'You are now off track' - Is the Universe trying to speak to me through my GPS?

Last week I had a morning that had me wishing for a fast forward button to Wine O'Clock.


GOOD MOR-NING, GOOD MOR-NING. . . BA BA BA-BA-BA BABA BA BA BA
(cell phone alarm song)
It was far too early . . .
Hit snooze one too many times.
Jumped out of bed like I was on fire.
Did the 5 Minute makeup routine and got dressed.
C O F F E E
Packed The Chicklet's travel bag.
Spent far too much time trying to coax The Chicklet to eat something for breakfast.
Wrangled a sleepy Chicklet (who inherited my lack of enthusiasm for the morning).
Dressed her nicely and fixed her hair in record time.


And we drove off......Whew!


Debated the accuracy of the Google Maps directions and turned on my phone's GPS system.
Feeling okay....a little time to spare even with alternate directions


And then it happened.


'Mummy, I don't feel good'. (insert vomit sounds here)
I could not turn around fast enough and my brain froze as I watched her erupt like Mt. Vesuvius all over her dress.
We pulled over, and the GPS said 'you are now off track'; I stripped her down in a parking lot, and tried to clean her car seat as much as possible.

Me:         'I guess we should just go home.  We can reschedule it all.'

Hubby:    'We can at least drop the paperwork off, let's still go.'

Chicklet:  'I need clothes!  I want a dress!' 'I NEED A DRESS!!!'

It now dawned on me, that we left the house without a change of clothes.
Probably for the first time ever.


* Side note:  I always over pack for The Chicklet.  From the day she came home from the hospital, I have packed efficiently for multiple possibilities on how her day may go, regardless of where we are traveling.  I have been picked on relentlessly by friends and family; but the truth is, I am almost always prepared, and rarely have to deal with an uncomfortable, bored or hungry child as a result.  Happy baby = happy Mummy.  Happy wife = happy life.  Words to live by my friends . . . words to live by.


Time to pop into Mummy McGuyver mode . . .


My husband found a clean t-shirt in his gym bag.  I gave The Chicklet a wet wipe bath, threw the t-shirt on her and quickly fixed her hair.
She protested the fact she was swimming in the t-shirt but was packed back into her car seat anyway.


We start off again, the GPS lady said 'you are now on track'; and miraculously make it to our destination with 10 minutes to spare.
I grabbed the packet to drop off and make a last minute decision to bring The Chicklet in with me.


I carried her and rushed in.  The receptionist ushered us into the room much quicker than expected (did we smell and they did not want to offend the others?), and I felt utterly frazzled.
Like a true McGuyver Mummy, I fashioned her t-shirt into an'80's style dress, kissed her lips so she had a little gloss on them (pure adrenaline kept me from noticing the lingering smell of vomit on her lips), and wiped some fresh scented lotion on her body.  Praying nobody will notice she is dressed and smelled like a mini Madonna after a night on the town.


As I stood in line, I suddenly hear a voice.....


'YOU ARE NOW OFF TRACK' 
'YOU ARE NOW OFF TRACK'
People turn around and look at me


What?  Who?  When?  How?  Where?
I finally realized the voice was coming from my bag.
It's my phone!  I never turned the GPS off!!!!


I suddenly wonder, is the Universe speaking to me through my GPS?
'YOU ARE NOW OFF TRACK'
As if to say, okay lady, scheduling this early in the morning,
giving you inaccurate directions and having your child vomit all over herself was not enough of a clue?
I see I cannot be vague with you.
So here it is dummy, YOU ARE NOW OFF TRACK!


Holy crap!  Is this God speaking to me via cell phone???  Should I call the Vatican?
I am positive my eyes were bugging out of my head as I contemplated the meaning behind this declaration.


I turned the GPS off and after handing the paperwork over, was told we were sent in with the wrong group.  I need to go back out and come in with the next group.


Ah, so the GPS lady was right . . .  I was indeed off track.


Now if I can only get my GPS to tell me 'IT'S WINE O'CLOCK NOW", I will be all set.


Until then, I eagerly await my next message from the Universe,
via my phone's GPS.

Snark - it's what's for breakfast

I am not a morning person. 

I don't understand why the sun insists on rising so early every day, and wish it would sleep in and stay up a little later at night.  So, as you might suspect, I tend to be a bit snarky in the morning.
Okay, before anyone outs me, I am snarky all the time; but after many years of practice, I manage to contain my snarkiness to acceptable levels most of the time.
Beware of the pre-morning coffee snark though.  It can be relentless. 
This blog could just as easily be named 'Coffee O'Clock' because it is another necessary moment of life in my household.  But my love for a cuppa java is a story for another time . . .

This morning I slept in a little (thank you to my wonderful husband and a cold that kept The Chicklet in bed a little longer than usual....hm, did I just give thanks to my child being ill?  Child services, you can ignore that comment) so my snark level was not in the red zone.  Had it been in the red zone, I would never have gotten past hitting the 'block' button, and missed out on this entire conversation.

I poured my coffee and sat down to sift through my emails.

* bing *

Me, in all my glory and snark.  A very common snarl given to all who dare to do something dumb or irritating before I have had my cup of coffee.  Oh, thank goodness my hand is so close to the camera that I appear to have Fred Flintstone hands . . . joy.

I have an instant message from Peggy Smith, do I want to accept it?
Sure, why not . . .

Excerpt from actual instant message chat:

PS:  Hi, how are you?
ME: Who is this?
PS:  I like to meet new people and chat, I found you in the directory.
ME: Uh-huh, and what made you think I would be a good candidate for your morning chat?
PS:  Where are you from?
ME: Earth, and you?
PS:  Very nice, I am 19, do you mind if I ask you a question?
ME: (apparently my earth comment has not phased this person) Sure, keep on phishing, I am 19 too (snicker) but I have to warn you, I can only answer earth related questions.  I have not brushed up on my intergalactic facts.
PS:  Would you like to see me?  We can do a camera chat.


* at this point I freeze in terror.  Can this idiot initiate a video chat without my permission?  I am sitting here with tangled hair piled on top of my head, no makeup, no bra, and my pajama shirt.  A hot mess of a combination on earth or elsewhere. (Ah yes, my husband is a very lucky man)


ME: Not really, I have not had my coffee yet and am not sure I will react with an acceptable level of couth if you look like a glob of slime with eyes and a mouth, or some other equally repulsive feature an intergalactic being might have.
PS:  Check out my website (insert link to what I am sure is soft core porn here)
ME:  No thanks.  I have my personal satellite focused on your home right now.  No need for a link to see you.
PS:  I am 19 and looking to chat with new people, click on my link.
ME:  You seem to have difficulty understanding the English language.  It's okay, don't feel bad.  Many on Earth have trouble with it even when it is their first language.  I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you, especially when you have a full time job in the porn industry.  Leaves very little time for studying I am sure.
PS:  Yes, nice, chat live with me, click the link
ME:  I told you, I have no use for your link.  My satellite is now focused on your location and . . . hey, I can see you are neither a 19 year old, nor a girl. 
PS:  It is free and easy.  Just click on the link (insert same link here)
ME:  Knock knock . . . look out your window.  I can see you, can you see me? 
ME:  Listen, you slimy pervert, it's been fun and all; but I have things to do.  Be sure to put some pants on.  The men in black are probably en route to your location right now.  I contacted them and reported suspicious actions by an illegal intergalactic alien.

*Peggy Smith is now offline*

Well, 40 year old male shut-in, AKA:  Peggy Smith, now that I had some fun, you are hereby blocked.

Ah, the fun to be had while having my cup of coffee.  Snark, it's what's for breakfast.

Bring home wine or the child goes on eBay (Debunking the Supermom Myth Episode 1)

I'm writing from an undisclosed location today,
in fear the women with perfectly coiffed hair, pressed khakis, cute kitten heeled shoes, humming i-Phones, spotless homes, and 'perfect' children, will hunt me down and discreetly dispose of me.

I've been doing a lot of talking lately, and the more I discuss the highs and lows of parenthood with my amazing friends, the more I am made aware of how horribly wrong America has it, and how I might be just the person to start a crusade to debunk the myth of The Supermom.

You can have it all!

A sparkling career!

A flawless marriage!

Perfect Children!

You can attend everything with ease... meetings, first moments in your perfect childrens' lives, date nights, athletic events, and maintain a well oiled household at the same time.

While you are at it, you can also make home cooked meals every day from the purely organic foods you pick up at the grocer and farm market.

Yes, you can have it all, with no help.....at the low low price of YOUR SANITY!

Sure, and in exchange for the blueprints on how to be a Supermom, I will tell you how to buy The Brooklyn Bridge.

Cryptozoologists need to stop looking for Bigfoot (because my husband is taking that job over) and Nessie and start looking for the elusive Supermom.  The local paranormal society would make millions if they take on debunking and eliminating the hauntings by pseudo Supermoms.

The Supermom does not exist on her own.
The Supermom appears to have her crap together while accomplishing everything, without a drop of sweat on her brow; but in reality has more help than she lets on, and secretly hates herself for not living up to the Supermom standards.
Standards set by somebody who hates all mothers, or perhaps a pharmaceutical company looking to up their anti depressant/anti anxiety/ how the f*$# do I do it all without falling to pieces, happy pills.

I don't care . . .
What stage of parenthood you are in . . . pregnancy to get the heck out of my house
Whether you do it all alone or with a partner or husband
If you make peanuts or have a goose that lays golden eggs.
Whether you have 1 or 15 kids
If you have were born wanting to be a mother or were bound to win a Nobel Peace Prize before you were sidetracked by your glorious pregnancy

Nobody is Supermom.  If they claim to be, they are either lying through their beautifully capped teeth, delusional, or have a well trained and discreet entourage of nannies assisting them.

Not every pregnancy is pretty, glowing and full of double rainbows and butterflies.
Not every delivery is scripted for a new episode of Supermom on television.
Not every new parent has a clue how to care for their new bundle of joy.
Not every mother can juggle a career and home without bumps in the road.
Not every stay at home mum can deal with the incessant needs of little people day in and day out, with a smile every minute of the day.

The list goes on and on...... there is NO Supermom.  In case you have selective hearing, like the little person in my house, I will say it again, there is NO Supermom.

We all have flaws.
We all struggle.
Most of us will even have moments we wonder what possessed us to want children (hey, another job for the local paranormal society).
As much as I adore The Chicklet, and insanity help me, would like to have a sibling for her, there have been many days my husband has received the late afternoon text
'Bring home wine, or the child goes up on eBay'.
She's awfully cute, and I think I could get a good price for her.  It's a good thing I've grown pretty attached to her, or I really might have done it.

The moral of the story for today, is that Supermom does not exist, and if anyone makes you feel you anything less than a wonderful mother when not living up to the unachievable standards of the Supermom, you should cover them in honey and introduce them to your local badger.  Seriously.

So, I raise my glass of wine and salute my fellow parents, for all that you are, warts and all.
It's the toughest job out there with ridiculously long hours, and I commend all of you for hanging in there day after day.  It's worth it . . . at least I feel it is.  Even if we do count the minutes down to Wine O'Clock some days.

Signing off for now; but definitely more to come on the subject of raising the wild little people in our lives.

~ Signed, a Supermom, with a defective cape and superhero boots with holes in them.
So, I suppose I am just a Regularmom while I return this cheap piece of crap to the manufacturer, and head over to the local shoe repair shop.

Welcome to the neighborhood, weirdos

I'm fairly sure we will not be receiving any casseroles or pies to welcome us into the neighborhood.  We might, however, receive garlic infused dishes and see the neighbors scoot quickly inside their homes.
That's because, in the two short months that we have resided in the littlest state in the union, we have secured our spot as the neighborhood weirdos.


Let me back track a little.  I am a space nerd, and am raising a space nerdette.  We've run out in all sorts of weather to see the International Space Station fly overhead, and froze our buns off to watch comet storms.
Remember the Super Moon back in March?  We bundled up, and braved the cold weather to watch the Supermoon rise on the horizon, at a local beach in southern Maine.  It was spectacular.
Maybe it was the fresh salty air, the excitement, or the car exhaust fumes from all the idling cars...we will never know... but suddenly I had the urge to howl.
Ahhhwwwoooooooooo!
Then, my little nerdette (AKA The Chicklet) decided to join in.  But in true Chicklet fashion, she had her own version and started Yip Yip Yipping at the moon.   
Yip Yip Yip.... Ahhhhwwwwooooooo!

The Chicklet and the Super Moon

As luck would have it, there was a full moon within weeks of moving in to our new abode in a lovely, well maintained, quiet development.
Less idling cars this time and more lawn chemicals.  At least that's the excuse I am going with.
I took The Chicklet out to see the beautiful full moon and she transformed into a yipping pup.  
Yip Yip Yip!  
Of course, I cannot allow her to have all the fun.... 
Ahhhhwwwooooooooo!  


Then . . . I realized in horror . . .  we were not alone out in the common lawn area.  
Where are those Samantha the Witch nose twitching skills when you need them?
Please, let me disappear and let my new neighbors forget seeing the crazy people howling at the moon.  
I scurried indoors, carrying a yip yip yipping Chicklet, the entire way.


A few weeks went by, and I thought perhaps all of that nonsense was forgotten....but no.  It was not meant to be.


Picture this.... 
Two people, at dusk,
looking at a strangely colored sky.
Commenting on what it reminds us of.
Enjoying the moment with the grass between our toes and the peace and quiet. 


Then one of these people says 'I want to make a sasquatch call'. 
The other person (the sane one might I add) says 'PLEASE wait until I get inside'.  
With no hesitation....
AAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHHIIIIIEEEEEA​AAAAAWWWWWWW (at top volume). 


I believe words about how annoying and embarrassing my husband is, and perhaps a few other unmentionable comments, were uttered as we watched a neighbor laugh at us. 
As if howling at the moon was not enough. We have surely secured our status of the neighborhood whackadoos, with this one.


I passed the woman who witnessed this, a few times, while I was out walking, and she avoids looking in my eyes and gives a nervous grin.
Does she think I might bite her and turn her into some sort of mutant creature?


Just to be sure we spread the word of our whackadoo tendencies, my husband has also emitted eardrum shattering Sasquatch calls at a local playground.  
More than once.
Yes.... more than once.


Welcome to the neighborhood, weirdos.  Sigh....is it Wine O'Clock yet?

Little Bigfoot

Mummy Bigfoot

Put a cork in it

I've been gabbing about starting a blog for a while.
I get excited about it and then convince myself it is the ultimate act of narcissism, and put it off a little longer.  All the while, sharing tid bits of what I would have written, like a serial poster, on a certain popular social networking site.
This morning, my husband basically told me to put a cork in all the thinking and 'just do it!'.  Apparently he has watched one too many Nike commercials but I appreciate his enthusiasm and the push.

So began the process of picking the perfect Blog name.
I quickly discovered I am not half as creatively unique as I would like to think, and many names were already taken.  Technically, Wine O'Clock is taken too; but I did not find this out until after I already entered it as my blog name.  So, my apologies to the wine guy in Maine.  But it looks like he might have taken a hiatus to write about beer or rum or maybe some nice tropical drinks in Key West, because his last post was January 2010.  I think I might go unnoticed, or perhaps he will have drank enough wine to let the duplication go as a funny coincidence in life.

What's my blog about?  It's all about life....the good and the bad.  The heavy and the light.  Or should I say, the Burgundy and the Chardonnay?  From the view of a woman who went from a full time workaholic in NYC to a stay at home Mum in, well, not NYC, with faulty shock absorbers, and felt every bump in the road from there to here.  Often stopping to say 'I seriously wish this was something more people were open to talk about, because I cannot possibly be alone here', and often ending with asking.....Is it Wine O'Clock yet?

Sometimes, I will write about serious topics I feel should be much more openly discussed such as postpartum depression and fertility issues, in hope that sharing my stories will help others and break down the walls that have made us feel they are topics that should be kept hush-hush.
I am by no means a qualified psychologist.  You would not want me as your psychologist.  Seriously.  I  would have the irresistible urge to slap most clients and say 'snap out of it' or 'suck it up buttercup'.  And I failed the Fisher Price Board Exams, when I had no idea how to use the plastic neurological reflex hammer so I am definitely not able to prescribe happy pills.  But I do possess true compassion and a pure disdain for the 'Supermom Society' so many of us are compelled to try fit into.  Sure, I'd like to be a Supermom; but my cape is defective, like so many others.  Darn cheap mass produced piece of crap capes.....

Other times,  I will write about fun fluff.  Day to day things that happen to me; things to ponder; quotes from the crazy little person in my life, The Chicket...  Utterly self-absorbed narcissistic stuff.  All I can do is hope you find it chuckle worthy and perhaps it fends off the need for Wine O'Clock an extra hour or two.

Thanks for stopping by, and I look forward to sharing a little time with you every week, and perhaps a nice big glass of wine.