She's Just Not That Into You

The other day I had an appointment with my doctor, who not only delivered Avery, but was the one who endured all the ups and downs of my past infertility.  So, as you can imagine, I was pretty excited to see her and show off my now 18 month old baby.  However, as I was waiting to see her, and trying to decide between a full out hug or a kiss on the cheek for all her doctor greatness, she came into the waiting room to give something to a patient.  Immediately, we made eye contact, and just as I was about to say, "Doctor, how are you?! Look at our miracle!  Our little miracle baby is now 18 months...but of course, you know that - because I'm the most important patient you've ever had..."  She mumbled, "Hi there..."  Hi there?  That's it?  "Hi, There."  Um, Doctor, we shared some moments.  You've seen me naked, um, a baby came out of me, we all laughed about how quick my contractions were...and all I get is a "Hi, there?!"

As she walked back into her office I tried to figure out what I had done wrong.  Was she mad at my moving?  Should I have friended her on Facebook?  So many questions - and then my name was called to get some blood work completed in another room.  As I walked into the room, I sat down and faced a wall covered with holiday cards and birth announcements.  Like usual, I started to scan the pictures to find the ugliest kids, and then started to review the numerous names, to either steal for the future, or to currently mock.  And then this thought struck me...all these people, all these stupid people were just like me.  Each one of them sent this card because, they too, thought they were special.  They too thought, that unlike the other cards and parents, the doctors were actually going to be excited over finally receiving their completely unique Costco masterpiece celebrating their historic birth, when in actuality all these cards were received by some nurse who said, "The Nelsons?  Which of you doctors delivered these people?"  To which the doctors said, "Um, let me check their files."  "Let me check their files..."  People on the board, people in the waiting room, me...you aren't special.  Sure, you had some good times, but while you went home raving about your memorable time, they went home, took a shower and went to bed.  Let's face it, these doctors just aren't as into us as we are into them.  How do I know this?  Because once I got into the room, undressed and my doctor, who I still hoped loved me, had a moment to look at my file, came in and said, "Kate! Avery!  How is Dan?  Are you still living in Irvine and have the cell phone of 801..."  Straight from the damn file...

Doctor, how did we get to this?

GO Find the Plane You Super Detectives!

After finishing another mindless crime novel I was struck by a few things:

1. Why aren't these geniuses, who seem to solve major crimes in three days, while never stopping to go to the bathroom, eat, or sleep, not out finding this vanishing plane from Malaysia?  Seriously, I just finished a book where two characters, IN THREE DAYS, figured out who assassinated a president eight years ago, kidnapped a current presidential candidate, killed some other people, and determined THEIR MOTIVE for the whole elaborate plan, which, to be honest, seemed a little mailed in.  Sorry, but for love?  All for love?  What is this a Meatloaf song acted out? 

2. In real life, main characters, or people who seem to figuring out mysteries, get killed. Bang, gone.  In these stupid books, the big-bad guy is always the one in the next freaking seat!  And who has been driving around town with these super heroes for three days until finally he's outed, and then FINALLY, decides to kill these people.  Why didn't you just do it while they were getting gas?  Talking on the phone?  Standing in an elevator with you?  Come on mastermind - let's work this out.

 

3. Honestly, I just want a few minutes with some real criminals, who did some majorly bad stuff, so I could ask them one question: Right before you blew up the building with 200 people inside, or drowned your victims in a pool full of sharks, did you, and be honest, did you take a moment to explain yourself and your entire plan?  Did you lay it all out so everyone in the room was completely clear as to why you are a murderous psychopath?  Oh, you didn't?  Great, that's what I thought.  WHY MUST EVERY BAD GUY in EVERY FREAKING CRIME BOOK OR MOVIE parade around for fifteen minutes expounding his diabolical plot to destroy the world.  Just do it.  Shut up and do it.  You had me at, "I'm going to kill you."  Done.  There's no need to explain yourself.

Don't get me started on the "brushes with death."  Some characters in books are insanely invincible.  Shot in the head? Nope, just grazed.  Twenty minute hand to hand fist fight? Just cracked a rib.  Seriously, why do I do it to myself?

Call Me When It's Bastille Day

So, I just checked with my Mom and Dad and it turns out none of my ancestors were ever from Ireland.  Never stepped foot in the country. Never fought for potatoes, never wrestled little leprechauns for pots of gold and never drank a pint of Guinness.  Not one.  Actually it turns out my ancestors were Scandinavian Mormons and French people, who actually lived in Italy, who later became Mormons.  So, here's the deal, I didn't wear green yesterday. My child didn't wear green yesterday. And you know why?  Because we ain't Irish.  Did you hear that Ralph's check out dude at aisle 8?  I don't care that you woke up and decided, that even though you are a grown man, you were going to wear a large green, bedazzled bow tie, green top hat and a plethora of green shamrocks all over your "work t-shirt" because it was St. Patrick's Day.  I don't care. What I do care about is, one, your disapproving face, as you announce on the loud speaker, that I've failed to celebrate an Irish holiday, and two, and probably more important, your serious threat to pinch my child.  

So, may I ask, in this bizarre blog, that you will never read, you over-zealous-observer of holidays, why are you so appalled at my blatant disregard for a holiday that really should only be celebrated by elementary students?  Is there just something about holidays, that ask so little of people, that you just love?  After St. Patrick's Day is June 27, or Helen Keller Day, your second favorite holiday?  Do you love celebrating it by not talking, listening or hearing anyone?  Or does Earth Day just make you sing?  Earth Day - what do you do for this day?  Wear a globe?  Remind your customers to use paper instead of plastic, not flush your toilet until the next day in order to save water or take a long breath of air?  Seriously, these aren't real holidays.  Sure, they are nice to remind us that stuff is going on, but honestly, no one wakes up and says, "Is it already the last Friday of April? Crap, I got to go get a tree and plant it."  They don't.  Holidays are about real actions.  Christmas = presents.  New Years = resolutions, staying up too late, and hating yourself for making this a real holiday.  Thanksgiving = gluttony.  Birthday = narcissism.  Mother's Day = Gratitude / Guilt for making her cook.  You see those are real holidays, not St. Patrick's Day, which, by the way, I had to use wikipedia.com to learn about.

Captain Hook Tattoo Is NOT Cool

I'll probably get in trouble with this post, but hey, I haven't written in weeks, so chances are I'll most likely be offending my mom and a friend, who by accident clicks on my blog to see if it had finally been shut down.

So, here's the deal.  I've been to Disneyland a lot lately.  And you know what I see at Disneyland?  (Well, besides the crazy Disney people, who wait in line for Little Mermaid, EVEN THOUGH, they don't have children with them.  Seriously, adults, why are you going through a ride that features creepy animatronics and the story of voiceless mermaid, who has a serious kleptomania problem.  "...look at my stuff, isn't it neat...I stole it from people..."  I sometimes want to turn to them and ask, "So, do you also seek counseling for creeping around playgrounds?")

Okay, okay I got off topic there, but crazy Disney people is something I've wanted to touch on, but I know it will offend, so we'll move on.  No, in my Disney trips, I've been seeing a mass of people, and with these masses of people, I've been noticing massive amounts of terrible, just terrible tattoos.  People let's talk this out...granted I don't actually have any tattoos, but I do have good judgment, and that's what I want to talk about today.

Okay, first of all, I get it, you love Disney.  Since you were a kid it was a magical escape from your parents' broken marriage and all the moving around from one foster home to the next, but come on, do you really need to tattoo Disney crap on your body?  On your forty plus year old body?  No.  No, there's no need for the Tinker Bell, the Mickey Mouse ears or Captain Hook's hook - which by the way, doesn't fall under the "okay category" because Captain Hook is supposed to be "bad."  He's still a cartoon character, and let's be honest, if he is still afraid of a crocodile and a flying boy with a dagger, then he's not really "bad" either.

My second issue, and I would really like to take this poll right after the other Disney poll of, "Why are you here on March 1?  Do you not work?  Have you stolen these children?  Why have you all decided to come here on a Tuesday, when us moms, who don't work and who live down the street, have decided to come here?"  Sorry...oh yes, my first poll.  What was the original idea for this tattoo?  Were you talked into putting it across your chest and falling into your sagging breast area?  Is this tattoo for safety reasons?  I mean, was your idea to put the most ridiculous tattoo on your body so that if your body is ever found on the side of the road or at sea, your family members, though begrudgingly and slightly embarrassed, will have no choice but to immediately recognize and identify you?  Do you hate yourself?  Did you hate yourself when you received this?  Did you pay for this?  Was this a dare?  Great....thanks for your time.  (Me, giving the poll.)

My last issue is for the kids.  I feel for the kids who have to walk around with Dad and his coyote-howling-moon-barb-wired tattoo.  I bet her friends call him "coyote man" and not because they think he's cool.  Or, I wonder how much food could have been on the table had Mom not gotten those floating dolphins she's always wanted on her entire back.  Poor kids.

Listen, if tattoos are done right - I'm a fan.  But, from what I seen, those individuals don't frequent Disneyland.  (Does that disclaimer protect me from offending someone?)

Misled Through A Roller Coaster

The other day I road a roller coaster at Disneyland and it got me thinking.  Why do we do this - this roller coaster thing?  I mean seriously.  The name alone is a complete lie.  First, I hear "roller" and think, oh I know, like rolling hills.  Those are delightful to see from afar, or drive along at a calm pace in a car, or frolic through as I sing some epic ballad.  Ahhh....rolling....so nice and gentle.  And then there's the terribly chosen word of "coaster."  Coaster.  Or coasting.  I might be wrong here but I don't think anyone has ever described an out of control car by saying, "Yes, I saw it.  It came coasting through the intersection and hit a horse and carriage, then hit a building and finally six people, who were all killed on impact, and then continued down the road.  Yes, it was just coasting out of control."  Coasting.  Such a stupid word.  You know what coasts?  Boats in the water.  Strollers down sidewalks.  Not metal trains traveling at the speed of light.

And lastly, who decided to design these things?  Did someone survive a car crash and think, "You know, that abrupt speed change and rolling around was pretty fun.  I wonder if I could construct something to simulate that feeling of chancing death over and over again?"  And how did they get someone to go on it first?  Upside down?  "George, it's just going to coast through some nice rolling hills, ever so slightly drop down and then fight to get back up, and then coast around that circle there and back you'll be.  Easy Peezy!"  Liars.  All of them.

Just Give It to Me Albertsons

Lately, while I've been going to the grocery store I've been noticing that all the music that is being played, while I aimlessly walk around the place looking for mustard, has been music I know, and well, sort of grew up loving in high school and college.  At first, I sort of enjoyed singing along as I attempted to figure out what roll of paper towel was actually the most cost effective.  (Honestly, I feel like I need a math degree every time I enter the freaking store.  If one roll of paper is going for $6.99, but is only 68 yards long, should you buy the other roll for $7.65 that contains 80 yards?  And when train A leaves the station traveling at 64 miles per hour what time will it arrive...oh wait.)

Anyway, this constant stroll through my 2004 iPod was going great until the other day when I heard an artist, who I had just seen two years ago, and who I thought, was pretty cool and upcoming, blaring through the frozen section.  Immediately, I stopped and realized, it's happened.  My music isn't cool anymore.  I'm not cutting edge.  I'm not hip, in the know or whatever slang word kids are saying these days.  Crap, I just said, "kids these days."  And then, right there, while holding a cold bag of frozen carrots, I had it - the quasi-midlife-oh sh#t-when did I stop being cool moment.  Quickly, I started to think, and realized the fact that I was excited the frozen carrots were on sale AND were the round shape ones, was probably a good indicator that I was probably on the not cool road for longer than I had first thought.  And then I remembered watching the Grammy's for two seconds and heard myself say, "That Miley should really put some clothes on..." and "...who are all these people?"  How did I not see the signs?  Do I tweet?  No.  Did I vote for Obama?  No again!  Ah.  Do I have savings in my bank account? I do.  No cool, young, hip person has savings?  Who makes a joke about a savings account?  Not cool people - I say.  Who tries to sound like a town squire at the end of a joke?  Do I stay up late?  No, and not because I'm tired, but because I read that people who sleep 7-8 hours a night are less likely to get Alzheimer Disease.  Who cares about being senile and forgetful?  MEEE!  Can I name all the members of One Direction, do I wear heels out to dinner, have I seen a movie in a movie theater in the last year, do I joke about flossing - NO, NO, NO, NO.

That's it.  I give up.  Albertson's - you got me.  Go ahead play my tunes and don't laugh when I sing along.  This is my coolness going away party.