Figment

He glances at the van, accessing the condition of the interior.  "Which package would you like?"  he asks.

"I'm not sure.." 

"I bet the kids make a huge mess in there,"  he adds.

"Kids? I don't have any kids."  I laugh throatily as I run my perfectly manicured fingers through my long, freshly blown out blonde hair.  "This is my sister's car, and believe me, the mess in here is nothing compared to the mess in her house.  The dog hair alone...."  I shake my head in dismay.  "I'm getting the car cleaned as a favor to her, while she's having a spa day.  Right now, she is in the capable hands of Eduardo, my favorite masseur.  His hands are magic.  She'll be a new woman."  I exit the van, grabbing my clutch and Blackberry.   "Give it the works,"  I decide.

As I sashay inside to wait, I step gingerly over the puddle in front of the door.  Can't wreck the new Manolos....

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Okay, so what really happened is that the van had gotten to such a state of ewww that I thought I might have a family of rodents living under the seats.  I'd gotten a coupon at the gas station I frequent for a car wash, and partially for me, and mainly for Mr W, who really likes a clean car, I took the van in. 

I cringed a little at the comment about the kids making a mess in there as I knew the truth:  much like some people clean their houses before the maid comes over,  I'd given the van a once-over, tossing the trash and removing extraneous stuff (so it could be properly vacuumed).  He tried to sell me a detailing package, but he lost me when he said they could make the interior look "like new".  Honestly, dude, the only thing that would make my car interior look "like new" would be a new interior.  Puh-leese. 

I blew my mousy brown bangs off my forehead and shook my sad wilted ponytail, straightened my shoulders, and selected "Pacific Breeze" as my interior scent.

But I still sashayed inside to wait.  As 'sashay' as one can get holding the hand of a sick 8 year old (Ryan is a little under the weather).

When I got home, I still wound up wiping a lot of spots they missed, but that's okay.  When you are paying someone ten bucks (I had a coupon, remember) to tend to the Battle Van, clean windows and carpet go a long way in my forgiving them some spots around the base of the seats.

"Pacific Breeze," meet floral Fabuloso.

I may not be blonde, but courtesy of the haircut appointment I kept after the car wash, I have a fantastic straight diva blowout.

It's as "grrrrrrrrr" as I can get in mom-jeans and Vans.

Here, use my shirt

After aikido, Ryan gets a little sticker for participating.  He always gets one.  Then he comes out of class, and hands it to me or puts it right on my shirt, every time. 

I have to keep it on, until I change for the night, or else he gets a little offended.  It's just one of those little gestures that became a habit and is now a ritual.

As I sat there waiting for them the other night, I was talking to Remo over Audrey's head, amidst her interjections, trying to hang onto my chain of thought.  I swear, Remo gets a medal for being able to have conversations with me that get to the middle, shift to another topic altogether; then get interrupted as he stops to answer whatever question whichever random child of mine has posed to him, then pick up the original half-finished thought I started with without going "huh?"  (Or at the very least, he is gracious enough to pretend to know what I'm talking about.)  It's like I exhibit a form of adult ADD, trying to talk with the kids swirling around. 

All of a sudden, here comes Ryan, down the hallway, hand out in front of him, finger extended.  He headed straight for me, and thrust his little hand out under my nose.

Naturally, instantly, instinctively, I recoiled.

He looked at me, all offended.   "Mooom--  I'm trying to give you your sticker."

I looked down at his finger, and sure enough, there was a sticky-side up tiny star on his finger.

I felt bad.  But I started laughing, and clasped him carefully by the shoulders, so he wouldn't drop it.

I realized, just then, you know you are the mother of boys when you can say this:

"Son, I'm sorry.  I thought it was a booger." 

A different view

My meltdown the other day came to mind as I was straightening up all of Audrey's papers last night, the ones I found after she went to bed. 

She has taken to school so much that she will color and do her alphabet all night long.  And draw pictures.  I don't want to discourage her, so I let her run around with her clipboard full of paper, crayons or pen in hand.  However she tends to leave it where she stands if we call her to do something else.  She's not doing that to aggravate me, she's just doing it because she focuses on one thing, gets distracted, focuses on another, etc.   Thank goodness for her little white board.  She can erase that and start over, and there's no paper involved.

Except I nearly sat on the marker she left on the couch.  Doh!  **@#@

I thought of who it was I called whilst in the middle of losing it over a pile of papers and dust.  I called Mr W.

Ordinarily, I don't mind it too much when I write and I am frustrated, like the other day, because sometimes, you just need to vent.  But in all fairness to Mr W, I guess I should give him some props.  Not every man will patiently talk his wife down off the building when she's ready to jump.  I mean, some guys, they'd just offer a little push.

He listened to me the other day, and then I heard him answer someone else, so I realized he couldn't talk.  Which was okay.  He was busy.

I just needed to hear the sound of his voice.  He managed to get out something neutral but soothing, and off I went on my day.

The thing is, I can't do all the crazy things I do every day without support.  Mr W is my support.  While he is my cheerleader from time to time, giving me the "Yes, you can do it" when I'm faltering, he also just goes about his day knowing that I am taking care of business from my end.  He doesn't call me, micromanaging every second of "Were the kids late to school?"  It's more of an unspoken confidence that he has in me that I can do it, it''ll get done, and I do it well.

And that is what gets me through the day.

So even though I might rant, and feel the stone I push is bigger than the one he has, it's not really that way.

Sometimes, he pushes mine right along with me, and I just don't see it....

...because he's behind me.

The enforcers

Audrey came home from school earlier this week with an interesting story.

"Mommy, there's this boy, in my class, his name is Adrian, and he says he likes me, and when we grow up, I'm going to marry him."

I had to laugh.  She sounded a little disgusted.  "Did he ask you, or did he just say he was going to marry you?"

"He didn't ask.  He just says he's going to marry me."

Obviously, this child has no idea what he's getting himself into.  "Does he know about your brothers?  And your Dad?"  I asked her.

"Nope."

When we picked up the boys, she shared her story with them.  They were not impressed.  Nolan said he wouldn't allow it without meeting him, and Ben was just planning something with a staff.  Or was it a club?

I called Mr W.  "Audrey got a marriage proposal today,"  I said.

He laughed, but he couldn't talk (he was at work).   Later, I saw Audrey sitting on his lap, telling him about it.  "Eh, no big deal," he told her.  "Just tell him no."

"Can Ben come to my class to do it?"

And so it begins.

And after that, I have to tell you about this

My trip to Mexico was fantastic.  We got there late in the afternoon on Saturday, dropped our stuff off a the hotel (our room was not ready) and proceeded to pick up big, fat, cold beers and walk down the street with them.

We didn't even get in trouble for it until we were almost done with them.   Oops!

We walked around a lot that night, first to dinner (where we could look out over the ocean, in this second-floor, open air restaurant/bar); then through town, back to the hotel.  We went to a bar that was full of a frathouse vibe, so we left....and had street tacos in the middle of the night instead.   Later, as we sat on the beach with our beers, I was surprised we could still see the ocean, and surprised when my friend turned to me and said "Happy Birthday"-- it was well after midnight.

The next morning, she went for a run, and I went for coffee.  I met her on the beach, and collected all kinds of shells, then we gathered our stuff so we could check out, grab a bite, and shop some before heading back.  We were trying to get an early start as she promised my jailers I'd be home by like four or five.

They say that the best times are had when you don't plan them.   I'd have to say I agree.

We went back to the same place we'd eaten the night before as I was enamored of the chiliquiles; and the waiter recognized my friend (she goes to Mexico frequently) so he was chatting with us.  "Your boyfriend, from last time?  He works over there."  (He pointed across the street.)  The waiter leaned out the window and hollered across the street.  I saw a man turn towards us.  My friend looked over, waving, and although he is not her boyfriend anymore, she still wanted to see him, so I told her to go, content to just sit and look at the ocean, sipping my juice.

A few minutes later, she came back, and said that the restaurant/bar was empty, and that her friend, Javier, wanted us to come over there.  So off we went.

Like most times, when you go someplace empty, once you arrive, lots of other people come.  Javier was the only waiter over there, so he motioned for us to have a seat, and asked us what we wanted to drink.  I asked for a coke.  He brought me a Tecate.  "It's five o'clock somewhere," we joked as we squeezed in our limes.  Javier came and sat with us in between waiting on the other patrons (a couple, and a table with 2 men and a lady).   Suddenly, my friend grinned and told Javier, "She needs a caballito."  I'd never heard of a drink called a 'little horse' but I was game.  I panicked, initially, when I saw him pouring three shots; but relaxed when I realized it was one shot for each of us. 

One of the patrons at the other table looked at our shots with a quizzical, 'I-want-what-their-having' expression, and my friend said, "Oh, it's her birthday," as she gestured to me.   "Really?" the man responded, "It's his birthday too."  as he gestured to his tablemate.

After that, it was all over.  They ordered shots too, and us another round.  To toast our birthdays, of course.  I had another Tecate, because Javier set his down, and was busy, and why waste a cold one?  The guy who shared my birthday had a name I know and love --- Ben--- and he proved to be every bit as sociable as my Ben.  Pretty soon, he was introducing all of us to each other (more people had arrived), and the tequila and conversation was just flowing.  We ate, we socialized, we drank...and it was great fun.   I even remembered to text message Mr W that we were going to be later than I thought, early on in the festivities while I was still coherent.

The funny thing is that I didn't get toooo hammered.  I was keeping up, but I was eating too, and the atmosphere was festive, not "let's drink until we puke."

I was so excited that I got an entire place to start drinking in honor of my birthday.  Loved that!

Javier wound up driving back with us partway, as he was having a good time, and he hadn't seen my friend in a while.  

It was a really good time.  I really enjoyed speaking  and hearing all the Spanish, and it was really hard to leave.  I wish we could've stayed another day.  I got back home at eight.  I found myself longing for a big fat beer.....Monday morning.

But that's okay, because that means I will have to get back there that much sooner.

I may even take Mr W next time.

And surprisingly enough, he's game. 

(Yes, Remo, he knows that there's no Wendy's there.)