Go fish

When we were in Lake Tahoe last weekend, we planned to celebrate my birthday on Saturday night, you know, since my husband wasn't around for my actual birthday on Thursday. He was "working" in DC. Whatever, lame.

I knew I wanted to go to this awesome sushi place, Naked Fish, so we headed there with our friends around 8 p.m. with the knowledge it would be a bit of a wait. When we arrived, they said it would be about 45 minutes, so we told the hostess we would be at the pizza place next store getting a beer. She said that sounded like an excellent idea because there were two tables ahead of us.

After we downed some beers, we made our way back over the sushi place about 50 minutes after we left. Josh went to see where our name was on the list and the hostess told him they skipped us since we weren't there. No biggie, we assumed they would just throw the next table our way.

Except we watched as four different tables were seated before us. What the? Josh went up to see what the hell was going on. The hostess told him that because we weren't there when they called us, they sent us back to the bottom of the list.

Now I don't know how they roll in Tahoe, but in Chicago, if you specifically tell the hostess you are going to grab a beer next door IN THE SAME DAMN BUILDING, they might give you a heads up. They also would put you at the top of the wait list when you return.

I wasn't going to let this go, so I headed for the hostess desk myself.

"So why didn't you guys tell us we would go to the end of the list if we weren't here?" I asked. "We told you where we were going and you said it was fine."

The hostess shrugged her shoulders and said, "Well, it is what it is."

My jaw dropped to the floor and I almost jumped out of my skin. NO. SHE. DIDN'T.

"You did NOT just say that to a customer," I gasped.

"Oh honey, I didn't mean it like that," she said, touching my arm as she came out from behind the podium.

"How exactly did you mean it then?" I asked.

She just shrugged her shoulders. "It won't be long," she sniffed.

And what I am about to say will stun you: we waited for the table because having been there before, I knew how good the sushi was and by 9 p.m., I didn't feel like hauling ass anywhere else. I think the fact they probably spit in our food just added to the deliciousness.

Moral of the story? Naked Fish Sushi in South Lake Tahoe is a bunch of asshats with some amazing sushi. Dine at your own risk.

Next-day delivery of attitude

Yesterday, the FedEx guy must have been in super-stealth mode because I was sitting on the couch all day with Swine Flu boy and never heard him at the gate. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, we don't have a doorbell outside our gate, but I usually hear and see people rattling the handle when I am in the living room. But whatever, he came and went.

He left the little "sorry we missed" you notice that said he would be back today. Josh reminded me to leave the gate open this morning, thus making his wife and eldest child susceptible to a break-in, but nevermind that, the delivery of his friend's laptop was of utmost importance.

FedEx man finally arrived at 1:15 p.m. I only knew he arrived because he was standing on the porch when I happened to glance outside. Again with the stealth moves. I waited a minute for him to ring the doorbell, and kept waiting because he didn't.

Curious, I opened the door and he looked up and spat out, "It's about time. You're finally here."

I'm sorry, did we have a date? Was there some FedEx etiquette I breached by not being available yesterday?

I looked at him with a blank stare and he shoved the package at me. I fumbled it a little and said, "Umm. Well. Sorry. Busy schedule, you know."

He just grunted and grabbed the electronic signature pad and thrust it into my general direction. After I signed, he grabbed it out of my hand and bounded down the stairs without so much as a wave.

I am not sure how I offended him, but clearly, he hates me. My Christmas shopping is really going to suffer these next few weeks because I am now afraid to order anything that won't arrive UPS or USPS, lest I piss him off even more. Kids, I hope you didn't really want anything that absolutely, positively needs to be here on time because I will be hiding in the closet the next time I hear the truck pull up.

Being neighborly

A few months ago, you may recall we had a little visitor in our house.

After that debacle, we had a lock installed on the front gate to our property to match the locked gate at the back of our property. I like to say we live in Fort Knox now, because unless you have a key or a garage-door-opener, you ain't gettin' in. I feel pretty secure and am happy with the situation because it means I don't have to buy a gun. Not that I don't think you shouldn't be able to have a gun. I am all for licensed, trained firearms owners exercising their right to bear arms. Or their right to bare arms, although only if they work out because I see enough of my own flabby triceps and don't need to see anyone else's.

Not so happy about the gated community we've established is our new next-door neighbor. Our old next-door neighbor moved away last week and the new people moved in. Like many residents in this area, they're renters, young whippersnappers just out of college. I have seen their landlord, the owner of the house three feet to the south of our house, the house where we can see into their bathroom and got to know the sex lives of our neighbors two years ago a little too intimately, exactly four times in the last four years. He doesn't have someone come and remove the snow, he doesn't really give a shit about his property, he just shows up when something major needs fixing or when new people move in.

Genius Landlord, as we'll call him, has owned his building about 150 years longer than we've owned ours. And he has been taking advantage of our property situation by telling his tenants to access their basement laundry room by opening our front gate, walking down our stairs, meandering down our little sidewalk and re-entering his property via a door under his deck.

Which used to scare the living shit out of me several nights a week when I would hear people clomping down the stairs at midnight and think someone was trying to break in and kill me. It makes perfect sense to do laundry at midnight on a Monday, no?

In the winter, we don't shovel the steps going down to the ground level because A. there's no reason we need to go down there and B. by not shoveling, we can see any footprints and know if some unsavory characters have been lurking about where they are not supposed to be. That and we can see if any urban fauna (i.e. rats) have chosen to grace us with their presence.

But that presents a dilemma for us. Because we don't shovel the stairs or the path (let's not kid ourselves, mostly because we are lazy), but our neighbors use it to access their laundry facilities, they could sue the organic crackers out of us if they slip and fall. One of Josh's best friends is a personal injury attorney, and if you hear about all the ways you could get screwed by a personal injury on your property, well let's just say your butthole puckers at the mere thought of someone stubbing their pinky toe at your house.

On the advice of our attorney, we decided not to give a gate key to the new neighbors. It's too much risk. Not to mention, all Genius Landlord has to do is cut a hole in his deck and drop a staircase in there and the tenants have access. Nice and easy. Everybody wins.

New Neighbor called the house last night to ask for a key to the gate. Josh explained the situation and politely told him it's not happening and to call his landlord to figure out what to do. New Neighbor was displeased. Said suing was, "not my style." Unfortunately, living out of a box under an overpass with three kids is "not our style" and we're not giving up the key.

He tried to argue with Josh about the merits of property access and told Josh that if he breaks into our property and falls and hurts himself, he could still sue us. Umm, not sure how credible that case would be, but as Josh pointed out, if we give him a key, that's giving him permission to enter and that's certainly going to hold up in court.

So they parted on not-so-great terms and I am waiting for Genius Landlord to take an interest in this and get out the plot of survey and start duking out access rights with us any minute. In the meantime, I hope New Neighbor doesn't start throwing his dirty boxers over the fence in protest. Because I would totally do something assholish like that if I was him.

Ladies Day doesn't mean Manners Day

I had to get the oil changed in my vehicle today and because I had no one to watch the kids, I dragged them along with me. This was a source of great concern to Jack. What were we doing? Why did we need to "change the car?" Where were we going to do it? Would there be a special treat involved? You know, standard 3-year-old concerns.

I herded them into the car and drove in the general vicinity of where Google Maps told me there was a quick oil change joint in Peoria. I chose this sort of establishment because I am familiar with the concept: you pull up, wait in your car, drive into the little garage compartment, wait in your car some more, pay and leave.

It's all very nice and easy because you don't have to get out of the car. Which means you don't have to unbuckle first child, remove first child from car, carry first child to other side of car, unbuckle second child, help second child climb down, balance first child in one arm while trying to keep grip on second child's arm as he tries to run away in parking lot, wait in waiting area with two children, poke eyes out because two children won't sit still or STOP TOUCHING THINGS, Twitter from cell phone about horrid experience while children grab candy out of pay machine despite not depositing any money, take candy away and listen to children die because of unfairness, ignore dirty looks from other man waiting for his car, take windshield wiper out of first child's mouth, pay bill, pick up first child who is now screaming because you are leaving, drag second child by arm as he refuses to walk normally through parking lot, shove second child into car while he yells about wanting a special treat, watch helplessly as second child climbs into front seat and laughs hysterically, walk first child around to other side of car and strap her writhing body into carseat, threaten second child that if he does not get into his carseat THISINSTANTIWILLNEVERTAKEYOUANYWHEREEVERAGAIN, walk around to other side of car, watch as second child scampers into backseat laughing, tell second child there will be no special treat, strap second child into carseat while he wails about lack of special tret, walk back around car yet again, get in car, bang head on steering wheel, start car, drive home, vowing to never, ever, ever take children anywhere again. Ever.

Not that I would be familiar with any of those events.

After I drove about a mile out of my way, I realized I might have missed the oil change place. I turned around, while being interrogated by Jack about where the "car change" place was, and finally located it. I decided to check the price before committing to the procedure and almost fell over when I found out it was $38. Nothankyouverymuch.

Again, Jack shows grave concern over leaving. I explain it was too expensive and surely Mommy could find a cheaper place than the Mobil chain. Walmart! Walmart has an oil change place. Ooooooh, but you have to get out of the car. Dilemmma: save money or damage sanity and place undue stress on unborn embryo. Decide embryo has six more months to get over it. Josh will be so pleased when I report back that I went to Walmart.

I arrived in the lot and hustled the kids out of car, hauled ass into Walmart only to hear the clerk tell me there are six people waiting in front of me. I crumpled to the ground and wept, but he didn't care. So I dragged the children back to the car in search of something else.

You might be asking yourself at this point why I didn't just go another damn day. Valid question. Because at this point, it became the "principle of the thing." Now I had to get the freaking oil changed and no one was going to stop me. Oh ho no.

I started to drive aimlessly in the direction of the new mall (the old mall is still in existence in Peoria, but since this one was built five years ago, everyone calls it the new mall, although it is no longer new) thinking maybe I would just wander around there and entertain the kids for a while.

Except on the way, I saw a drive-up oil change place! Joy in Mudville! Even Jack was smiling and talking about how we CAN get the car changed!

I pulled up to the bay door and asked if I could please, for the love of all that is good and holy, stay in the car with the kids. The pleasant young man checking me in said it would not be a problem as long as he drove the car into the bay. Noooooo problem.

I jumped into the passenger seat, which sent Jack into a state of panic, and the young man drove it in. Another nice young mechanic was about to get to work on the car when a surly mechanic one bay over yelled at him, "Why is that woman in the car?"

Mechanic 1 looked a little startled and said that I requested it because of the kids. Mechanic 2 FREAKS out on him and yells, "Well if the car starts on fire, she'll never get those kids out of the seats in time. You should know better." Because you read all the time about cars catching on fire during ROUTINE OIL CHANGES.

During this exchange between what I find out is a mere worker (nice Mechanic 1) and his boss (surly Mechanic 2), I rolled down the motorized window, removed my sunglasses and said to Mechanic 2, "Dude, calm down. You don't need to yell at him. I told him I wanted to stay in."

Mechanic 2 then turns his seething anger at the gods of carseats on me.

"You can't be in the car," he said.
"I have stayed in the car hundreds of times for oil changes, I will take my chances," I said.
"I can't let you do that."
"They let you do that at Jiffy Lube."
"Well, this ain't Jiffy Lube."
"I can tell you, I wish it was right about now."
"I sure don't."

Since the oil pan was already open and I was staring down imminent death from spontaneous oil change combustion, I sighed and went through the complete works of child removal from the vehicle. (See: paragraph 3.)

Except there was one more little "F-you" from the universe waiting for me. This oil change joint didn't take American Express. Guess who only had her driver's license, AmEx and $18 in cash with her for a $28 bill? Of course. Because the world hates me.

The manager stared daggers into my tires, willing them to deflate by the power of his mind while I asked nicely if I could leave my license and come back to pay later after my husband got home with a suitable Visa card. They said that would be fine and I was on my merry way.

I returned later in the afternoon with Visa in hand and the guy seemed surprised to see me. I asked him if he really thought I would skip out on the bill and he laughed and said no, but that he would not blame me. He then lowered his voice and said he was sorry about the whole thing. I remarked that his boss was a wee bit crabby and he said he was like that all morning. He rang up the order and asked me for $27. I asked why it was cheaper than what they billed me for in the morning and he shrugged. "They must have forgotten to give you the Ladies Day discount," he said, gesturing to the huge banner hanging outside.

So not only did the bastard ruin my day, he tried to screw me as well. In the end, I saved $3 over what I would have forked over at Walmart but gained some outstanding blog material. It was a wash, I guess.

Don't take a picture, it won't last longer

Let me make a public service announcement about a pandemic that's sweeping the nation. And no, it's not the damn swine flu. It's people taking pictures at concerts with camera phones.

PEOPLE. Your camera phone is not going to take a decent shot of anything, much less a teeny-tiny figure up on the stage 20 yards away. All you are going to see is a blurry figure in front of colored lights.

Ditto with pictures of the crowd.

Don't even get me started with the pictures of your friends. It's really annoying when you take 47 pictures of your friends, 30 of which you are self-portraiting with them from an arm's length away. Those pictures won't turn out either, just FYI. You'll inevitably cut your head off or have your eyes closed.

We went to the Franz Ferdinand concert tonight. It was awesome. Except for the girl in front of me who I was about to punch in the face because she wouldn't stop with the damn camera phone. And it had a flash -- now with twice as much annoyance!

So please, just say no to concert pictures. We're all depending on you.

Of course it's not right

We ordered carpet from Empire (yes, the annoying "588-2300 Emmmmmpiiiire" jingle people) for the basement, with the guarantee it would be installed three days from when we ordered it. We specifically told them we wanted it today. It was the whole reason we went with them versus the other guy.

The told us they would arrive anytime between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m. Of course, we waited all day and they showed up at 4:30 p.m.

AND OF COURSE, THE CARPET WAS THE WRONG COLOR. Of course it was. Because nothing about this godforsaken remodeling project ever goes right.

So now they have to bring the correct carpet tomorrow morning. Can you sense my love for this development?

Scarfing it down

Setting: the nearby Dairy Queen, 8:45 p.m. on one of the nicest days of the year. There's a line out the door and everyone is dressed in shorts and T-shirts.

In walks a woman wearing a SCARF. A wool scarf wrapped around her neck. Seriously? You're coming for ice cream, it's 75 degrees at night and you're wearing a muffler?

I watched as she ordered and consumed a dip cone. And then shivered and wrapped her arms around her sides. I half-expected to see her blowing on her hands and pulling on boots.

It was 80 degrees today. I'm not sure if she spent the day in a meat locker, but WTF?

Crabby old ladies

Today's Baby Watch 2008 update: nothing to report. After yesterday's spotting and contractions post-appointment, today has been full of nothing at all. I am glad of it, to be honest. We're going to a movie tonight and I kind of like the idea of managing this birth next Tuesday, so there we have it.

Let me share with you my little story of annoyance from this weekend. I decided to run away from home for the afternoon, doing frivolous things like going to the post office to mail Jack's birthday party invitations and then stopping at a mall. I needed to return some pajamas and I wanted to get some new eye cream. Craziness, I know.

So I return the pajamas first. I park, relatively close to one of the store's entrances, and saunter in to the first counter I see. Let's remember: more than nine months pregnant, not in the mood for any bullshit.

As any fool knows, you can return anything at any counter in a department store. You don't need to go directly to the department from whence it came. So I inform the woman I have a return.

This particular store, Carson Pirie Scott, only appears to employ crabby women over the age of 60. I am not kidding, every time I have ever gone to Carson Pirie Scott, which is a lot over my lifetime, I have never been waited on by someone not matching this description.

This old lady looks at my return and says, "This is from the lingerie department!" Well, yes, they are pajamas, but I suppose they live over there. I look at her and say, "Well, you can return them at any counter, right?"

"Yes," she replies. "But then I would have to walk them all the way over there to put them back. So..."

I look at her and with as level a voice as possible, say, "Well I am nine-and-a-half-months pregnant and I call tell you, I would rather you walk over there than me."

She looks down at the belly and then looks annoyed and says, "Well. Umm. Yes. I guess it's fine then."

But my annoying clerks story doesn't stop there. I go on to the next establishment, Bloomingdales, where I am continuing my fruitless search for a new eye cream. A bit of history: I have been looking for a new eye cream to battle my genetic dark circles since August. No joke.

I have tried many, many creams to no avail. (If you have one you like, for chronic dark circles, please do share.) I have committed myself to trying samples of each brand for at least two weeks to see if they make a difference. Then I move on to a new brand.

At Sephora and Ulta, the clerks could not have been more helpful and willing to let me try different samples. They were so generous with their product, I probably could have kept myself in eye cream for free for the rest of the year.

My friend, she of the Supacoo blog, suggested Borghese eye cream. They only sell it around here at Bloomingdales, so that brings us to the present day with me standing at the Borghese counter.

The saleswoman asks if I need help and I say a friend recommended the eye cream and I would like to try it out before I commit to plunking down $100 for something that might not work.

She smoothly tells me they don't have samples. I respond by asking could she please make one up from her tester then, in a small pot? She looks annoyed, but goes to the drawer and pulls out a small pot and puts about a drop in there.

She then haughtily looks at me and says, "Well you can take this, but I can tell you, you'll need to use at LEAST a half-tube of this product before you see a difference. You won't see anything after using this small amount."

"Perhaps you could give me a little more then, so I can get a sense of it," I say. "I have been trying various eye creams looking for one that works and most stores have been willing to work with me."

She recoils, I am not kidding, and says in the most dramatic voice possible, "I can't POSSIBLY give you that much product. I find it hard to believe others did. What store would DO that?"

I reply, "Sephora. Which clearly appreciates my business more. I'm not trying to steal eye cream here. I am just trying to find something that works without wasting a lot of money."

She drops the pot in the bag, and says, "Sorry I could not be of more help. You can contact our manager if you would like. Here's her card."

Lady. You're selling COSMETICS. At a DEPARTMENT STORE. You're not Coco Chanel. get over yourself and divvy out the samples. GOD.

Gone, but not forgotten

It's always nice to be remembered by former co-workers isn't it? You share so many good times and inside jokes and drunken parties, it's nice to look back on those times with nostalgia and fondness.

Remember last year, when I had to fly to New York for business and there was a whole debacle about a co-worker taking my room and I was breastfeeding and there was a fridge in the stolen room and I was totally pissed? You can refresh your memories right here with the Dec. 11, 2006 post.

So apparently, that same co-worker remembered that little mixup with the rooms as well. And then felt the need to be all "haha aren't I clever and cute" about it in an e-mail to several of my former co-workers.

Tsk, tsk. Like I don't know all and see all. I am mother for chrissakes, I have eyes in the back of my head. Ask my kid, I know everything. In fact, here's a copy of the email she sent out -- handy that I have it right here isn't it?

___________________________________
From: O------, Natalie
Sent: Friday, December 07, 2007 1:33 PM
To: REDACTED; REDACTED; REDACTED; REDACTED; REDACTED; REDACTED; REDACTED
Subject: RE: MinuteMen Car Service

I’d like a room with a small refrigerator for my breast milk – oh wait Amy’s not here anymore – I mean my vodka.

Thanks,
Natalie

------------------------------------
Natalie O------
Marketing Producer
MLB Advanced Media
(redacted)
_____________________________________

It's always nice to see other women being so SUPPORTIVE of working mothers isn't it? And I really think it's great when other women are so SUPPORTIVE of breastfeeding.

Perhaps someone needs to send Natalie some information from La Leche League about the benefits of breastfeeding and the proper milk storage procedures. I don't think there's anything in the literature about storing it with vodka, but I may not have read it closely enough.

(Editor's note: Upon further review and two years time, I have chilled out on this issue. Not the fact that former co-worker was a total tool for her e-mail, but in that you don't use your blog as a platform for bullying people. I have edited this post on 9/4/09 to remove Natalie's email and last name. I like to think of it as maturing. Just wanted to add an editor's note in case this published to my RSS feed and people were all "why the hell am I getting a post from Dec. 2007?")

Whole Paininmyass

As I believe I have mentioned in the past, we live three blocks from a Whole Foods, Trader Joe's and Sunflower Market. I want for nothing when it comes to organic food and to have it in walking distance is ridiculously awesome.

But the whole "no lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk" restriction with a cerclage makes my shopping a wee more difficult. If I can't fit it in the basket under the stroller, I can't buy it. Or I have to send Josh.

Today, we needed just about everything Jack eats in a week. I knew we needed milk for me and for Josh (yes, there are three of us in this house and we all drink different milks: whole, chocolate and skim) so there was no way I could carry it all.

Since I was going to look for a new pair of maternity pants at the Gap (Ha! Hahahaha that was a great time. I came home empty-handed.) I told Josh I would just take the car to Whole Foods on the way home.

Let me set the scene for you. We live three blocks from one of the busiest retail corridors of the city. Between now and Christmas, we generally try to take the car out as little as possible on the weekends because the traffic is so hellacious. Don't even get me started on the parking at Whole Foods, which shares a 200-spot parking lot with a Best Buy. They actually have valet parking at Whole Foods between Thanksgiving and New Year's. It's INSANE.

Of course, where am I on a Sunday afternoon, when there is no Bears game on to occupy people? At a grocery store. What an idiot I am.

So I pull into the back row of the parking lot and see an open spot, which someone is blinkering toward from the front of the spot, and a guy going to the car right next to it, which I blinker toward from behind. So two cars (on the same side of the row), two blinkers and two spots.

Of course, some asshat in a Jetta comes the opposite way down the row and turns into the empty spot. OH NO YOU DIDN'T. And seriously, people still drive Jettas?

I gesture wildly, in effect communicating, "Get the hell out of there, that is so NOT your spot." He smirks and waves and the people in front, who actually have dibs on that spot, just get pissed and drive on. But I roll down the window.

"Dude, I was here first, and that is not even the spot I was taking. It's for that guy up there. That is so not your spot."

Smirky Driver says, "Calm down. There's two spots."

Me: "Right, and two people waiting. Neither of which was you. Move."

So he pulls out. And his girlfriend decides to get in on the act and inform me I should just "calm down" while gesticulating with her manicured hand. Smirky Driver rolls up his window and away they go.

So yes, I won the parking battle. And it felt damn good. Then, on the way back to my car after shopping, I nudged a Porsche with my cart by accident. I am not sure what kind of karmic message that is, but insert your own interpretation here.