Thursday, July 10, 2014


So there was this Groupon {Eric loves it when I talk dirty to him} for a full-set of eyelash extensions plus one "fill"...and seeing as how I'm allowed to buy anything as long as there's a Groupon for it, I jumped at the chance to try these bad boys out.

I must admit, I hate the idea of anything that needs to be "filled." It's the reason I gave up my 3-inch acrylic nails years ago. The upkeep is stressful. I have a hard enough time getting into the hair salon every 6 10 weeks as it is...sadly my new grey hairs are making it harder and harder to slack.

But I love the idea of spending the hot summer make-up free and, with lash extensions, you don't really need to wear any make-up...especially mascara. I also loved the idea of the lashes for when I am teaching spin for the same reason. While most of my clients are used to seeing me in a somewhat haggard state at some ungodly hour, the lashes give you that "I've already showered and had my second cup of coffee today" look.

So without doing any research on the downside to lash extensions, I set off for my appointment. I really didn't want to know if they were bad for your own lashes {kinda the same way I refuse to read any articles that talk shit on McDonald's chicken nuggets.} What's the worst that could happen?

I arrived at the super cute salon and proceeded to fill out SEVEN pages of warning notes...hmm. I started to get sweaty and anxious. Especially after I read the warning about how I had to lay there completely still with my eyes closed otherwise risk screwing up the lash process - oh and my eyes. No biggie. I don't know why this came as a surprise to me. How else were they going to put them on? But suddenly the thought of laying there and being unable to open my eyes for fear of instant blindness was too much to handle. But my Groupon was final sale so I hopped up on the table.

You don't actually realize how hard it is to NOT open your eyes until you're told you can't. All I wanted to do was open them. My jaw was clenched. My toes were curled. I was having a full blow panic attack. And just when the soft music started to put me to sleep, this song came on.

OMG. Someone was obviously fucking with me. And then, because I was trying so hard not to open my eyes, my right eye slightly cracked open and in seeped what I'm sure was lime juice. "Oh fuck", I thought as I started to pick out names for my new seeing-eye dog. I managed to pull it together so that the eyelash tech was none the wiser. After an eternity hour, I was done.

"Ok, you can open them!," she said. Except now I couldn't. I was unable to open my eyes and I just laid there. "OMG, my eyes are glued shut." Once I pulled my head out of my ass and the girl assured me that I was ok, I opened my eyes...

...Ok, so not as bad as Jenny from the block... I was actually pretty happy with how natural they looked. And I couldn't feel them at all! Just a slight after-burn from the lime juice, but that went away within the hour.

I was totally relieved to be done until she told me she'd see me in two weeks for my fill. Because of how "quickly my lash cycle is," I'd never make it more than two weeks without a fill she said. Awesome.

After I walked out of the salon and before I took a minute to be thankful for the gift of sight - I took a selfie. Duh.

The next morning, I woke up and there were lashes on my pillow. And my face. "Shit! My eyes are balding." But I guess this was just part of my "rapid eyelash cycle" hard at work.

And contrary to what you might think after reading this post, I've actually really enjoyed my new lashes. Minus the hour spent in hell  complete stillness {which, btw, would be amazing if I could enjoy it}, they actually make life quite easy! I've barely worn make up for a month!

At times, I do miss a bit of mascara {self-proclaimed mascara whore here} but the lash girl assured me that mascara and lash extensions don't mix so I obeyed.

I've had them "filled" now twice and have only had to emergency text one of my closest confidants about them once, er, maybe twice.

And on the heels of that text decided it's probably best to sit this next fill out. Too much of good thing can sometimes leave your eyes bald be too much. 

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler!

I'm off to Scottsdale this weekend for my friend Sarah's bachelorette party...and while that in itself is enough for my arm hairs to stand up with excitement and literally yell "freedom," I'm even more giddy because it will be, for a few of us, a reunion of sorts.

My sophomore year in college my dad informed me that I would be studying abroad for a semester. He could do that - seeing as how he was footing the bill for me to attend pricey Chapman University here in the OC.

Somewhere between greek week and keg stand practice I just couldn't fathom living in the same city as the Mona Lisa and Champs-Elysees and potentially missing the next big date dash. Silly as it was, I negotiated with dad a summer abroad, as opposed to an entire semester away. I was good at this, he knew, by now. He was still recovering from the summer I negotiated to spend living in Tokyo, Japan at age 15. He's still not sure how I talked him into that. Neither am I.

So in the summer of 2001, I said Au Revoir  to the City of Orange and Bonjour to the City of Lights for a 6-week program studying drinking at the Sorbonne. It would wind up being that one summer that I would never forget.

Upon arrival, I checked in to my dorm in the 14th arrondissement...the building, which I believe we called the "asylum" because of it's drab, grey, prison-like architecture, wasn't quite what I'd envisioned for my summer in gay Paris but it would make do. I met my roommate Karolina and another girl, Sarah, and by 5pm, we were out for dinner and vin blanc with a group of girls. This was going to be good, I thought.

By the end of the week, we'd gotten our bearings {and by that I mean - found the nearest cigarette shop and crepe stand and rationed out our Euros to know just how much we could spend on clothes at Comptoir des Cotonniers and still have enough left to eat drink for the week.}

The next week classes began. Juggling an intensive {think 5 hour days in the classroom} French language program and seeing the sites bars/cafes of Paris was no easy task...but I quickly found my stride {aka, I could totally hang going out all night and making it to class the next day.} It was not that much different from being at home at Chapman in that way. Plus, the drinking age was 18. Sa-weetness.

At some point {day 2 of classes}, it was clear that Sarah and Karolina were going to take a more "laid back" approach to the "Study" abroad part of the summer...aka, they were going to drop me at school, head off to sight-see/shop and then come back and meet me for lunch. As much as I wanted to jump on that train, I actually was required to pass this class in order to graduate on time. Damn. Hate it when that happens.

Along the way, I met Romi. She, too, was required to do well in her French class so we became fast friends while the other two girls were exploring the city during the day. In no time, the four of us became quite the clique and, when Romi and I weren't in class, we were all taking in the city together.

We discovered Moosehead - the Canadian Hockey bar where we didn't have to speak French to order a beer {God-forbid.} Pizza Milano - the restaurant that sat along the Seine on the Left Bank that had, literally, the best salad, bread and pizza we thought we'd ever had. The best shops - anything that said "Soldes" on the window was a good thing because that meant the shop was having a sale. And we took in all the major tourist attractions in between...though, if you ask Sarah and me, chances are we could still give you directions to Moosehead before we were able to tell you how to get to the Louvre. Sorry, dad.

Before we knew it, the summer was coming to a close and we were sharing cabs to the airport and crying as we said goodbye. We promised to keep in touch.

And we did. Especially when just after 4 weeks of being home, we were all awakened on separate coasts to the news of the tragedy that was September 11, 2001. Romi, Sarah and I quickly scrambled to get in touch with Karolina who lived in Manhattan. After a day of worrying, we got through to her. She was fine. Scared but fine.

As the years went on, we lost touch with Karolina. Facebook wasn't around to link everyone together. Sarah and I remained in contact the most. She lived in Northern California and the distance didn't seem so far.

One day Sarah called me and told me she was moving to LA. I couldn't believe we were going to be so close.

Soon after, I graduated from college, went back to Europe for the summer and, upon return, had a mid-life crisis about not having a job in the new, real-world.

I decided that moving to Australia would be a good way to run from my real-world problems. "Great! Are you going to work in advertising?" dad said. No. I was going to work in bartending. Duh. "Um, no" dad said. And he could still do that. He'd just signed the final tuition check and the ink hadn't even dried on the diploma.

He informed me that Arnold Schwarzenegger was running for governor in the recall election and he knew someone who could maybe get me a gig on the campaign. I'd be working for free, he said. But the experience would be worth it. I still thought Australia was a way better deal. At least bartenders get paid.

I drove up to LA the next day and interviewed. "When can you start?" Sean Walsh asked me. "Tomorrow?" Great. You're hired, to be a volunteer in the press office, he said. {Not to be confused with a job that actually pays real american dollars.}

Shit, I thought. I can't commute to LA from OC working those hours. Who do I know that lives in LA? Immediately I thought of my old friend Sarah. I picked up the phone and within an hour I was on the 405 with 6 weeks of clothes and an air mattress. She was going to let me crash on her living room floor.

That first night at her cute 1 bedroom in Westwood was so much fun. It was as if no time had past. We picked up right where we'd left off. Laughing. Telling stories and drinking vin blanc.

As you can imagine, I worked slaved insane hours on the campaign. I'd literally leave for work at 6:30 am and would get back after Sarah was already asleep. We barely saw each other. The six weeks flew by and at the end, I was offered a job to work in the Schwarzenegger administration in Sacramento.

I'd also picked up a pretty cute boyfriend along the way. Campaigns are incestuous that way. Luckily, Sarah approved of him. A good thing, because Eric proposed just 6 weeks later.

When it came time to pick my bridesmaids, Sarah just had to be one of them. She was, after all, my first friend to meet Eric. I couldn't imagine her not being there when I said "I do."

In 2004 when Facebook started, Sarah and I were obvious "friends" and, soon after, one of us found our old friend Romi. We never could find Karolina though. Through the years, we've all stayed in touch through the various social media channels.

When Sarah got engaged about six months ago I was so excited for her. I was even more excited when I got the email about her bachelorette party in Scottsdale and saw that Romi was going to fly out from Boston to be there as well. The countdown was on to the reunion we'd always discussed but never planned.

It's been almost 13 years since we've seen each other. And what better way to celebrate then Sarah tying the knot?

I often think back to the dinner I had with dad all those years ago. The dinner where he told me I'd be studying abroad whether I wanted to or not. I'm so glad I talked him in to that summer. I can't imagine not having made those memories or those friends.

Cheers! to you and yours this weekend, friends! I'd say it in French but don't remember how. They didn't teach us that at the Sorbonne. I'd ask Sarah but I know she has no idea. Romi?

Romi, Sarah and me circa 2001

Sarah and me

At Moosehead. A late night I'm sure.

Karolina, me and Sarah at Pizza Milano. A bottle of wine for each of us.

This pic pretty much sums up my friendship with Sarah.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Coming clean: I'm a dirty eater.

First off, can I get an "amen" for two blog posts in less than a week? I must be a mom with three kids in school {haaaaay}.

Second, I have a confession to make. It's something that I've been wanting to get off my chest for a while now, but I was worried that I'd be judged for it.

Here goes...

I don't buy {or eat} organic. {Gasp}. I know. {Cringe. Are you still there?} But, really, this should not come as such a shock to some of my longtime readers. AS IF CMCP {cheapy mc cheaper pants} would pay MORE money for fruits and veggies that our kids aren't going to eat anyway. And I have to tell you, I kind of agree with him here {but don't tell him I said that.}

I know, I know. I'm damaging the tiny humans with pesticides and what not but no one is growing a tail or sprouting a chest hair yet so we must be ok, right?

Here's the deal, some {most} days I'm lucky to even get a meal into Saxon, let alone a well-balanced one. Truly, if it's not of the nugget variety, chances are he's not eating it. So before I give him a $2 bite of broccoli that he's going to give me the middle finger over anyway, I'd just as soon get the middle finger and save a few bucks in the process. Why add insult to injury?

It's actually kind of hard to admit seeing as how I live and work in the land of fitness and health. But, if I'm being honest, the reason that I live and work in that place is really so that I can enjoy the finer things in life like In N Out and pizza. Can I get another amen? Anyone? Bueller?

Don't get me wrong, my friends who live vegan and gluten-free lifestyles and nosh on quinoa for snack time are rock stars and I envy their will power. I just don't have it. And I bust my ass almost daily on a spin bike or a yoga mat so that I don't have to have it...And because quinoa tastes like poo. Just ask Sax. He's had both. And both times, I got the finger.

The closest that I'll ever get to a juice cleanse is a Nektar acai bowl - which I'm pretty sure is the equivalent of eating a king-sized candy bar for lunch just based on the sugar count alone. But I actually don't even really want to know about it because the acai bowls and the burgers and the french fries and wine {oh, wine} make me really, really happy. And you know what? I deserve it dammit.

I did a 24-day challenge over the summer and I literally would have cut a bitch for a sip of booze and a tortilla chip - if Eric hadn't removed all the sharp objects from the house ahead of time knowing that I would cut a bitch for a sip of wine and a tortilla chip. Such a love that guy. He knows me too well. I cleansed for 10 days {cleanse, btw, is just a code word for poop your brains out} - meaning no booze, coffee, dairy and limited {oh, gee, thanks for that} complex carbs.

"Yay! a brown rice cake. What a treat! Has anyone seen a knife so I can cut a bitch?"

That was kind of the sentiment on days 1-10. Then, at the end of the 10 days {in hell}, you get to have dairy. Hallelujah. It was at this time that I considered buying my own cow and creaming my own cheese. See, I'm just not very good at moderation. Ugh.

In total I lost 7 lbs, 4 inches off my hips and 2.5 inches off my waist. And after I recovered from my colossal hangover from literally diving off the wagon head first on day 25 {moderation, is that you? hello?}, I realized that I'm ok with those extra 7 lbs. I look pretty damn good with those extra 7 pounds and I am the happiest version of myself with those 7 pounds. Hear that? Angels singing.

If I want a burger, I'm going to have a burger. Pizza? I've got the number saved in my favorites. And in the morning when I wake up feeling guilty, I'm going to hop on a spin bike and pedal my little ass off until I don't feel guilty any more. {And hopefully I don't grow a tail from all the non-organic food...because having a tail on a spin bike could be problematic and, well, ouch.}

That's kind of the way our world works around here. And I'm good with that. And I hope you are too.

Ah, I feel 7 lbs lighter from coming "clean".

I went ahead and linked my spin class schedule so that we could work off the burgers together. Would love to have you in one of my classes. I'm teaching at YAS in Costa Mesa on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 6am and Equinox in Newport Beach on Sundays at 8am.

Oh, and in light of this new found "honesty" I'm going to start a new tradition called "Confession Fridays" on the Three Before 30 Facebook page. If you haven't "liked" me. Please do. It's good for my ego. And then you can join in too. Every Friday I'll "confess" a "sin" from the week. It's the closest I'm going to get to "cleansing" again.

Friday, October 11, 2013

The Potty Diaries. Chapter 2.

I've said it before. Parenting is poo. And what I mean is parenting involves poo. Lots of it. If I had known how much poo I'd be dealing with, I'd have asked for a raise. And then I would have hired a nanny with said raise to deal with all the poo. It's everywhere. And it never stops. Just when you think you've graduated to a non-poo related stage, the kids come home telling poo jokes. Shit.

And when it comes to po{o}tty training, I get an F. For reals. I hate it. I wrote about it here a few years ago when we were beating training Sawyer. So now I can't believe that we are knocking on the potty training door for Saxon. Well, we aren't actually. It's less of a knock on the door and more of a lock ourselves in the panic room type of sitch.

He's not ready. At all. He's 2.5 and if there was a kid who cared less than Sawyer about taking care of business on the potty, it's Saxon. Double shit. So for now, I'm enjoying my final months year as a mom with a kid in diapers.

Or so I thought...

...because it happened. I had heard of it happening before. I had felt sorry for friends who it had happened to {and secretly thanked God that it had never happened to me}.

And then it happened to me.

With the end of my diapering career in sight and nearing the finish line I kind of thought I was going to escape my early parenting years without having to deal with this, er, mess.

I walked into Saxon's room yesterday mid-nap time - and I saw what I thought only happened to my friends.

That's right. Saxon was PLAYING WITH HIS POO. And was ok with it. He was not upset. He was not grossed out. Actually, he was smiling now that I think about it.


I don't really know what else to say about it because I'm still so disgusted.

Here were my initial thoughts:



Who do I call?

Dammit. Where's the nanny?

Shit. We don't have one.

I really need a raise.

Is there a hotline for this?

There should be a hotline for this.

Call the pediatrician?

Too early for boarding school?

He's grounded.

Does he need a tetanus shot?

I really should have cut his fingernails last week.



And so on...

Really!? Three kids and it was bound to happen with one of them...what started as copying Daddy with one hand down his pants had turned into Columbus discovering new log land.

It was EVERYWHERE. So I did what any other mom would do.

Me: Eric! Get in here!

Eric {out of breath from sprinting to Saxon's room thinking that there was a real problem}: What! What is it?

Me: It's fucking shit. It's everywhere Eric!

Eric: Why are you yelling!?

Me: Because it's disgusting and {gagging} I'm upset that our kid plays with his poo. It's obviously your fault.

And then we {and by we I mean Eric} cleaned him up and {I} poured a glass of wine. And duck taped his diaper shut and pulled out the baby mittens. And went online looking for support groups.

Just when you think you've got this parenting shit down...

Sunday, August 4, 2013

A time out...

I've been a bad mommy. Somewhere in between Facebook status updates, Instagram photo posts, online shopping and shaping my three young kiddos into awesome human beings through responsible parenting {more on that in a minute}, I've managed to neglect my one true love {ok, next to wine and Eric} - blogging about how awesome we are.

Seems slightly ironic that the title of my first blog post in over a year is "A Time Out"...seeing as how today was the day that my kids were placed on the biggest time out of their lives to date and gave me a reason to step back into my 3b430 blogosphere...basically they got into so much trouble and it would have been too long of a facebook status update. You can thank my two older children for my comeback. They're still in their rooms if you're looking for them.

Allow me to set the stage...

This morning, after I slept in until 8 {thanks for that, hubs}, I awoke to the chaos that is Sunday morning in our house. Kids screaming...wrestling...asking for their fourth snack of the morning...watching their ninth Bubble Guppies episode of the know, "the ushe." As I proceeded to assess the damage from the weekend {sand everywhere, wet beach towels, empty coolers, lunchboxes and Toy-Palooza}, I persuaded the kids to get on board for a little Sunday morning clean-up sesh. I mean, they're completely old enough to start carrying their own weight around here, right? {Ry, almost 7, Sawyer, 5.5 and Sax, 2.5- I know. It's been a long hiatus}.

I started breaking down some boxes from various shipments that we'd received during the week, including packing material from some new outdoor lighting that I'd ordered and installed by myself because I'm rad like that. Lamps Plus packs their lighting fixtures in these archaic boxes that include foam packaging that I'm pretty sure equals the opposite of eco-friendly...and I still use plastic grocery bags {sorry, I'm not sorry} just to put it all into perspective for you. It's no bueno. Moving on.

Rylan asks me if she can play with the foam packing material. Here is how the conversation went:

Rylan: "Mommy, this looks like fun. Can we play with this foam?"

Me: "No, honey, that stuff is sooo messy. Be a love and go throw it in the outdoor trash cans for me. Do you know how to do that?"

Rylan: "Yes, mommy. I can do that."

Me {In my own head}: Aww, isn't she just the sweetest? So helpful. And such an angel. Every mom would be lucky to have a sweet Ry.

Or something like that.

Our Sunday morning was going flawlessly. House was getting picked up. Kids were helping. Life was beautiful. Time to sit down to check Facebook and make sure I didn't go rogue last night and post any pics after indulging in too much wine. Yeah, right, like that ever happens. Oh, wait. Dammit!

And then I paid bills.

And then I looked at the clock and realized that almost an hour had gone by and the kids were not fighting. Or screaming. But that they were still outside. Laughing gleefully. Red flag. And then it hit me. Something's not right.

So I went outside to check. And that's when I saw why they had been so content.

They had spent an hour breaking down the foam packing materials and making it "snow." My "sweet Ry" who I'd just had a conversation with about the effects of the non-eco-friendly foam had completely ignored my advice.

And here's the thing. It was a lot of fucking {this is really the best adjective I could use here} "snow." It was everywhere. In. Tiny. Little. Pieces. Sweet Jesus please save my children from the wrath that is their mother. "Snow" everywhere. All over the kids. In their hair and eyes. Covering Saxon, who, btw, loved it. Everywhere. It was like a white out. In Costa Mesa.

I lost my shit. Like seriously. Lost it.

I started spelling and attempting to edit my swear words {albeit, unsuccessfully. whatevs. A for effort?}. Mother effer. Darnit {which turns into Dammit real quick because Darnit just doesn't do my anger justice}. In hindsight I may have over-reacted. But, I'm serious here, folks. It was everywhere.

And then Eric came out when he began to worry about the safety of his children because he could hear my failed attempts to use only semi-bad language while I yelled at them. And he was pissed. Which meant I knew it was bad. And the kids knew we were pissed. And just sat there and stared at us like scared puppies.

So, I did what any normal parent would do. I handed them the broom and dust pan. And an hour later. It still looked like this.

The pictures don't even do it justice. Like I said. This was an hour after Snowfest 2013 had happened.


"Mommy, why are you taking pictures of us?"

"Because Mommy needs new material for the blog. Duh. Keep sweeping."

The aftermath.

Once they started picking up the disintegrated pieces that were now the size of grains of sand, I stepped in to help because I was pretty sure at that point I was violating some type of child labor law. And because I figured the neighbors had already called CPS and I wanted to cover my ass.
Here's the thing that I remembered. If you lose focus in this game for one minute, you're screwed. This was my big rookie mistake. I rarely have an uninterrupted hour. An hour to check Facebook. Pay bills. Online shop for things I don't need. And that's because usually I'm reading the kids books and tutoring them on their summer math studies. Ok, that last part was totally a lie. Just wanted to check and see if you were still reading.

I guess I just got too comfortable. And this was the kids attempt to put me in check.

On another note. My New Year's {yes, I know it's August. I'm a work in progress} resolution was to get back to blogging. I'm hoping that my next post won't involve me popping a vein in my neck as a result of my kids behavior. But, if it does, hopefully I'll have the wherewithal to stop and take pics so that someone can get a good laugh.

Well played little devils. Well played.

Friday, June 22, 2012

I'm {not} loving it

Some days I wish I had a ripcord. Or an option to take a blue or red pill. Or the ability to safe-surrender my four year old without getting arrested. If during the tensest of standoffs with Sawyer I was able to just remove myself from the situation, I'd probably be able to save myself a ton of anxiety and stress...and him a lot of money on adult therapy.

Case in point. Today, I thought I'd be an even more awesome mom than I already am and take the kids to McDonald's for lunch. But not just any McDonald's. No, I wasn't just going to force their tiny bodies to ingest pink slime after hitting up the drive-thru. I was going to take them to a McDonald's, dine there and it was a McDonald's with a Playplace. Yes. I said it. A Playplace. The worst invention ever and, in my opinion, the reason that there is flesh-eating bacteria on this planet. If I NEVER go back, it will be too soon.

Sawyer has been begging me to go to a McDonald's with a Playplace and I finally caved and decided today would be the day. Big mistake. Huge. Catastrophic.

Why!? Oh, because once we finished our pink slime-infused chicken nuggets, and the kids got to play at the Playplace and it was time to go, Sawyer decided he'd found his new happy place at the TOP of the Playplace tower and basically gave me the middle finger. Yes, that's right. Sawyer climbed to the top of the tower, sat down and told me to eff off. In so many words. He basically called BS on me and knew that there was no way in hell I was going to climb into the tiny tunnel ladder and crawl my ass up to the top of that tower and drag his ass down.

Let me just go on record here and say that if you could have seen the look on my face and if my face could talk without saying a word, here's what it would have said:

"Sawyer Colt, you climb your little ass down that tower now or, so help me God, you are going to spend the rest of your life in a full-body cast."

And here's where I really needed the ripcord/blue pill/whooo-za/deep breathing option...HE WOULDN'T EFFING COME DOWN. Swear.

So there I am. Gritting my teeth. Armpits sweating. Saxon Crying. Cursing. And the ENTIRE McDonald's Playplace area watching me.

In case I haven't set the scene well enough. Here's a glimpse into the conversation I was having with myself in my head.

Don't panic. He'll come down. Right!? He's not coming down. Panic. Fuck. Shit. I'm claustrophobic. Can I even fit in that tunnel ladder? I certainly can't fit in that tunnel ladder while I'm holding the baby. Who in the Playplace area is not a recently released convict that I can trust to hold the baby while I go fish Sawyer out of the tower. {looks around}. No one. Fuck. Shit. McDonald's with Playplaces should really serve wine just like California Adventure does at Disneyland. Shit. He's still up there.

"Sawyer, get DOWN here."

He's still not coming down. Fuck it. I'm leaving him here.

"Sawyer, I'm leaving."


"Rylan, go get your brother."

Rylan won't go. She's scared of the tunnel and flesh-eating bacteria too. Fuck.

And so it went. For about 20 minutes. I've now spent approximately19 minutes more than I've ever wanted to spend at a McDonald's Playplace. And now I'm certain that the B.O. I'm smelling is mine. It's a full-on stand off. Sawyer knows that if he comes down, his ass is such grass that it actually behooves him to stay up there.

He's going to boarding school. No. Worse. Military school. Actually, I wonder if they'd take him at Juvenile Hall. This is a crime, right!? Having a stand-off with your mother in the McDonald's Playplace tower has to be a crime, right!?

Sweaty. On the verge of tears and down one less child because I'd lost him to the grips of the McDonald's Playplace tower, I gave up. I had no fight left.

Much to my surprise, a sweet and wonderful 7-year old girl {whom I later volunteered to swap for Sawyer} said, "I'll go get him for you." Omg. I think she was actually wearing a halo. That girl crawled up to the top, showed Sawyer how fun it was to go down the slide and down he came. Right into the arms of an abusive mother. I could have killed him right then and there. Of course, I composed myself and we walked out like nothing had ever happened.

Whatever McDonald's Playplace. I own this shit. Same time next week? Done. Ok, maybe not that confident. But it went something like that.

Oh Sawyer. Bless your heart.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Snip Snip. Sniff Sniff?

Remember when you were dating your significant other and people would always ask, "when are you going to get engaged?" And then you got engaged and everyone said, "when are you going to get married?" And then after you got hitched, no sooner then sipping your first pina colada on the beach in Hawaii on your honeymoon, some random couple would ask, "when are you gonna start trying?" And then you ripped your hair out because you just wanted everyone to stfu and leave you alone? No? Just me? Oh...

Well, newsflash folks, the questions never end. And it never gets any less awkward. Because it's usually people who you don't know very well who think that they should be privy to your ovulation cycle. Ew. Weird.

So after we popped out #3, I thought maybe these strange encounters would start to slow. Guess what? They didn't and now random people are asking me if we're considering getting a vasectomy. "Um, no, well, ah. I, uh, haven't. but..." is usually all I can utter as I'm deciding what bunch of bananas looks the best in the produce section. Really!?

But now that we're rocking and rolling in the Beach house and we're officially out of the baby stage, I've actually started thinking about sending Eric in for the big snip snip. I know, sad. We both agree that three is enough but aren't sure if we need to "make it official." And because we've both teetered back and forth about making the big decision, I thought I'd share with you my list of positives and negatives:. Here she goes.

Positives {pro-snipping} because a "surprise" would...:
- Another baby would put me over the edge. No, seriously, I swear. Like Thelma-and-Louise-style. Off the cliff.
-We've run out of bedrooms. Another baby would have to sleep in our room. And you know my feelings on co-sleeping.
- 4 kids is like two steps away from joining the ranks of the Duggars. We'd have to have a reality show.
- I would have to trade my Denali in for a school bus. Or one of those Mercedes van/bus things. Oh, wait. Mercedes? Maybe this one switches to the negatives column.
- No more pill-popping pour moi. I recently read that one of my facebook friends got preggers on birth control. She said that this happens to about 1% of women. OMG. I started to sweat.
-Grandma Sue Sue won't babysit 4 kids. Remember, I'm an only child. 2 was challenging. She watches 3 because, well, she can't say no. 4 is deal-breaker which means we definitely can't have another baby...until Rylan is old enough to babysit for long weekends. So, what's that, like 2 years?
-College. Putting 4 kids through college is craaa-zy. And since Eric is buying me that Birkin bag for our 10th wedding anniversary, Rylan already has to graduate in 3 years {I chose Ry's college fund because I figured, as a girl, she'd understand the need to sacrifice education for fashion.}

Negatives {leave the goods alone and pray}:
- Our kids are rad. Seriously. I don't even really like kids. But ours are awesome. 1 more would just be contributing to the awesome-ness we've already created. Yeah, I said it.
- I could maybe talk Eric in to getting the Bugaboo Donkey if we got knocked up with #4
- I would have to listen to Eric complain about having surgery on his manhood. Oh geezus.
- I would keep taking the pill and live in fear of the 1%
-What if I died and Eric got remarried and that chick decided that she wanted to have a litter of Beaches too? Ha. Good luck chick.
     *While, I'm at it. Here's my letter to Eric's new wife in the event that I die. Can one of you please direct her here? K, Thanks. Here goes.
     Dear Mrs. Beach: I just wanted to let you know that in the event you think you'd like to go for one kid of your own, I wanted to let you know in advance that the child will not look like you. The Beach DNA is no-joke. Seriously, look at my kids. They didn't even get my eyelashes. You will, in fact, just be contributing to Eric's ego and adding one more mini-Eric to the universe. I hope they get your brains and handyman capabilities. Think about it. xo, L

I hope this clears things up. For now, here's to really good birth control.