Theres never Sand at playgrounds anymore...

Dear Mason- While at the park, please refrain from calling the crows ‘Jackass’s’” Thanks! You’re a doll, Love Mommy

The park. The bane of many moms existence. The park is a double edged sword. On the one hand you have to spend a few hours out in fresh air. Gag. On the other hand your child exhuasts themselves leading to a long nap which equals more face book time. Mason is something of a genius when it comes to playground slides so we frequent parks on a daily basis. Here’s a handy dandy guide for weeding out undesirable conversation…

The Hippie Mom- This mom is content in her stretchy gaucho pants and long sleeve *organic* shirts. Even when it is a bajillion degrees out... a long sleeve shirt. I ask you! The only make-up she wears is *organic* bees wax lip balm. Her tote bag/canvas sling bag thingy is stocked to the nines with *organic* crackers, *organic* carrots, *organic* water (I don't know if there is such a thing... I’m sure there is. If not I will be loaded selling organic water to granola whores), cloth diapers and , possibly, a tampon or two. *Organic* of course.

Shit.

Her kids name is probably Organic.

Or Noah.

Or Jude.

Or Sage.

You will be playing close attention to the child’s name, so as to determine the sex. This is an amateur mistake. Any seasoned playground/playroom mom knows names hold no sexual boundaries in the *organic* home. Sorry, but there really is no short cut to finding out if it's a boy or girl. Either way, the child will most likely be wearing pants of earth tone persuasion, a shirt that appears a bit too small, a little bit of dirt and loooooong locks which are faintly scented with, (anyone? anyone?) *organic* baby shampoo. And Patchouli.
The Hippie Mom is always nice enough. She will offer your child her *organic* treats, lecture you on the benefits of breast feeding (a quick warning... as soon as breast feeding is mentioned, move the conversation along... unless you want a mental picture of how this lady still breast feeds her 7 year old. Cause it's liquid gold! And *organic*). Basically, Hippie Mom is in the top three of the playground pyramid. As long as you don't mind body odor.

The Career Mom- Not to be confused with The Working Mom. The Career Mom approaches her duties as any professional would. "A"-game as long as anyone is looking. Career Mom is usually seen wearing khaki pants, a short sleeve pastel top, and sensible shoes. Her hair usually slicked neatly back into a sleek pony tail, or half up in a barrette. Her kids are playing nicely. AKA Boringly. Any attempts at conversation will be directed towards her home school curriculum. She smells of

The Working Mom- If you see a working mom at the park it must be a weekend. And not tax season. Working Moms blend in easily enough. The way to spot these freaks of nature? Pay attention when they speak to their children. Look for the ten second delay when it comes time to name her children. This is just nature getting back at her. Women belong in the kitchen making delicious turkey dinners, not in careers. That’s why women’s feet are smaller than men’s… so we can stand in front of the sink.

Too-Cool-For-School Mom- You don't need to worry about getting caught in a death trap convo with this Mom. She's the one sitting on the bench behind huge sunglasses texting about how annoying the park is. Her kid is probably pulling on her strategically ripped jeans while she smoothly ignores the pleas to push him/her on the swing, catch him/her on the slide etc. The child will eventually seek out the Sandee Mom (see below). When this happens you have one of two options. a) Take pity on the poor designer clad child and play. Or, do what I do and start texting immediately. Kids crave consistency.

The Sandee Mom- Obviously a badass. Is that her three year old trying to start a rock band by the swing set? You bet your sweet ass it is. You can tell right away that her husband is hot. He's not there... but you can just tell. She's obviously part Mexican 'cause she fit herself, both her kids and car seats in a Jetta. Skill. The best thing about the Sandee Mom is her extensive Harry Potter knowledge which will keep you amazed and entertained for hours on end. VIVA.

Recap?

The park sucks...

Like your grandma...






Coming soon… Macbeth Saga Part II…

Act 1:

I started this blog as a little journal-esque whatchamacallit for Mason, so he can look back and see what a funny little shit he was. Leave it to the meathead to stop doing funny things. I take it back... he's still doing funny things... but how many times can I write about peeing erraticly. Or taking a dump on the kiddy slide in the backyard. (By the way... Mason took a massive dump on the kiddie slide in the back yard the other day... he quickly called my attention to it. I took a picture.)

So... until he ups the funny factor, and to please those of you who are crazy and read me... I will be posting a series of histories. So now Meathead will also be able to read this and see how he came to be. Without further adu:

The Macbeth Saga:

Act 1: In which Sandee falls madly in love with Adam...

I can't remember the exact day... or what I was wearing. I do know I was with my regular posse of fellow Bulldogs. I would be willing to bet my life I had a scrunchy around my wrist. Probably one in my hair, too... but I had to have one on my wrist otherwise, "O-mi-gawd, I like, totally feel NAKED without it." This was sixth grade... so it's possible that half of us (there were about 8 in our regular little group, I think) were wearing overalls, discussing our up coming volleyball/basketball/softball game, standing in a circle. I was the annoying smart-ass of the group. Making fun of everything and everyone... so cool because of my extra scrunchy and the fact that my mom would pack just a Coke and Doritos as my lunch. Way to go Mom.

My right hand man was prob at my side, let's call her Sticky... cause even though she ate like a pig, she was thinner than any part of my body ever would be. And feisty. And shared my enthusiasm for Ace Ventura. But actually we bonded in kindergarten, when we got in a fight over the twin boys in the class, Jake and Jim.
I don't know how we got in a fight over who got which one, cause A) I don't know which one was which.. and B) They were way more interested in playing cowboys than being our boyfriends. But from those fateful days Sticky and I were inseparable. Always somewhere between laughing hysterically and clawing each others eyes out over boys. I learned early on not to tell Sticky when I thought a boy was cute... cause it was only a matter of time before she turned her attention to my beau. (Sticky if you are reading this, I still maintain that I saw Trevor first and you completely ruined first grade for me by stealing him away). ANYWAY. This story has taken a slight detour... go figure. On we go.

We were all standing on the black top, waiting for P.E. class to start. P.E. was an exciting time for us sixth graders because it contained 6th, 7th AND 8TH GRADERS!!! Rest assured there were extra hair tosses and toe-pointed-hip-out stances from Sticky and myself. (The other girls, though I loved them, were not as boy crazy as us...). Here is where my memory starts:

I remember seeing a cluster of manly-ness walking up the pathway to the P.E. congregating area. Two of which caught my eye.

They were the loudest of the group. Yelling jokes, making farting noises, screaming randomly... you know, sexy stuff. The two were similar in looks... bowl cuts ( a must for any mid 90's junior high-er worth his weight in Devon Sawa Teen Bop pull out posters), taller and thicker then the other boys around them. The second boy had very promising buds of an early beard. The first had braces *drooooool* and a sharp, cute nose. Both held my attention as I flipped my hair and switched pointed toe sides in perfect unison.
Mr. Harrison, the balding P.E. teacher, who was always inexplicably carrying a gallon ziplock bag full of carrots, blew his whistle signaling the start of class.

We were playing soccer that week. I hate soccer. IT's dumb. It makes me want to eat chips and salsa. And yell "EYEYEYEYEYE!!!!" I was walking back and forth across the field, pretending to be following the ball... when I heard the "thwap-thwap-thwap" of helicopter blades. Followed by a deep baritone screaming, "THEY'RE COMING FOR US!!!!"
Followed by my new founded heart throb streaking across the field...
DIVING into the tall brush growing along the side...
And taking my heart with him.

Needless to say, it took only braces and obnoxious-ness to steal my affection. The bowl cut helped too...

Now, for SOME reason... the future MacDaddy did not fall madly and desperately in love with me and my overalls, scrunchies and broken arm. Despite what the Weejee board foretold. This MAY have something to do with the fact that he didn't know I was alive. (I'm sorry, but how many times do I have to call and hang up before you realize, "Hey! I bet its that girl with the broken wrist. I shall make her mine.")

Boys.

School ended a few months later... moving Adam up to high school and throwing me into 7th grade, and an ensemble of new crushes. Luckily, little junior high hearts are fickle and I didn't give Adam another thought... for about 2 years...

To Be Continued...

Don't worry... there are like, 4 more acts or something...
You might not even want to read the rest of the Macbeth Saga, cause I'm pretty sure someone is going to approach us to make a movie out of it soon...
In the mean time...
Cheers to scrunchies and Devon Sawa. (OMG remember when he came walking down the stairs all slow to some Mariah Carey song in Casper??? HOT! "Can I keep you?" Ironic foreshadowing anyone???)