The ultimate humiliation

The other day, I was at the local YMCA pool with the kids. It’s been a gillion degrees here and they just want to swim every. single. day. We ran into our neighbors, who are 10-year-old girls. We splashed with them a little and then ran into them on our way out.

I had run into a mother from Peeta’s hip hop class, who wanted my number so she could text me when they were coming so the boys could swim together. She gave me her number, and I was entering it into my phone when the girls came over.

“Um, you should get an iPhone,” said one, looking suspiciously at my four-year-old LG phone that was run over by a car and has a different colored back than the rest of the phone.

The other one nodded vigorously in agreement.

“What? You guys don’t like this one?” I asked, holding it out for them to inspect.

One actually stepped away from it, and the other one wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“No, REALLY,” they said. “You should get an iPhone.”

“Guys, I would love an iPhone, but Bucket says I can’t get one,” I told them, looking mournful.

“WHAT?” the second one screeched. “You can do what you want! You’re a WOMAN!”

True dat, sister. But I share the bills with the Bucket, who doesn’t want to pay for the data plan. Instead, he forces me to use my stone-aged phone that sends me texts days later and has a full inbox despite telling me that there are no messages, just because Noodle has a habit of spilling water on my phones. To be fair, he did buy me an iPod Touch, which is almost as good. Almost. Okay, not really.

I told the girls that they should tell him their opinion the next time they see him. He is eagerly awaiting that moment. In the meantime, I will suffer in silence as the lame mom with the loser phone. No one’s life is as hard as mine.

 

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Why I can’t have nice things, Part 2

Broken within 24 hours in my house:

1 mug (my favorite, bought in England)

2 bowls (including my favorite, bought in Australia)

Nearly broken in the same timespan:

my will to live

Why I can’t have nice things, Part 1 (of 94387532498753294758)

So I was walking into the house carrying Noodle, contemplating the toxic waste dump that is my car and thinking, “I should write a post about how I can’t have nice things.”

Cut to me coming into the house, putting Noodle down on the floor, getting tangled up in her arms and my purse and my cup of coffee and spilling the coffee all over the brand new (light colored) rug my mother bought us (because she hasn’t gotten the memo that we can’t have nice things and continues to buy them for us in a state of profoundly generous denial).

Now Googling how to get coffee stains out of carpet. The worst part? I can’t even blame this one on the kids.