s bigger than the one mine is having. Your kid is crying? That is totally fine, you can sit near me so that no one notices that MY child is crying too. It’s a symbiotic relationship; we will just be loud and obnoxious together. They can’t kick all of us off the plane; I’ve never heard a news story where that has happened.

Because I am the former primo hater of children on planes, I can spot other haters with great ease. On a recent plane trip, I found one. He was traveling alone. He was 30ish, very tall and of a large gooney build. He was obviously traveling for work, no luggage. He had the tell tale layers of protection around him, put in place to ward of annoying conversationalists and of course, parents of small children. The book, the iPod, the magazines, today’s newspaper folded out over three seats, the laptop, the nasty stare and the overtly territorial placement of his size 13 feet all screamed, “Stay away from me, I’m extremely anti-social.”

As karma would have it, the last seats were the ones behind him and even though I thought better of it, we took them. Bre thankfully agreed with the whole mandatory seatbelt situation, and we took off.

It all began with a long winded sigh of exasperation. I saw his buzzed head fling backwards several times giving me the stare of death. Obviously he didn’t like the portable DVD of Caillou blaring on the fold out tray behind him. The tips of his ears grew redder, and agitation turned to full on rage when Bre started to kick his seat during exciting moments of her show. As I calmed her down, I heard his not so muffled complaints about children on planes to the apathetic passenger next to him.

I began envisioning the next day’s news, where Breanna and I are being interviewed by Sam Champion about why the crew and passengers of Flight 1134 turned against us, and made an emergency landing just to kick us out.

Not much longer after that, did Breanna decide to have her half-way-through-the-plane-ride-temper-tantrum. I anxiously fumbled for my carry on. My plane ride carry on is an array of delights. Its contents are the preschool equivalent of someone trying to bribe you with hundred dollar bills and hard liquor. Still, he was fuming ahead of me.

I envisioned a moment where he turned into Samuel L. Jackson and screamed, “I’ve had it with these mothaf&#ing babies on this mothaf&#ing plane!”I started sweating and pleading with Bre as I steadied myself for the anger that was about to unleash on my child and I.

Somewhere in here, I had a moment. In this moment I wanted to rip this guy’s face off, but what I really felt was anger toward myself. Obviously in my previous single life, I had come to deserve this somehow. I felt immense regret.

The guy turned around, looked me in the eye and said in a scathing voice, “You need to control your kid, lady.”

“She’s three. F*&K OFF!"

I said it a little too loud. Obviously I had prepared myself to confront Samuel L. Jackson, not this guy. He turned around anyway, a little stunned that a lady in a pastel sweater set just told him to f*&k off.

Yeah, kids change everything, but apparently they don’t change your well deserved karmic payback.

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Coupons: The Gateway Drug.

2012-12-20T14:53:00.001-08:00

At Target today I came upon a thought. Couponing is a disease.

That thought came to me because I was forced to stand behind someone at Target with hundreds of coupons for her personal hygiene items in duplicate.

However, then I realized the thought may have originated when I was watching that train wreck of a show on TLC called Extreme Couponing.

I realize with the whole recession, economy, and fiscal cliff thing that couponing might sound like a good idea. You are putting in that extra work to save pennies, and hey, pennies add up, right?

In the world of mom, some moms like to flaunt their couponing talents to other moms. I call it, Coupon Shaming.

Other mother: “Yes, I went to Target yesterday and got 14 bottles of Lysol toilet disinfectant for 4 cents a bottle.”

Me: “Wow. How do you do something like that?”

Other mother: “Well, every Sunday I spend 14 hours on the computer using 5 different email addresses and downloading all the coupons I can from every “MommyCoupons” website for miniscule amounts of money off all Proctor and Gamble products. Then I make sure that the store doubles and triples each coupon. They always say they won’t, but I yell at the manager for at least 20 minutes while nice normal people with three year olds in their carts stand behind me.”

Me: “Why do you need 14 bottles of toilet cleaner?”

Other mother: “Unlike SOME people, I slash my grocery bill in half. I do this for my family.”

Me (but to myself in my head hours later): “But I don’t buy 14 bottles of toilet cleaner at one time, so didn’t I already just save money by not buying the 14 bottles of toilet cleaner at all? Actually, didn’t I just save myself 56 cents?”

From what it looks like with extreme couponing, in doing so you become an extreme version of yourself. So maybe just do moderate couponing. Try to keep it to one to two times a week, only with dinner, or maybe just socially.

Reasons you should consider not couponing anymore, cutting back, or if you’re like me, stop feeling guilty that you never did it in the first place:

1. There are never coupons for milk, bread, produce, meat… What are you eating? Unless your kids and husband are cool with eating shaving cream and deodorant, I just can’t see how you are slashing your food bill in half.

2. It makes people hoarders. Does anyone watch that show on A&E and tremble in fear? Well, if you watch Extreme Couponing, it’s like the prequel to any case on Hoarders. This is how they started, when they just couldn’t stop couponing for those free paper towels. Couponing is like the equivalent of marijuana in the hoarding world, it’s the gateway drug.

3. Do you want to be that person, the person who stands in line arguing with the manager of Target over how many free toothbrushes you qualify for? Is that who you are?

4. People are going to think you have a significant health problem, when they come over and see hundreds of rolls of toilet paper under all your furniture, in the linen closets and in your garage.

5. You will probably have troubles with your neighbors, when you steal all the inserts for extra coupons out of their Sunday papers.

Do what makes you happy. However, know the signs of compulsive couponing, and be ready to quit cold turkey if you find yourself making someone wait 20 minutes at Target while you argue with a manager over 30 cents on a flipping box of tampons.

And stop it with the f’ing Coupon Shaming.

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Is it so horrible if I hope the Mayan Apocalypse ends up as a Zombie takeover?

2012-12-19T10:47:00.000-08:00

So this Friday, according to the Mayans, the Earth is supposed to just end. No details as to how, but these people invented the concept of Zero, so they are probably right.

Let’s prepare!

First things first, if I’ve learned one goddamned thing about a zombie apocalypse from watching the show Walking Dead, it’s that you need zombie bait. So gather up some people in the mix that you won’t mind pushing into a bunch of hungry flesh eaters. That should be easy.

Other theories of the date 12-21-12 include a shift in the global consciousness, marking a spiritual beginning and a lifting of a veil to reveal what has been hidden from our sight.

The only thing that I can see, are the drunken guys in suits at Happy Hours all across the globe on Friday trying sell that theory to their uncomfortable female co-workers.

Hmm. Well, if it’s not the zombie apocalypse, I think it’s just going to be a really annoying day on Facebook.

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Maybe instead of Christmas cookies? Just a thought.

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I lost my S#!T at Toys R Us

2012-12-17T11:44:00.002-08:00

There are two types of people; Those who don’t know who Doc Mcstuffins is, and those who just started singing “The Doc is in, here to fix you up…” in their head. I am the latter of those subgroups.

My three year old daughter, Bre, is infatuated with this Disney character, who happens to be a lovable little doctor of stuffed animals with various maladies.

It is a new cartoon, therefore you would think that when my daughter told me she wanted a Doc Mcstuffins doll back in October, I would have had that checked off my list before you could say, “Black Friday”. Oh, but alas I did not and as the season went on. I looked down upon those consumerism crazed participants, marching so elegantly to the drum of the corporate machine, standing in line for hours to get their children the latest and greatest at slashed prices. I laughed manically when they showed the shoving and pushing against the Wal-Mart doors. I even held quiet distain for the new version of the American child, enslaving their parents to their desires.

Saturday, December 15, 2012. 6:12 PM. The Toys R Us parking lot was packed. Walking in, I saw many half empty shelves. The first wave of panic crashed over me. I directed myself to the isle most likely to shelve the doll that would make or break my daughter’s Christmas.

Standing ten feet away, I saw it, the only one. A glow formed around it, it was as if all was right in the world. As I moved at a quickened pace toward it, a sales lady bumped her way in front of me, a blonde woman in tow.

“Now,” said the lady in an upbeat, feverishly pitched voice, “this is what you want to get your niece. This is the hottest toy this year. I don’t even know how we have one at this time. They are selling for twice as much on Amazon. You must get this.”

The woman started biting her lip, picked up the toy and looked confused. “I really didn’t want to spend so much!” She said in an almost comically horrendous New York accent. “Who is this Doc Stuffs anyway? Fourty-five dollahs? Fouuuurtie fwive dollahs? Ahre you serious?!” The combination of her accent plus the volume of her voice cleared the isle of the majority of shoppers. “I have to call my sistah!”

As she took out her phone to dial, the sales associate made sure to reiterate how impossible it was to get this toy. My stomach in knots, visions of the worst Christmas ever flashed through my head. Visions in which Bre shouts, “Santa isn’t real, you lied. You are such a horrible mother!” and grows up to be a lawyer.

I knew what I had to do. New York lady put down the doll on the shelf so that she could use both her thumbs in an attempt to browse her contacts. It was my moment, I had to act quickly. Pushing the sales lady to the side, I jumped in, stole the Doc and ran out of there.

“My doll! It’s GONE!” I heard as I zigged and zagged through the people, trying to get lost in the crowd. I had to change my look, I had been seen. Thankfully, I pulled out a hair tie and a spare hoodie from my ginormous “mom” bag. I hid out in a deserted isle of educational toys made of wood until I had felt the coast was clear. I paid for it, and got the hell out of there.

On the ride home, I was reflective. Not only of the obvious morality issues I must have, but also of my ability to throw every ideal out the window when it comes to receiving approval from my preschool aged little girl.

What precedence had I just set? Is this a path that can be changed? In what other ways am I compromising who I am to get approval from those I love? It was slightly disturbing to think about.

As I walked in the door to the house, my husband gave me a nervous glance over the head of our daughter.

“The Doc is In!” I shouted as I gave him a high-five.

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South Florida, Baby - Part 2

2012-12-15T09:49:00.002-08:00

In 2007 I was living in an apartment complex in Orchard Park, NY, and there I met a few crazies. Seeing as though we were in walking distance to Ralph Wilson Stadium, home of the Buffalo Bills, there were a number of players they stuck there for the season. They weren’t crazy, just really pissed they had to live there.

But how was I to know that one “crazy” in particular, would really be the key to my understanding the ‘culture’ down here, in South Florida.

The place is called Regency Court apartments, known to our tight little apartment group as simply, TheCourt. In the month of moderate sun the Buffalonians consider “summer” we all congregated to The Court’s pool. We were pale skinned and squinty eyed, sun starved and in desperate need of companionship after the long brutal 11 months of winter. It was the perfect amount of time to make friends, lovers, acquaintances, and enemies. We move fast in Buffalo, we don’t have much time before hibernation.

I’ll save other blog posts for the many characters of The Court later, today I need to talk about one guy simply named, Jefe. Jefe was so good looking, for a Buffalo guy. What I mean is, he didn’t look like he had just spent the winter eating wings and drinking beer. You could see his abs. This immediately made him the eye candy of The Court pool. He was what all the girls wanted, and all the guys wanted to be. Jefe strutted in, in his muscle tee, Havana flip flops, too cool for school sunglasses. He wore a floral printed swim short, so risqué for Buffalo.

Of course the hottest guy at The Court needs to be with the hottest girl at The Court. Enter my Court BFF, Ally. Ally was blonde, cute and bubbly. She also had abs. And when Jefe left his number with the lifeguard for Ally one reasonably sunny day, we all waited with bated breath to see what Ally would do.

She did what any normal Court person would do, she invited my husband and I to witness her date. After all, can you really trust a guy with abs so perfect? Hair so shiny?

The double date started out ok. His apartment was meticulous. He had OCD tendencies, but maybe that wasn’t such a horrible thing. He had a thousand DVDs, he had a California King bed. We marveled at how he fit that in the “garden” level apartment. He had the upgraded cable package. He had really expensive jeans. He had Patron.

“Lets all do shots!”, Jefe suggested. He was so amicable, filling our shot glasses. We toasted to “South Florida”, apparently where Jefe was from. With each shot we heard more about south Florida. “South Florida, Baby!” He kept shouting at increasingly frequent intervals. He started stripping down to his underwear. It was almost as if he preferred to be shirtless. Wasn’t he cold?

I’ve never seen anyone descend into madness so quickly. Ally, Scott and I shot each other a look and ran out under the pretense that we’d be right back with more Patron. Long into the dead of night, we heard him shouting, “South Florida, Baby” from outside her window.

Needless to say, Jefe entered The Court lore soon thereafter. Even after he ended his relentless stalking of Ally, and even when he entered a self imposed hermit lifestyle, he was talked about at the pool for summers afterward. Everyone tried to get a glimpse of the elusive South Florida native from his “garden” level apartment window, as the stories were passed down from one transient neighbor to another.

We just thought Jefe was a nut job, but really he was a fish out of water…or a Floridian out of Florida. You see, now that I live here, Jefe lives next door to me. He also lives two houses down and across the street. He is every guy I’ve met at any gathering and just one of many at the beach. It explains a lot.

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