Lexi who writes Hooked On Espresso nominated me for a Perfect Post award for this post that I wrote last month.  I wouldn’t even mention it but Marlboro Man is making me. Oh wait. That’s not right.  No, I’m mentioning it because I am thrilled and I am honored. Thank you so much Lexi. 

You can find the other January nominees here. 

  * * * * *

In other news, a fireplace makeover going on at Inspired Spaces today.

I’m not quite sure how this happened, but I’m a finalist in the parenting category.  When you see the list you will see that I am SO out of my league.  You should probably go vote for me before they discover that an unfortunate mistake has been made and kick me off the list.   You can vote once every 24 hours through November 8th.  Seriously.  Just don’t leave your chad dangling people, that’s all I ask.  These award things kind of make me queasy.  I’m off to find the Tums.

If there is one thing that defines my relationship with Antique Daddy it is this: gutter covers.Before we were even married, we embarked upon a home improvement project together and in the process, we discovered everything we needed to know about surviving and sustaining a marriage partnership:  Never do home improvement projects together.

Forget premarital counseling. Before couples are allowed to marry, they should be required by law to complete a home improvement project together. If both parties emerge with all their limbs in tact, then that’s a good indication that they can tolerate being married, having kids and having their gall bladder removed without anesthesia.

I met Antique Daddy in the fall of 1996 and as it happens in the fall, the leaves had fallen off my trees and my neighbor’s tree and all the trees in Arkansas, Louisiana and Oklahoma, and into the gutters on my house. Being a childless person at the time, I had more time than sense and things like scrubbing the grout around the toilet and removing leaves from the gutters were on my To Do list. Now my To Do list includes things like brush teeth, bathe, sleep. I am all about goals these days.

And so.

One day when Antique Boyfriend was over at my house, I mentioned that removing the leaves from my gutters was on my To Do list and that I thought I would buy some gutter covers so that I wouldn’t have to clean my gutters every year. His eyes lit up as visions of power tools danced in his head. So off we went, hand-in-hand to Home Depot in search of true love and gutter covers.

When we got to the gutter covers department, as luck would have it, I saw — gutter covers! And I was elated. And like the Ethiopian eunuch in Acts 8:36 who said, “Here is some water! Why not be baptized now!?” I said, “Here are some gutter covers! Why not buy them now!?” And I put them in my cart and skipped happily toward the checkout lanes. There’s nothing a girl loves more than a cart full of gutter covers!

Cue sound of a needle dragging across a record – Skreeeech!

Antique Boyfriend is not like the spontaneous Ethiopian eunuch, who by the way, was probably a lot more fun to take shopping. Antique Boyfriend needs to study, analyze (notice the root word “anal” in analyze? I don’t think that is a coincidence), read the fine print, go to three stores to comparison shop, take measurements, read up on how gutter covers are made, talk with gutter cover experts, make a spreadsheet and then return to the original store and stand in the gutter covers aisle with arms folded while scratching his chin for three additional hours or until I try to remove my gall bladder with a gutter cover.

Therefore.

In the middle of Home Depot, we had a “discussion” about the proper way to purchase gutter covers and I may have even cried. In the name of Bob Vila, was it too much to ask to buy a girl some gutter covers? I think because he wanted to win favor with me because he hoped to eventually sleep with me, Antique Boyfriend acquiesced and we ended up leaving the store with the original gutter covers upon which I first laid eyes and fell in love.

We went home and attempted to install said gutter covers together, a simple process which involved a ladder, a box of Band-aids, a bottle of Cabernet and more tears. They did not fit or work worth a flip and then I got aggravated, stomped them into an abstract environmental sculpture and then threw them into the garage along with all the other ghostly remains of home improvement projects past.

Yet we married anyway, because we learned so much about ourselves and each other in the process. We learned that a home without gutter covers is a happy home. We learned that Antique Daddy should be in charge of purchases requiring anal-yzing – cars and gutter covers and that I should be in charge of purchases requiring impulse – gum, Sterling Vinyard Merlot, lipstick, shoes.

And we learned why you never see Bob Vila’s wife on the show.

I left the house feeling quite pleased with myself. I was having a Mary Tyler Moore day. I had on a pair of jeans that didn’t require me to hold my breath and a brand new blouse — sunny summer yellow with snap buttons up the front. My pedicured toes were showcased in my favorite pair of black Cole Haan sandals, my one summer splurge item. And? I was having a good hair day. It was 82 degrees and the sun was spilling in through the sunroof of the car. I put on my sunglasses and checked my look in the rearview mirror. Dang! I looked pretty good, not a day over 45. If I’d had a beret, I would have thrown it in the air.

After I dropped Sean off at school, I continued my mission to take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile. First stop, Starbucks. As I was celebrating my splendid-ness with a refreshing Frappuccino, I noticed a man over in the corner checking me out over the screen of his laptop. I acted like I didn’t notice because I am just that cool. In what was supposed to be a sexy Sharon Stone-style move, I tipped the cup upwards to drain what was left of the sweet brown liquid. But. The ice broke loose from the bottom of the cup like a calving iceberg, smashing me in the face and gushing down my pretty yellow shirt and into my cleavage. I screamed. The man in the corner hid behind his laptop and chortled. He chortled! That is one small step above snorting. You have not been humiliated until you have been the object of a public chortling.

I stood and gathered up my dignity. I did a little side-to-side head move and flipped my good hair over my shoulders and then I put on my sunglasses and walked out of there like a model on a runway. Except that I was dabbing at my boobs with a wad of environmentally friendly Starbucks napkins which you should know, will disintegrate at the sight of liquid and leave behind what looks like spit up or oatmeal or spit up oatmeal on your shirt. When I thought I could plumb the depths of humiliation no further, I caught sight of my reflection in the door on my way out. I not only had an icy drink in my bra, I had a whipped cream mustache.

I was not going to let a little Frappuccino down my shirt ruin my Mary Tyler Moore day. I still had on a fabulous pair of sandals. I still had on a sexy pair of jeans. I could still make it afterall! I arrived at my next stop, my doctor’s office, for some routine blood work. As I sat in the blood drawing chair, I noticed the lab technician eyeing my sunny yellow oatmeal shirt. She didn’t ask and I didn’t offer.

On the way out of the doctor’s office, I decided to use the restroom before I continued turning the world on with my smile at TJMaxx. As I raised my pretty little pink painted tootsie to flush, the slick sole of my chic sandal slipped and I baptized my foot in the flushing toilet. I screamed for the second time that morning. I pulled my wet foot out and stood there like a flamingo helplessly watching Cole Haan go around and around. At the last moment, I reached in and made the rescue.

My Mary Tyler Moore day was literally going down the toilet. I stood dejected at the sink, on one foot, washing my sandal. The bathroom door opened and I looked in the mirror to see the lab technician. She stopped when she recognized it was me, oatmeal girl. She didn’t make eye contact with me, but rather raised her eyebrows with an expression of amusement and pity, as though she had finally seen it all. She didn’t ask and I didn’t offer. I slogged out of the doctors office, past the nurse and the non-Mary Tyler Moore patients wearing my one leg wet jeans, one shoe, a shirt covered in what looks like oatmeal and carrying a shoe wrapped in a paper towel.

When I picked Sean up from school he was demanding to go to Old McDonald’s and since I already smelled like Frappuccino and urine, I gave in. It wasn’t long before I spied him in the corner of the play yard in the poop pose, the one that looks like he is about to lift off wearing a silver space age jet pack on his back — knees slightly bent, clenched fists out front. He was also wearing the red-faced, eyes glazed over poop expression. Great. Not exactly the finale I had in mind for my Mary Tyler Moore day, but at the same time, it seemed fitting. I called him over and gave him the news that we needed to go home. Given the day’s track record, the last thing I was up for was changing a poopy diaper in a public restroom. He was not very happy about this decision, so I had to carry him to the car, kicking and screaming and flailing.

With a “fully loaded” boy under one arm and my purse, keys, his shoes and our drinks under my other three arms, I exited the restaurant. As I was leaving I noticed that everyone was looking at me. My spirits were buoyed. I started thinking, wow, even after the day I’ve had, I still look pretty good.

That’s when I looked down to see that in the course of all the thrashing about, Sean had unsnapped my shirt down to my navel. And I had not one free arm to do anything about it.

So much for my Mary Tyler Moore day. If I’d had a beret, I would have just pulled it completely over my head.

I came across a news story recently about a woman who attacked a polar bear that was threatening her child. A couple of years ago, this would have seemed completely insane. Now, attacking a polar bear to save my child seems completely reasonable. In fact, going after a pint-sized obnoxious bully at McDonalds seems reasonable.

After two solid days of rain last week, I decided that Sean and I needed to get out of the house for a few hours to improve my attitude. In an act of desperation and in violation of my own principles, we ended up at McDonalds. I wasn’t the only mother in the metroplex with this great idea. The place was aswarm with screaming kids and pods of 20-something moms wearing tattoos and Juicy Couture sweats.

Sean and I found an empty table over in the corner where I cleared away the remains of someone’s lunch they had so graciously left behind. Sean sat across from me swinging his dangling feet and dipping the same French fry in ketchup and licking it off over and over. I watched him watching the kids play. Like his father, he is by nature, an observer. In a new situation, he will hang back quietly and size things up before venturing forth.

It quickly became apparent to me, which inmate was running the asylum. A bigger red-headed boy had set himself up as Ronald McDespot. He body-blocked the entrance to the tubes and determined who would pass and who wouldn’t. At one point I saw him at the higher end of the slide eye a smaller child below trying to get off. Wearing a wicked grin, McThug launched himself downward like a rocket hitting the smaller kid squarely in the back, knocking him face down to the ground. As we ate lunch, I watched this scene play out again and again. It was confounding — it was as though no one else but me saw any of this. McThug received not one word of correction from anyone.

After Sean was through eating, I said a prayer and held my breath as he ventured into Playland where McThug was holding court. As Sean tried to gain entrance to the slide, McThug put his hand on Sean’s chest and pushed him. Sean reeled backwards a few steps and looked at me with a hurt expression, as though he couldn’t understand why anyone would do such a thing. And I wouldn’t have had an answer for him, except to say that some people are just like that and that there will always be people like that everywhere you go.

Like a jack-in-the-box, I reflexively kept standing up to go to his rescue, but then thinking better of it, sitting down again. Deep down, I knew that now was as good time a time as any for Sean to learn how to deal with a bully. I was congratulating myself for managing to to restrain myself from swooping down into Playland and kicking some McThug bootie like an insane polar-bear-attacking mom when I saw McThug put his foot out and trip my little boy. Sean fell spread eagle to the ground and started crying, not because he was hurt, but because he was frustrated. That was enough. I silently came up behind McThug and bent over him with my hands on my knees. I lowered my voice and whispered into his ear in my best Clint Eastwood, “You touch my boy again and I’m going to make your day. Do you hear me?” I could see the back of his red head nodding in assent before he scrambled off to sit next to his mom.

I picked Sean up and we headed out, but not before stopping by McThug’s table where I leaned in with a Jack Nicholson grin. Looking the boy right in the eye, I said dripping with syrupy sarcastic southern charm, “You have a nice day now, ya’hear?” And then I lingered one uncomfortable second too long just to watch him squirm. Then I shifted my gaze to McThug’s mom who looked at me like I was insane.

When it comes to my boy, she would be right.