Beware the Cougar Kroger

Ladies: hide yo' husbands, because there's homewreckin' hussies lurking in the cereal aisle of your local grocery store, ready to pounce on your man! I have a whole new sympathy for Jenny Aniston.

We have two Krogers within a two-mile radius of our house. There's the Kroger on Main, which is surrounded mainly by tasteful, modest homes and the regular folks who live in them, and then there's the other Kroger, which is surrounded by McMansions and the silicone-injected trophy wives who inhabit those luxury homes. Steve calls it the "yummy mummy Kroger". There is a markedly higher hotness quotient in the women who shop at this Kroger. When making a Kroger stop on the way home from work last week, guess which Kroger was most convenient for Steve? I'm telling you, nothing good happens at the Cougar Kroger.

Steve: The weirdest thing happened at Kroger. I didn't go to the one down the road, I went to the other one.
Me: M.I.L.F. Central?
Steve: Yep.
Me: Everything ok?
Steve: Well, while I was shopping, I felt like somebody was watching me, but I just ignored it. Then, in the parking lot, this lady was waiting out there and shouted at me like, "Hey!" like you would if you wanted to get somebody's attention...to help you or whatever. I was like, "Yes?" and she said, "I noticed you while you were shopping and thought you were very attractive. I didn't notice your wedding band before, but I see it now." and I was like, "Yep. Happily married. We just had a baby boy." and she was like, "Well I'd still like to get your phone number..." and I said, "Well I'm flattered, but I'm pretty happy, so I'm gonna pass," and she said "Well, that's too bad..."

"That's too bad?" It's "too bad" that a married, new father doesn't want to cheat on his wife? Yes! Hooker hears that he has a wife and a new baby at home and she wanted his phone number anyway. That trollop! Get your own man! Steve did mention that she was hot. I, still living in my post-baby "chunky" phase am understandably not thrilled by this news, but at least secure enough to know that chunky or not, my husband is not going to take up with some tramp who stalked him in a grocery store parking lot. So there.

Steve was really caught off guard by the whole thing. He found it all very off-putting. I'll agree, it's pretty "Swimfan". I, always having to over-analyze (obviously) couldn't help but wonder aloud: What sort of woman values herself so little that she would want to get involved with the sort of man who would cheat on his wife who just gave birth to his child? Any man who would do that is no man at all. Shouldn't she want better for herself? Steve just shakes his head at me as if I'm trying to start a conversation about nuclear fission.

Sidenote: there's a teensy part of me that is feeling smugly proud that I'm married to the sort of man who strange women can't resist propositioning in parking lots. Is that bad?

It Gets Better

All the recent news stories about teen suicides and school bullying are really upsetting. Celebrities and public figures have been reaching out by posting their own videos on the internet where they share their own bullying experiences and send the message to kids that "It gets better." It's fair to say that at one time or another, we were all either victims of bullying, or were bullies ourselves. If you're reading this and thinking that you can't relate to what I'm saying, you must have had a cop for a dad or a big brother to protect you. You're lucky.

In high school, I spent two years being intimidated, mocked, glared at and threatened by an upperclassman. At times I was in fear of bodily harm. The reason? Her best friend liked a boy who dated my best friend, and my locker was beside the boy's. Six degrees of separation = six degrees of hell. I didn't even know this girl. I had to actually look her up in the yearbook so I would know the name of the girl who made my palms sweat and my stomach churn everyday.

When I was twelve, my mom took me to the mall and told me I could get whatever I wanted for my birthday. I chose a black cord necklace that had beads of every color: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. I thought it was the perfect necklace. Since it included every color, it meant it would go with every outfit I owned and that I could wear it everyday. Twelve-year-old Samantha was practical like that. I've always been the kind of girl who finds something that I like fashion-wise (v-neck tees, maxi dresses) and I buy five of them and wear them all the time. That's what I did in sixth grade with this necklace and Gap pocket tees. I was a happy, yet socially awkward twelve year old...until somebody decided to make my life hell.

similar necklace

This classmate informed me that my necklace was a "gay pride" necklace. I don't know that she went so far as to call me gay, but it was implied. She basically let me know that by wearing the necklace I was sending a message that I was at the very least gay-friendly. This was apparently a bad thing, as indicated by the endless mocking from her and her friends. This went on for months. Unwilling to concede that she was humiliating me, I became indignant--I went from wearing the necklace just a few times a week to wearing it every. single. day. I wasn't going to let this bitch get the best of me. Why would I subject myself to further ridicule?

1. I was sheltered and innocent, and therefore unfamiliar with rainbows being a symbol of "gay pride." I thought they were a symbol of "God's Promise". Or they were just colorful beads. It's like comedian Demetri Martin says in his stand-up routine: "How can one group own refracted light?" Basically, I thought this girl made it all up to hurt my feelings. I reasoned that, if I gave in and stopped wearing the necklace, where would the torment end? Would she then tell me that blue t-shirts, or green dresses symbolized a social taboo or cause that I supposedly should distance myself from? It's a slippery slope my friends, and I was not giving this girl the power to take my wardrobe and style hostage. 
2. If I'm playing devil's advocate, so what if she's right? What if rainbows do symbolize "gay pride"? I'm twelve. I'm not gay. At this time, I don't know anybody who is gay. The necklace doesn't symbolize gay pride to me, but I'm not some homophobe who isn't going to wear my necklace for fear of what people might think of me. 
3. Eventually my mom caught wind of what was happening. My mom is one of those crazy lioness moms: if she catches you messing with one of her cubs, she will maul your face off. Here's the deal: kids are bullied when they are perceived as weak. Nothing says "I'm weak and defenseless" like having your mommy fight your battles for you. My mom's threats and intimidation tactics were effective in this case, but it was a risky move that I would not recommend.
4. I eventually did put the necklace in my jewelry box, never to wear it again. I told myself it wasn't because of her. I reasoned that enough time had passed, I had worn the necklace for two seasons, and it was time to update my wardrobe. I do the same thing with handbags.

Not long ago, I was shopping for a wedding present at Williams Sonoma. Near the register, a whisk caught my eye:

I was in a hurry, so I resisted to temptation to buy this whisk. I still love colorful things. But here I am, fifteen years after being bullied for wearing a rainbow necklace, and the first thought that crosses my mind as I hold this rainbow whisk in my hand is: "I wonder if what's-her-face would make fun of me today for buying this 'gay pride' whisk?"

People come and go from our lives, and we won't always remember the things they said or did, but we'll never forget the way they made us feel. I hope that school administrators work to put an end to the tolerance of bullying in our schools, and that the school bullies would have the foresight to realize that if they don't want their legacy to be that of an asshole, they need to stop making sport out of making other people's lives hell.

It gets better.

'Electronic Bitch Slaps'. Or, 'Sassiness Via Email'.

I've already told you all about my evil ex-boss, Ursula, whose evil ways caused me to say "peace out" to my job two weeks ahead of schedule. Well, my last paycheck was issued two weeks ago, and I emailed Fairy Godmother asking to have the check mailed to my house so I can avoid driving the 60 miles round trip while nine months pregnant to retrieve my check. Seems like a reasonable request, right? Well, I still don't have my check. How am I handling this?

Not well.

After a string of "Where is my paycheck?" emails over the past week between Fairy Godmother and me that are filled with reassurances that "the check is in the mail", and still no paycheck in my mailbox, this the email I received today from Ursula:

Smantha,

So sorry I assumed you would be in to pick up your check last week since I did not recieve a call from you. I had to look for it and only just sent it out yesterday. You should recieve it this week.

Hope you had a great Holiday week end!

Ursula
 
I kept her typos so you could get the full effect. You see what Ursula did there, the way she made excuses and turned it around and made it my fault? Yeah, I picked up on that too. Mommy no likey. I fired back and made sure to copy Fairy Godmother. I am substituting Fairy Godmother's real name with "F.G." Get it?
 
Ursula,
 
I see, so it's my fault I haven't received my paycheck. I'm not at all surprised you'd take the time to point that out to me. As for your assumption that I would call you, I didn't call you because I went straight to F.G., and on July 1, I received an email from F.G. stating that she spoke to you and you told her you would mail my check that same day. I trusted that you did exactly that. I thought at the very least, you'd delegate the responsibility of mailing my check. You're so good at delegating.
 
I will once again trust that you've done as you were told and that this matter will soon be resolved.
 
Samantha 
 
Do you see what I did there? I basically called her a lazy, incompetent, lying bitch without using the words "lazy", "incompetent", "lying", or "bitch". Don't underestimate how immensely gratifying this was for me. I designed the email so as not to illicit a response. I mean, what can she say? Imagine my (somewhat) surprise when I received a reply from Ursula several hours later:
 
It is great hearing from from you. I am certain your anxiously awaiting your bundle of joy and are a bit stressed. I won't take your e-mail personally.

I seriously hope your doing well.

Take care,

Ursula
 
Once again, I kept the typos for your pleasure. This was actually her second attempt to send this email. In the first attempt, she had even more spelling errors and omitted words, and she forgot to copy Fairy Godmother. Now I can add "insincere", "weak" and "ineffective" to her growing list of negative qualities. Ursula can "take" my email any way she chooses, but any interpretation other than: "I think you're awful and look forward to the day you are unceremoniously fired" is incorrect. It's just like I've been saying for months: pregnant women are like Sophia from The Golden Girls. We are free to be as bold and outspoken as we want and everyone will excuse it because we're pregnant, whether we like it or not.

And I'm still waiting on my damn paycheck.

Have a Friendship That Needs Mending?

After being over-served the hard stuff during an evening of debauchery, my coworkers, Donnie and Austin, got into a little tiff. They both said some things they can't take back. Sent some texts they can't un-send. We're talking derogatory remarks about people's grandmas here. It got U-G-L-Y. Donnie has been apologizing profusely all week long, while Austin has been moping around like somebody kicked his puppy. Because these guys are both dear to me, I decided Donnie needed some assistance in the making-up department from yours truly. I explained to Donnie that during times like these, one must launch a more aggressive apology initiative. There must be a grand gesture.

We made a card for Austin. This is what it included:

I So Sorry, Boo...

What I got to do to make you love me?

What I got to do to make you care?

What do I do when lightning strikes me?

And I wake to find that you're not there?

It's sad, so sad

It's a sad, sad situation.

And it's getting more and more absurd.

It's sad, so sad

Why can't we talk it over?

Oh it seems to me

That sorry seems to be the hardest word.

"This is just a cookie bouquet away from being an adequate apology. It's the sorority way," I said. "Really?" Donnie asked. Yeah, it's true. I mean, we would have probably quoted Dave Matthews, but Elton John was more fitting for the circumstances. Sometimes "I'm sorry" by itself doesn't cut it. You gotta apologize with flair. Also, we posted it on Austin's Facebook wall. So now all of Donnie and Austin's friends know how sorry Donnie is.

I instructed Donnie to present this card very contritely with a cupcake or other baked good. The result? It was a winning move! Well, I mean Donnie's still in the doghouse, but the ice is beginning to thaw. One heartfelt card and a brownie did more to mend their friendship in five minutes than five days of apologizing. High five for me!

Nutso in the Buttso

I've recently discovered that crazy takes a new form in a man named..."Chad." I'm gonna call him "Chad" because he's so freakin' nuts I don't even want to flirt with danger by naming him specifically. I may also refer to him by his original pseudonym, "Crazy Coked-Out Lawyer Guy." Ya know what? I think I'll just call him that. It fits. Forget about "Chad". I am relieved to report that I am not the object of Crazy Coked-Out Lawyer Guy's obsession. He has one of my co-workers in his cross-hairs. If I were the one he wanted, I wouldn't be blogging right now. I'd be busy arming myself with a taser gun, pepper spray, and rape whistle. Continue reading with a healthy mixture of amusement and horror.

Let me preface by saying that I work for a corporation that owns salons and spas throughout North America, and during my pregnancy I have been assisting the Regional Director as she opens a couple of new locations in the Dallas area. Normally it's a lot of fun and I enjoy meeting new people. Unfortunately, I have had a bad spell of luck this week and have unearthed a treasure trove of crazy, the likes of which I've never seen before.

The Scene: Wednesday afternoon at the mall. Crazy Coked-Out Lawyer Guy paces back in forth in front of the salon for several minutes while loudly having what he must want known as "an important business call" on his mobile phone. You know, because he's an important business man. And don't all important business men conduct their business on their mobile phone at the mall in the middle of the afternoon? Bill Gates gets his best work done when he's standing between Forever 21 and Game Stop. I bet.

So, Crazy Coked-Out Lawyer Guy stops loitering in front of the salon and strolls in asking for a haircut, as if on a whim. I'm sure it's an impulsive decison and not a plot he's been formulating for the past 15 minutes while standing in front of the salon on an important business call. Because he's an important business man. I just can't emphasize this point enough. Because he so clearly wanted me to know he's an important business man. I want you to know it, too.

His look is a carefully crafted one. He's a man in his mid-thirties of above-average height and above-average looks. And an above-average amount of hair product in his carefully coifed 'do. His perfectly starched dress shirt and smartly tied red tie say what his body language and conversation's subtext have been screaming for the past 15 minutes: "I am an important business man!"

One of my stylists takes Crazy Coked-Out Lawyer Guy to her station, and the next 30 minutes pass without incident. As he's checking out, he gushes about what a terrific haircut he just got and how he'd happily pay double the price. He pays cash and tips generously, while conducting yet another important business call. He drops some impressive words and tidbits: clients, depositions, $30,000 checks. While he's discussing the $30,000 checks, he actually takes two checks out of his pocket totalling $30,000 and tosses them absent-mindedly onto the counter in front of me. Don't play it so casual, Crazy Coked-Out Lawyer Guy. I know you threw those checks out for my benefit, and believe me, I am so impressed with you right now!

We wait until he's safely out the door and around the corner before we begin making fun of him. Take note, all you men out there: if you act like a goober who tries too hard to impress, you will be mocked mercilessly behind your back. The stylist tells us that he never shut up the entire time he sat in her chair. We couldn't hear any of it, but you can probably guess what he talked about -- important business man things. Also, he tells her that he had noticed her much earlier in the day when walking in the mall and had no idea she actually worked in the mall and cut hair. How serendipitous for Crazy Coked-Out Lawyer Guy. He cushions this revelation with assurances that he is not a crazy stalker. We all share nervous, uneasy laughter. It's kinda funny, kinda not. He returns moments later, and because my face will betray me every time I try to conceal my thoughts, I know that all the color has drained from my face because I am certain he was lurking nearby and heard me laugh at what a crazy coke-head he acted like. And he certainly heard me question what an important business man is doing at the mall in the middle of the afternoon. Wouldn't someone of his stature have...I don't know...an assistant who he could have sent to the Apple store to do his bidding for him? Now he has returned with a rebuttal to my statements. How will I proceed from here? With caution, I decide. I am relieved when he walks past me and approaches the stylist. They briefly exchange words that I am unable to overhear (you know I tried.)

Once Crazy Coked-Out Lawyer Guy is gone (for real this time) we learn that in his coked-out haze he has forgotten where he parked. But he remembers he followed our stylist into the mall, so if she would be so kind as to tell him where she parked, he may locate his car and get back to the office, where undoubtedly important business man duties await him.

At this point you're probably saying, "You're right, Sam, this guy is nutso in the buttso!© " And my reply to you would be, "You haven't heard the worst of it!" Fast forward to this morning: my stylist walks into the salon and slaps onto the counter a business card with a handwritten note scribbled on the back:

"Hey there just wanted to thank you for the talk enjoyed- I want to take you out soon just dinner, you can google me. I am not a crazy person but you are amazing"

"You can Google me?" Evidently, Crazy Coked-Out Lawyer guy is not a lawyer at all, but the President of his own company. And if that weren't impressive on it's own, he's also adept at breaking into cars, because this business card/love note/proposition was sitting in the driver's seat of her (locked) car!  ...and...cue the comparisons to famous psychos of American cinema. She asked me, "Do you think he'll come back again for a haircut?" and I replied, "Of course he'll be back, how else does he expect to make a lampshade out of you?" Too soon for a Silence of the Lambs joke? For answers to that question and more, I consulted my brother, Jarred, Three Mutts and a Baby's resident expert in appropriate humor and sensitivity training. He suggested that "she should get really drunk and help him move. That will end well for her."

I do not know what the future holds for our stylist and Crazy Coked-Out Lawyer Guy, but I predict it ends in a restraining order.

*Nutso in the Buttso © copyright 2010 | Jarred

Million Dollar Mama

I have a confession to make. I'm high maintenance. Always have been.

Don't roll your eyes at me.

I know you know this, but it bears repeating. I'm high maintenance. Not because I want to be, it's just that I always seem to require more than what is reasonably expected by normal people. Braces? I had them twice. Drug store beauty products? They agitate my delicate skin. I've purchased jeans for less than $150, but they just didn't fit right.  I don't wish to be this complicated, but I've come to accept it. For this reason, I was not at all surprised as events unfolded over the past couple months and my pregnancy became more complicated. These complications had nothing to do with the baby, of course...it was all Mama.

To fully understand my latest High Maintenance Melodrama, you'll need a brief history lesson:

I spent much of 1997-2004 baking myself in one of these:

"But Samantha, you're a ginger kid," you say. "Wouldn't you spark like a fork in a microwave if you set one pasty, freckled toe in a tanning bed?" The answer is, "No, I wouldn't. And don't stereotype me." Not all redheads are incapable of tanning, and I am one of the lucky few who can. I can actually achieve a golden glow that Miss Hawaiian Tropic would envy. (This claim may be slightly exaggerated, but I think I made my point.)  Regardless of my tanning ability, I did pay a price. After many freckled, sun-damaged winters that followed those gloriously tan summers of my youth, I finally hung up my tanning bed goggles the summer after my college graduation. It was time to find a new dream. A dream that involved not looking like this...

...without having to resort to this...

That Aussie can deny she uses Botox all she wants, but lemme tell you something. See those peculiar-looking wrinkles above her brows in the terrifying photo above? Well, I'm no stranger to "The 'tox", (my own nickname for Botox, feel free to borrow it) and that forehead has all the earmarks of Botox Gone Bad. Girlfriend needs to own it. No shame in trying to stop the hands of time. But find someone new to inject you, because the person who currently does it obviously hates you and wants to make you look like a fool.  But I digress.

So, for the five years that have followed since my tanning retirement, I have slathered on the SPF, vacationed under umbrellas, and splurged on high-priced, anti-aging beauty products intended for a much older demographic. As the saying goes, "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." So, I armed myself with many, many ounces of prevention. I was going to outsmart the aging process. Bwaahahahaha!

Note: in addition to being high maintenance, I'm also a procrastinator. That tidbit ties in with what comes next:

As a fair complected woman of a certain age, I thought it would be prudent to see a dermatologist for one of those "skin checks" I've heard so much about. I "keep up" with those Kardashians, and on one episode, Khloe had a skin check. I decided right then and there, if that Armenian Amazon is doing it, then by golly, I should too! I had been carrying in my wallet the business card of a fantastic dermatologist since the fall of 2008, and I was very eager to schedule an appointment for a skin check right away.

Late January 2010: 14 months later, I visit my dermatologist. She biopsies three suspicious moles. I just love that term, suspicious mole. It makes me think of a villain in a 1940s film noir. (Note: Steve's fantasy basketball team name is "Curious Mole". Did I mention he is 17-2?)

Early February 2010: Biopsy results are back, and two out of the three moles have got to go. They are dysplastic nevi, so they aren't cancer...but they have cancerous aspirations. I'm told these excisions are no picnic, and it is recommended I remove them one at a time. I start with the one that is located on my lower back. Good thing I never got around to getting that tattoo I always wanted. (Note: In addition to being a high maintenance procrastinator, I am also indecisive.) Doc sends me to a Mohs Surgery specialist to remove the other mole. Apparantly it was even more suspicious than the one on the back; and shockingly, I never even knew it was there. The pathologist said it was just this close to being melanoma. Hidden danger is everywhere, it turns out. So, after having both moles excised, which hurt like hell, involved removing a surprising amount of skin ("margins" for those in the know) and living for a couple weeks with dozens of stitches, I felt confident the worst was behind me and grateful to have taken care of this so swiftly. I pat myself on the back for being so proactive.

Mid-February 2010: Like a horror movie villain  thought to be long-dead, that suspicious mole wasn't done with me yet. The first mole, the one located where my tramp stamp should have been, the one nobody suspected of wrongdoing, turned out to be melanoma. I was told not to be alarmed, but that the oncological surgeon wants to see me. Now. So, to the oncological surgeon I went, I was scheduled to have surgery a mere 36-hours later.

The details of my ordeal were enough to make my head spin, and since I was assured I was being treated by experts in the field, I was comfortable getting my information on a "need to know" basis and leaving the rest to the professionals. Here's the scenario, to the best of my understanding: melanoma is the most serious of skin cancers, it's rare to find it in someone my age, and pregnancy is an immunosuppressed state...in other words, it's the perfect storm.  The Doc hatched an action plan, and it became clear to me (as I sit, wearing a paper gown, in his exam room filled with an impressive collection of Simpsons memorabilia) that this is no ordinary doctor, and his take-no-prisoners approach to my treatment would be agressive but thorough.

Surgery Day: I relax in my room at Medical City Hospital as I await my procedures, laughing at reruns of Roseanne, blissfully unaware of the house of horrors that awaited me. Now I know how George must have felt the day I said "Let's go for a ride" and that ride ended with him getting his manhood snipped. I'm so sorry, little buddy. The first procedure was a lymphoscintigraphy, which is where they inject a small amount of radioactive dye into the skin near the tumor (this was shockingly painful -- lethal injection painful because mama couldn't have any numbing), and after 30-40 minutes (lying alone in a cold, silent room on a narrow, uncomfortable, hard table similar to an MRI machine), this machine takes pictures my insides, and the nodes that receive lymph from the area of the tumor are illuminated in blue. That's how the Doc knows which lymph nodes to take. I asked the doctor who performed this procedure what sort of risk this lymphoscintigraphy posed to my unborn child. He stared at me expressionless for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders, half-heartedly throwing his big hands in the air and replying, "Well...it is what it is." I suppose it's this bedside manner that led him to nuclear medicine. After this procedure, it is determined that three lymph nodes from my groin will have to go, and I'm anxious to just get on with it.

The Recovery: Oh. My. God. I was not at all prepared for what this was going to feel like. Seriously, I asked for one day off of work to recover, and instead I lay flat on my back for the next five days. Apparantly Vicodin is safe during pregnancy, and while I had an ample supply, it did little for my pain other than make me drowsy enough to sleep round-the-clock. I'm fortunate to not have experienced a whole lot of pain in my life (I suppose), but this was by far the most painful experience of my life. So painful, I'm convinced that it isn't possible for child birth to be more painful. I may be wrong about this assertion, but I suspect that one day of painful labor cannot possibly stand up to five days of constant, uncontrollable agony followed by another 10 days of persistant pain and discomfort. And the scars, oh the scars. To remove the margins of a tumor that is .33 millimeters, along with three lymph nodes the size of almonds, and the suspicious mole on my leg from earlier, I am left looking like I entered a knife fight -- and lost. I don't mind it from a vanity standpoint. I have no plans for swimsuit modeling in my future, but I was just surprised by the extent of my incisions.

This entire experience has been eye-opening to say the least. I have been fortunate to live in good health for my 28-years. This latest event, although serious, was found and treated early. It's over, and I'm lucky. When I retire to The French Riviera Geneva, Alabama and write my memoirs, this will be just a footnote. Certainly others, even in my own family, have faced greater tribulations. Which makes this final tidbit all the more surprising. The bill came. Now, it isn't the bill. Blue Cross paid it and this was just the statement breaking down what was charged to and paid for by Blue Cross. We Steve paid a $200 deductible (I didn't bring my wallet to the hospital!) Ready for the grand total for this little surgery?

$41,000

Can you believe that? It cost $149 just for the one Vicodin that was given to me while in recovery. This was about 4 times more than I would have predicted. I really don't have a point here, other than to say...can you believe that? So once again, I am -- by no fault of my own -- the most high maintenance mama in the land. I mean come on, how many other people do you know who are diagnosed with a tumor that is one-third of one-tenth of one inch in size and run up a $41,000 bill?