I have bad eyes. Really bad eyes. Drop my glasses on the floor and I need someone to help me find them eyes.
So when I started having headaches and squinting to watch the TV from across the room, I knew it was time to go see the eye doctor. My prescription had changed and it was time for new glasses. Couldn’t I just get new lenses and throw them into my old frames? No, I could not do that because my frames were So Old that they might explode and everyone on earth would die. Or something like that.
I looked at the glasses at the optometrist’s office. There were no prices. I tried to tell myself that was because they were so super cheap that they didn’t even need to list the prices. Sadly, that was not the case. The cheapest of those motherfuckers was $250. JUST FOR THE FRAMES. When the lady calculated in the coke bottle lenses I would need and the special ones to make them not coke bottley and the anti-reflective coating, I was looking at $500 AT LEAST. I told the lady I would come back with my husband and I ran away.
I texted my cousin Sofie (who lives in our basement) and asked her the name of the glasses she was just telling me about. Warby Parker, she said. Her sister Pip had bought some and they were trying to get our grandmother to buy them too.
What the hell, I thought, and I went to the website. The frames were $95. Sweet action! And not only were the frames $95, but they offer a plan that allows you to choose five frames online and have them sent to you to try on, order, and ship back, all with free shipping! I checked out this option, but as I am Incredibly Indecisive, I couldn’t narrow it down to just five. Sofie and I were going to have to go to the store on Newbury St.
The place was a mob scene, but not so busy that I couldn’t try on the glasses. I narrowed it down to about five pairs, had Sof take pictures of me, and sent them to Bucket, who very rudely ignored me. So I narrowed it down to two and made Sofie choose. It was between a pair that was exactly like the ones I have now in a different color, and ones that were slightly bigger (though not so big that they looked like my father’s glasses from the 70’s–for real, America!?).
I waited in line for about 10 minutes to have an optometrist check my prescription, and another five to order the glasses from an adorable little hipster with big round glasses. She asked if I wanted the polycarbonate lenses because they would be an extra $30. Yes, I said, thinking that only $30 for polycarbonate lenses was a great deal.
So then she looked at me and asked for $125. I looked back at her and told her I needed lenses too. Yes, she said, that’s including the lenses. I stared at her, thinking, no, lenses cost at least $200. Really? I asked. Yes. REALLY? Yes. (At this point, she’s thinking it’s not only my eyes that need help.) I handed over my credit card and looked at Sofie, dumbstruck. Adorable hipster told me they would be mailed to me in 7-10 days, and we were on our way.
The whole way home, I kept looking at Sofie and yelling, “$125!” And she kept saying, “Yes, I KNOW. That’s why I told you to go there.” And we went home and I said to Bucket, “Guess how much my glasses were?” And he said, “$300.” And I said, “NO! $125!” And he stared at me, just as confused and disoriented as I was when I heard the price.
And I haven’t even gotten to the best part. For every pair of glasses, Warby Parker makes a donation to VisionSpring, a nonprofit that trains people in low income countries to sell glasses at very low prices so that jobs are created and people can see. Everybody wins! They have provided people with A MILLION pairs of glasses so far. If you don’t believe me, look here.
$125 for a new set of glasses. $125!!! If I was going to have any more kids, I would name the next one Warby Parker.*
I might not have to get Lasik after all.
*(And they do sunglasses!)
I have no affiliation with Warby Parker, but man do I wish I did.
Today the kids and I came home from a movie so they could put on their bathing suits to go to the spray park. I went to the bathroom and came out to the sound of Peeta shrieking and lying in a ball in the floor, clutching his toe. And also, he was naked. And also, he was directly in front of the glass door to the sidewalk.
Later, I was recounting the story to Bucket at the bedtime and he and I both took the opportunity to remind Peeta that it is inappropriate to run around with your willy flying everywhere when you’re nine years old. And if you’re going to be some kind of freaky nudist, at least don’t do it with the doors wide open so the neighbors don’t call the police.
He hit us with an argument that was very difficult to refute. It was:
But I have religious freedom! And justice!
True. And you are also having this conversation stark naked. So maybe put on some pants and we can talk about the First Amendment a little more.
This weekend, we went camping. Peeta promptly met a little boy named Harry who had the same birthday, and they spent all day running around through the woods, talking on Peeta’s walkie talkies.
In the late afternoon, Peeta wanted to find Harry and play with him. As usual, he had forgotten Harry’s name.
Peeta: Mama, I want to play with that boy. You know who I mean.
Me: What’s his name?
Peeta: I don’t knooooooow, Mamaaaaa! I forgotted.
Me: Okay. I will remind you. My armpits are…
Peeta and Noodle, both gleefully screaming: HAIRY!!
Peeta, looking confused: Hairy? What kind of a name…ohhhh! Like Harry Potter!
Yeah, that might have been a better hint.
Things that happened today:
1. Had a battle of wills with Noodle over her attire for playgroup. She wanted to wear nothing but a leotard to school in 20-degree weather. I said no; pants, sweater and socks are mandatory. We compromised with her wearing the “costume” with a sweatshirt zipped down as far as it could go, Italian man-style, sans gold chain and magnificent chest hair.
2. Ishy spent the day running up and down the stairs for no apparent reason except sheer excitement that we had finally installed runners so he wouldn’t slip and slide all over the place.
3. After school, I let Noodle stay up to get Peeta from the bus because we were running late and I didn’t have time to put her down for her nap. After the bus came, the kids were playing with their friends and Noodle took a huge digger off her bike: face first onto the sidewalk. Blood squirted everywhere, but fortunately she had just bitten through her lip. Even more fortunate was the fact that our friend Nurse Lisa was there, who immediately got her some paper towels and frozen strawberries to suck on as she recounted the incident 67,000 times.
4. As we were watching the kids play (and bleed), the dumbass who just moved in down the road came flying past the house at about 45mph, while the kids were standing on the sidewalk. Lisa and I screamed at him and then ratted him out to the cop who lives across the street, who happened to come out in his uniform about five minutes later. We were still standing with Policeman Neighbor when Dale Earnhardt returned, crawling down the street at a snail’s pace, turning just before my house, where Lisa and I stood, pointing at his car. I’m pretty sure he thinks we called the cops on his ass, and I’m okay with that.
5. Despite the fact that it’s supposed to snow 4-8 inches tonight, I could no longer stand the leaves in our yard, so I spent an hour raking. Raking is one of my least favorite activities (after changing diapers and doing math), and now I remember why: I got a blister on my thumb. My hand will surely have to be amputated by morning.
6. Noodle took a late nap and came downstairs in her diaper (which she is only allowed to wear while sleeping). I was cleaning the kitchen and making dinner, so I didn’t put her back in her knickers. (Rookie mistake.) Halfway through dinner, a terrible stench started to emanate from her general vicinity, and sure enough, she proudly proclaimed that she pooped. Cut to five minutes later, when she is sitting in Bucket’s lap and he notices she has shit smeared all down her leg, on her precious leotard and her favorite Oscar the Grouch socks. Fortunately, we had finished eating.
7. After Bucket scrubbed her down, I put her in the bath. While she and Peeta were bathing, I went into my room, where I saw something weird above my side of the bed. I have no confirmation, but I’m 99% sure it was dried up bloody snot. Peeta slept with me last night, and I think he left it on the wall as a special gift. I’m not sure why he left it on my side of the bed, but I’m sure it’s just because he loves me so much more than Bucket.
And on that note, goodnight.
So the ladies at my local nail salon have become used to me. When I came in today, the manager pointed at me and said, “Eyebrow wax!” Now that I think about it, it could have been a recommendation rather than an identification.
They are all very beautiful, glamorous Korean ladies. Joy, the lady who treated me today, was telling me that she has gained 20 pounds, which means she must have been about 70 to begin with. They wax my brows, and sometimes, if I have enough money, they give me the industrial strength pedicure (which basically means they get rid of my calloused right [only the right, strangely enough] foot with a chainsaw. I’m hot; what can I say?). I generally come in dressed like a ponytailed 13-year-old boy, with hair that may or may not be clean and usually hasn’t been cut in months.
So I came in today, all jubilant because my hairy brows have earned me a free manicure. They offer me a free brow wax instead (possibly another recommendation), but I tell them no. I want a manicure. My broken, brittle nails and shredded cuticles will never get any attention unless it’s free.
Free manicure it is. I get a backrub (which was the real motivation for getting the manicure. I won’t lie), two hand massages and a paraffin wax. I almost look like a real lady (ignoring the reddened eyebrows, the greasy ponytail, and the glamorous purple sweatshirt/jeans combo).
The owner of the spa is in love with Noodle. She keeps coming over and talking to her. Then, she offers to paint her nails. This happened the one other time I came for a manicure, almost a year ago. Noodle practically catapults out of the seat to get to the polish.
Obviously, I got a very light shade of pink that is hardly visible to the human eye. My daughter, who shares 50% of my genes, went for a bright, BRIGHT, shiny red. The ladies in the salon almost peed themselves laughing.
What can I say? She gets it from her father.
Oh, and in an hour, I have already chipped almost every single nail.
Dear woman from the Macy’s dressing room (you know who you are),
Maybe you remember me: I was the mother with the toddler at Macy’s today, who came there in an attempt to try on bras. I had to go to a store to figure out what size I was because I haven’t bought bras since before my daughter was born, and well, you know how everything changes shape after they rip those little suckers out of your body. I brought the stroller because my daughter was tired, and though we almost never use the stroller, we did today, which is why we decided to use that handicapped dressing room with no lock on the door. I did consider the fact that there was no lock on the door and that for most of the time I would be in the room, I would be topless, but I figured, hey! What kind of asshole is going to just bust into a dressing room that opens out on to the store floor without knocking?
Turns out you were that asshole! Hi! So nice to meet you as you busted right into the room while I was standing there naked from the waist up! So nice of you to apologize! So nice of you to knock! At least you had the good sense to shriek and close the door quickly. I’m not going to take that as an insult, really.
The good news is that now I know what size to order online, so I will never have to return to a dressing room with a stroller and my daughter again. I can order from the safety of my own home, where I don’t have to worry about some dumbass with no manners busting in while I am in the already bizarre and humiliating position of trying on bras while my daughter yells, Ha! Mama naked! and Ooh, that one fit! repeatedly.
Here’s some advice: next time, try knocking. The naked people in the dressing rooms will appreciate it. And maybe, you might too.
My daughter is walking around the house wearing nothing but a diaper and a dog collar, asking “I look good? I look good?”
Pray that she stops doing this before she’s in high school.
I just finished cutting the hair of everyone in my family (except for me, of course. Having given myself the “Small Wonder” bangs in college, I am way too smart to trust myself with sharp scissors. Those other three are damned fools). I am now left with a toddler with crooked bangs (that were crooked to begin with, but she wouldn’t let me straighten them), a giant pile of straight ginger and curly black hair on the floor, and a husband with a very small bald spot on the side.
While Bucket claims that this is a great haircut for Peeta and I should always cut hair after starting cocktail hour, I maintain that it is far better to cut hair sober, mainly because Bucket can’t see the giant chunk I accidentally took out behind his ear. Damn vodka!
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.