The Art Of Selling

Oh, the adventures of selling items on craigslist.com continues.  This time I decided to sell a stroller, that was given to me by a past customer...I was going to use it, but then I saw on the stroller's website that they don't recommend you run or walk quickly with a child inside.  Um, that's not going to work.  No, my knees can't really run, but I would like the option to walk quickly.  What exactly defines "walking quickly" anyway?  Stride must be elongated an extra four inches, and the heel remains off the ground for 2.5 extra seconds?*

Anyway, after inspecting the stroller in a dark garage I decided to post it for $200.00 knowing that all the stroller morons out there would low ball me and hopefully I would receive at least $100.00 for it.  So, I posted it, claimed I had never used it (Which is true.  I never used it. The customer before me used it.  But me? Nope.) and - if you ever post something on craigslist.com, always put some stupid stuff on there like "Product Specifications and Weight of Item."  I don't know why, but freak, those stupid details are like sirens to a sinking ship.  Sometimes I just make them up:
Warranty: Forever
Made of: 20% Carbon Dioxide and Recycled Wood
Featured in the movie Beethoven I and II

People love that stuff.

So, anyway, after a few hours of posting my stroller one guy contacted me and said this was the exact stroller his wife was wanting.  (Apparently, she is NOT into walking quickly.)  So, I text my name and address and he responds with: "My name is Jesus.  Imagine that!  Why would you sell it to anyone other than Jesus?  You make sure you enjoy your loooonnnng lunch. Don't come back home till I get there. (Creepy Smiley Face.)  The "looonnnggg" lunch reference is to the fact that I said someone else might be coming by to see it during lunch. Apparently, Jesus wanted me to skip out on that other buyer.  Not very Christian Jesus...just saying.  Not very Christian Like.

Anyway, the other buyer fortunately didn't show up and I was able to sell the stroller at my asking price to good ol' Jesus.  I love craigslist.com.  I just hope that one day I don't get beaten for my "semi-embellished" posts...cus, apparently, once the stroller was in the light, I noticed some massive scratches on it from storing shoving it in my garage.  Did I say never used and in perfect condition?


* I created that definition.  Please do not attempt to test or duplicate.

Pink, Pink, Pink Means Freaking Girl

A baby dressed in a pink onesie, gray skinny jeans and pink socks is strolled into a grocery store by a mother, who yes, in the past has been mistaken for a boy, but now has blossomed into a woman.  (Well, at least is still nursing, and consequently, isn't leaving much to the imagination.)  This baby and mother encounter five different people through their course of shopping, and each time the comment is made, "My, what a cute boy you have!"  Once the mom regains consciousness after slipping into some dark places from her past, when salesclerks would tell her brothers what a cute little brother she was, she answers, and hates herself while doing it, "Gee, thanksss..."

So, random people, lend me your ear.  What's the deal?  Honestly, what do I need to do to drive home the point that my daughter is a girl?  Dress her in pink?  Oh wait.  Answer, "Well, I'm sure proud of HER?" Or, "I know, when SHE came out, I said to my husband, 'What a beautiful DAUGHTER we have been given?'"  Or are you asking me to do the unthinkable?  Are you "All I see are boys everywhere I look" people out there trying to tell me that I'm going to have to....I'm going to have to...I'm going to have to employ bows?  Huge bows?  Bows that NASA is going to ask me to stop wearing because they are mistaking them for new masses of land?  Is that what you are asking of me?

Well, I'm not sure I'm prepared to make such a move, but I am prepared to answer back next time someone tells me what a cute boy I have with, and this depends on who tells me - girls get: "Well, and same to you Mister."  And for the misguided boys, "Right back at ya, Little Lady."

What? I'm prepared to be hit in the face before my daughter goes down the bow road.

Like Time Through An Hourglass....

So, I have completed another parenting milestone...I've traveled on a plane ALONE with a baby. Yep, high fives all around.  For those of you who don't have children and fly a great deal, do me a favor and next time you are on a flight, just close your eyes and take a quick cat nap.  Just do it.  And when you wake up I want you to crack open a book and read it.  Read twenty pages.  And while you are reading ask the stewardess for a drink AND a snack.  Proceed to eat, drink and read.  When you get tired of these exercises please close your eyes again.  Why am I asking you to do these things?  Because if you ever decide to procreate you will long for those relaxing days of flying. You will long to read some stupid article about some crappy restaurant Southwest airlines has chosen to highlight in their in flight magazine.  You will even miss considering flying to Austin to find this restaurant.  You will miss the idiots who complete the Sudoku puzzles and who write two incorrect answers in smeared black ink in the crossword puzzle you were thinking about attempting, but knowing you would only get the pop culture answers right.  (I mean, I think I've heard of people approaching crossword puzzles that way.)  And you will even miss the boredom you feel from just sitting there waiting to land.  You will miss all of it because once you have a child, time seems to stop on a plane.  Minutes that used to fly, just like the plane you are sitting in, seem to linger and stop for moments of rest. Honestly, I would wrestle my child, show her books, feed her, show her the window for the twentieth time and then I would check my watch and notice that only 1 minute and 18 seconds had passed.  Honestly, were my parents being buried down below as I was stuck in this time warp???!!  Were flying cars actually passing us and was my husband living with his second wife as I was trying to get my child to stop grabbing the hair of my neighbor??!  Come on JetBlue, answer me!

Oh well, the good news was my child didn't have an explosive diaper, throw up all over me or cry out for the entire flight.  The bad news is we fly to Maui in a few months on a direct flight.  That's almost five hours of flying...or sixteen years in baby flight time.

Adventures in Babysitting and Lost Kidneys

The other night I had a total "How did I get here?" moment.  (No, this wasn't one of those times I was left in a tub of ice, with a sign next to me that read, "Call 911 because your kidneys have been harvested."  Because let's be honest - that's a major moment of, "How the beep did I get here?")  No, compared to that this was pretty mundane, but still gave me pause...Ah, shoot I did it again - too much build up! Isn't there some creative writing teacher out there that could teach me on how to not put myself in these writing conundrums?!  Anyone? I am about to compare a black market crime of stealing some date rape girl's kidneys to...wait for it...experiencing my first babysitter.  See...just awful.

Anyway, yes, the other night the husband and I left our less than 15 lbs., 8 month old baby, for the first time, in the "responsible" hands of a 15 year old babysitter.  Now, leaving her wasn't the moment in struck me of how crazy life is, because my baby was asleep before the babysitter got there, and remained asleep the entire time.  Again, let's recap, she was asleep the ENTIRE time and I still paid this kid to text for two hours inside my house.  Speaking of black market crime...

No, the moment I questioned how life had gotten full circle for me, was when I had to drive the babysitter home.  Oh, how I hated these awkward drives home.  Sometimes it would be done by the father, who reeked of some cocktail and asked stupid questions like, "Does your dad like his job?"  "Do your parents travel much?"  And then, while checking to see if the door was open, and if I could survive if I rolled out of the car, I would answer, "Yeah, totally."  Or I would have to endure the mother driving me home, which consisted of her desperately trying to get me to say how gifted her kid was, and how out of all the other kids in the neighborhood, he was clearly the most polite and well-adjusted.  And of course, the whole time this pathetic questioning went on, all I could think about was, I hope they didn't mind I ate that whole frozen pizza, put their kids to bed about an hour earlier than they had indicated and went through their CDs and photo albums.

So, there I was being the awkward mom and hating myself for it.  I tried to stop myself, but before I knew it, I asked, "Did she wake up at all while we were gone?" (Full well knowing that she didn't wake up because of my quasi creepy baby camera I have hooked up to my phone.)  And then when she said no, I said, "Yeah, she's been sleeping through the night since she was three months old."  CREEPY.  And then, if that wasn't awkward enough, as I was handing her the hard earned compensation money I said, while giving her a roll of ten ones, "Sorry, I work at a strip joint and this is all I had after a long night of..."  And there we sat, one confused 15 year old, and one old/pathetic 34 year old.

On the flip side our two frozen pizzas were still in the freezer when I got back....so, I'll be hiring her again.

Do You Have Keys?

The other night the husband and I got locked out of our house.  When I just wrote that sentence I thought, "'got locked out of our house' sounds like someone shoved us out the door, and when we pleaded to be let back in, a crazy man, with a large janitor ring of keys ran to our window, and while jangling the keys, screamed, "NEVER!  YOU WILL NEVER ENTER THIS HOME AGAIN!" 

Okay, so let me rephrase my first sentence: The other night the husband and I thought the other one had a key to our house, and while neglecting to listen to each other ask, "Do you have a key?", closed the door, and then proceeded to mutter, and sort of shout, certain expletives over and over again while we both came to the sad conclusion, that we both lacked the super human power to walk through walls and retrieve our keys inside the house. Yeah, I think that covers it.

So, yes, this would be the fourth or fifth time of our short marriage, we have managed to lock ourselves out of our house.  Fortunately, this time our keys weren't down an elevator shaft after I threw them at my husband while we were racing to our apartment, and I thought I could buy some time with my keys gauging him in the eyes (because that never happened...)  Instead, like responsible repeated past offenders, we had finally wised up and given a key to my mother-in-law, who lives 20 minutes away.  Unfortunately, in the midst of our rage and frustration, I couldn't exactly remember if I had or had not given her a key.  I knew we had talked about it, and I know it was definitely one of my resolutions for 2012, to not get locked out of my apartment again, but I couldn't be sure.  So, until we could confirm the existence of the key, we started the: "Four Steps Of Being Locked Out Your House."  We began with step one: How Do You Break Into Your Own Home?  You know this fun game.  You all of the sudden become a stealth ninja walking around your house trying all the windows and doors. (All the while hoping your neighbors know you actually live there.)

And then you move to step two: I Wish My House Wasn't Fort Knox.  Immediately, you start wishing that a window was broken, a screen was loose, an animal had started burrowing a hole into your living room, or that you forgot to lock some back door. 

And then, when you realize you don't live in the projects, you start:  What Are My Options?  For example, do you call the locksmith on a Sunday, pay the ridiculous price to open your door, or do you take a rock and smash your own window, which could be possibly cheaper than calling the locksmith?  Do you scale up the roof and try to shimmy down the chimney?  Do you curse the fact that your house doesn't have a chimney?  Do you consider just walking away and finding this to be a moment of freedom from your possessions?  Do you tell yourself you'll just start living off the land, and not worry about keys, locks and conformity? 

And then finally, after you have weighed all your options, pulled and pushed on every window, you move onto the last step of turning to your spouse and asking: "So, seriously, do you have a key?"  This step if fun for everyone because you can keep going back to it during the whole process.  Try opening a window and then ask, "Come on, do you have a key?"  Or walk around the entire perimeter of your home, hoping you'll find a key some key fairy dropped by accident, and when you get back, turn to your bewildered spouse and ask, "Did you check your pockets?"  See?  Fun!

So, yes, we fortunately got a key from my mother-in-law...will this be the last time?  Why should it?  It's always so much fun!