Thursday, September 27, 2012

Big E: Sleep Nemesis

MOM! MOM! MOM!

My heart sinks into the depths of my belly.  He's up.

I roll over and face my sleep nemesis, Big E.

YES, BIG E?

I take a look at the clock.  2:45.  Didn't I just fall asleep like 20 minutes ago?  It was more like 10:30, but it felt like 20 minutes ago.

I HAVE AN IMPORTANT QUESTION FOR YOU!

This simple phrase is the blue screen of death for the remainder of my restful night.

SH*T SH*T SH*T!

I didn't say this to my child, but I knew what was about to go down and I was not ready for it.  Not this night.

I had spent the day fasting and then gorging and I just felt all out of sorts.

WHERE DO ROCKET SHIPS LIVE?

What the hell?  That is your important, 2:45 AM question?

I won't let this goober stump me, even in my zombie like state.

OUTER SPACE!

Mr. Yoy and give each other imaginary high fives.  He is up, too.  He stifles a laugh.  I smile at him, but also want to punch him in the face a little.

Clearly it is the Yoy genes that keep Big E up all night.  If you know me, you know I'm an 11-7er for life.  Always.  I literally fall asleep wherever I am if it is past my bedtime.  Mr. Yoy is a vampire.  It's amazing that we are ever up at the same time.

Big E asks for some more water.  I oblige and herd him back to bed.  He jumps right in. Crisis averted?   I feel the hope pulse through my tired, old body.

While I'm up, I use the bathroom.  I hear Big E through the wall.  He's chatting up no one in particular, but he has so much to say.

I'm screwed.  He's way too alert to go back to sleep.  For all I know, he had been laying in his bed formulating the rocket ship question for the last hour.

Defeated, I climb back into bed.  Denial is my new best friend.  I tuck my head under my pillow and pray that the next time I open my eyes it'll be seven.

I hear his tiny feet on our carpet.  Like a bad penny, he's returned.

MOM, GIVE ME CHOICES.

I give him choices if he wakes up a few minutes early and I need like thirty more minutes of sleep.

YOU CAN STAY IN YOUR ROOM AND READ BOOKS OR YOU CAN GO BACK TO SLEEP.

YOU CAN DO LEARNING BOOKS OR YOU CAN PLAY WITH YOUR FIRE STATION.

Stuff, like that.

At 2:45 in the morning, what sort of choices do I give him?

YOU CAN TAKE THE KEYS TO THE VAN AND DRIVE TO WAFFLE HOUSE FOR SOME BREAKFAST OR YOU CAN SCOUR THE INTERNET FOR A NEW FAMILY.

YOU CAN GO BACK TO BED OR YOU CAN HEAD OVER TO DUNKIN' DONUTS TO HELP MAKE THE DONUTS.

Before my brain even thinks up the choices he declares he wants to play downstairs.

Oh, and he needs someone to watch him.

In this scenario, that would be me, in case you were confused.

I roll out of bed and head to my next station of rest, the couch.  Mr. Yoy makes a weak effort to come, too.

I tell him to sleep, he has to deal with real people in the morning.

I can just be a crazy b*tch to our children all day without any real ramifications.

I try to sleep but Big E is constantly at my side with questions, requests, toy issues.

I am delirious.  I begin to softly sob because I know the rest of the day is going to be pretty bad.  I doze off long enough to have some creepy dream.  Ugh, no thanks.

At 5:30, Little E decides he wants to party, too.

Now they both are up.  Little E just wants to lay on me and whine.

At 6:30 I fake like I have to use the bathroom.  I sneak upstairs and wake up Mr. Yoy.  He agrees to swap with me so I can get an hour more of sleep in peace.

And boy do I.

And I ducked out on a giant Little E dump.  Yes!

Anyway, if I saw you today and looked busted and acted like a witch, I apologize.

I'm going to bed early tonight, because I never know when I'll get my wake up call.

Replace the coffee with Coke Zero and you have me.







Monday, September 24, 2012

Big E: Urine Trouble

Tomorrow evening at sundown begins the holiest day of the year for my people, the Jews.

It is the day we atone for all the terrible sins we committed during the past year and make a promise to do better in the coming year.

I was in the middle of listing all of my sins out, but then a friend called and we had to gossip about all the bad mothers we know.  (KIDDING!)

Obviously, I've steered clear of murder, theft, and adultery (some of the really bad things on the stuff you shouldn't do list).

I've even tried my hardest to raise my children with some level of morality and goodness.

Things were looking good for Big E this year.  He was pretty decent.  Especially for a three year old.

But last Friday he may have sealed his fate for the coming year.

Big E was romping around in our Synagogue's garden after school with some of his classmates.

One of the little girls needed to use the bathroom.  While walking inside seems like a simple solution, the Synagogue/School is locked up tight.

You have to press an intercom button at the front door and recite the Hebrew alphabet to gain entrance.  Sometimes backwards.  You really can't fake your way into this place.

Once you are in, the bathrooms are way in the back.  It is a treacherous walk for any kid who is recently potty trained.

The garden's lush grass seemed like as good a place as any to squat down and discreetly use the bathroom.

Of course, Big E was hovering around his classmate like an annoying gnat.

I asked him to give her some privacy.

This was my fatal error.

Big E didn't realize she was going to the bathroom.

His eyes lit up.

I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM, TOO!

Shocking.  This kid loves to pee in the grass.  He should have been a dog.

Before I could reach him, he yanked down his pants, and let it flow.

I'm talking a rainbow shaped stream any respectable leprechaun would be proud of.  He basically was watering the flowers on the far side of the garden.

OMG.

I was horrified.  I'm not even sure horrified could describe how I felt.

Please, please, please do not let one of our Rabbis walk out the door and see my child watering the sacred Holocaust Garden.

He finished up and I quickly pulled up his shorts as I attempted to unburn that scene from my brain.

Not two minutes later one of the Rabbis did walk out.  He smiled and wished us a Good Shabbos.

I let out a huge sigh.

Big E, you got a lotta atoning to do!
Side Note:  It took me a few days to write about this.  I am scarred.





Big E: The Boy Who Cried Poor

On Wednesdays and Fridays, both boys go to preschool.  On Monday, Big E goes alone.

We kept Little E home on Mondays, because he just turned two and I felt like he'd enjoy some alone time with me.

I was wrong.  Every Monday as we load Big E up for school, Little E stands an inch from the car and loses his damn mind.  He wants in.  Like now.

Mr. Yoy and I have discussed sending Little E on Mondays and have even asked the school to let us know how much it would cost to send Little E on Mondays for the remainder of the school year.

Big E picked up on Little E's despair and began lobbying for Little E to go with him on Mondays.

This morning, Big E asked me for the 22nd time why Little E couldn't go to school with him on Mondays.

I was out of answers.  And patience.

LITTLE E DOESN'T GO WITH YOU BECAUSE DADDY AND I HAVE NO MONEY.

It is REALLY expensive to send these kids to preschool.

Big E went off to school with Mr. Yoy.

As Mr. Yoy walked Big E into school this morning, Big E reported to the head of his school that Little E can't come to school on Mondays because his parents have no money.

Awesome.

MUST. KEEP. MOUTH. SHUT.
Please let me repeat every off the cuff comment you make to anyone that will listen.

Freshman Dorm

The weather here in Atlanta has been glorious.

We have spent the late afternoons outside playing bubbles, chalking up our driveway, and racing up and down the hill next to our house.

The Yoys, who sweat just thinking of exercise, come inside at dinner time with an evenly distributed sheen.  Their hair looks freshly showered.

I noticed the other day that their wing of the upstairs is starting to smell very similar to the boys' side of my Broward Hall dorm floor.

I instantly flash back to 1994.  I walk from the Tresor scented girls' side and cross over to the hot, musty, closer-to-campus boys' side of my dorm.  I try and hold my breath until I reach the stairwell.  Yes, the unairconditioned stairwell is an improvement.

Boys smell.  I knew this.  I guess I just forgot.  Or maybe just thought I'd still have a few more years of that sweet baby smell.

It is gone.

In its place is a hot sweat sock odor.

I've got all the windows open, fans on, and I'm Febreezing the sh*t out of this place.

I will prevail!






Thursday, September 20, 2012

Why I Heart Diapers

After a morning of gymnastics, I took the E's to the mall for a haircut and some lunch.

As we rode the elevator up to the food court, I saw Big E pull a Michael Jackson.

You know, the crotch grab.  When Big E needs to go to the bathroom he sometimes uses that move.  By the way, is that trademarked?  Mr. Yoy?  Anyone?

DO YOU HAVE TO USE THE RESTROOM?

I've grown wise to his body signals.

NO, MOM! (I also detected the slightest of eye rolls).

I take his three-year-old word for it.

We hit up CFA and order a barrage of kids' meals, applesauce, milk and toys.

I get everyone set up at the table.

This may be a one sentence statement, but it involves many detailed steps and takes about 5-10 minutes.  I like to think of myself as Swedish Chef meets Mary Poppins.  It is hurried and panicked and complete chaos.

I finally sit down and begin shoveling my lunch down my throat.

We make it about three minutes into lunch.

I HAVE TO PEE!  I HAVE TO USE THE BATHROOM!

The words I dread hearing.  Especially at this moment in time.  I've got $20 worth of uneaten food on the table.

My brain scrambles into action.  I scan the food court.  I have a few choices.

1)  I ask the nice businessman sitting next to me if he'll watch our food and/or Little E while I shuttle Big E to the toilet.  I consider this man legit because he is wearing a tie and it is swooped over his shoulder so the french fry grease doesn't drip on it.

2) I ask the friendly CFA counter person if she'll watch our food from across the food court and make sure someone doesn't drop roofies into our chicken.  I'd hate to wake up in the Pike House (again) wondering what the hell happened to me.  (JOKING!)

3) I scrap lunch and just throw everything away and scurry off to the family restroom so me and my kid can use the dueling toilets while looking at each other.

4) I bribe Big E to hold it while we finish lunch.  Conveniently there is a Tollhouse Cookie Cart within his line of vision.  This might be the winner!

I gave Big E options three and four.  Obviously he goes with the cookie-for-holding-it option.

We finish up lunch, hit up the bathroom, and then head down to get Big E's haircut.

I'd like to pause here to voice my frustration about lunch.  It didn't have to be that way.  I know I could have insisted that Big E use the bathroom before we sat down, but I asked him and for whatever dumb reason, I trusted him.

But the next part of the story sent me over the edge.

Fast forward like 15 minutes.  Big E's hair is done.  We are walking to the mall exit when we spot the seasonal Halloween costume store.

We go in to pick out a costume for Big E.  After a few indecisive minutes, Big E goes with Buzz Lightyear.  I guess he has forgiven Buzz for last December's scuffle.

I'm in line paying.

I HAVE TO USE THE BATHROOM!  I HAVE TO USE THE BATHROOM!

Say what?  Again?  This is happening again?  Like 25 minutes later?  I did not put near enough deodorant on for a day like today.  How many fire alarms are we going to have at the mall?

We literally run out of the store.  Little E giggles in the stroller like he is on some sort of Disney ride.

This time, my mind isn't as sharp.  I can only think of the bathrooms upstairs, even though I'm sure there is one on the lower level.  I decide to chance it and run to our car where we house a deluxe backseat potty.

HOLD IT!  SQUEEZE IT!  HOLD IT!

I'm sure we were quite the sight running through the parking lot.

We made it to the car without an accident.

But as I launched Big E onto his potty, I'll admit, I had a moment of diaper nostalgia.

Yeah, they are expensive as sh*t, but as I stood sweating in the mall parking lot while my kid sat on a toilet inside my car, I wholeheartedly missed my diaper safety net.

Little E may never be potty trained.

Things were so much simpler back then...

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Hunger Games

Monday and Tuesday were rarities in the Yoy house.  Because of Rosh Hashanah, Mr. Yoy was home with us all day and night.

In the morning, we went to our synagogue for services, but in the afternoon it was all Yoy, all the time.

This was a chance for Mr. Yoy to see how nice it was to be home for dinner, bed, and bath time on a week night.  I really should have had a pow wow with the boys on Monday morning to make sure we were all on the same page.

IF YOU GUYS ARE ON YOUR BEST, BEST, BESTEST BEHAVIOR, MAYBE DADDY WILL TRY AND BE HOME FOR BATH AND BED TIME ONCE OR TWICE (pushing it) A WEEK. LET'S MAKE US LOOK AWESOME!  GO TEAM!

Instead, the Yoys were bloody awful.

Mr. Yoy and I ordered the traditional day two Rosh Hashanah meal of pizza.

Right around the time the delivery guy arrived, the Yoys began their version of the Hunger Games.

Yes, it was a fight to the death.  There were no weapons involved, just old school screaming, crying, and grabbing.

Not only did the winner get to live, but they also received a numbers learning book which was the evening's must have toy.

After multiple interventions, we both gave up, like good parents do, and ate our pizza in silence.  Let me rephrase that.  We were silent, while our kids had reached a new high note on the musical scale.  A kitchen window shattered.

I noticed we were both smirking.  If you could translate Mr. Yoy's smirk it said:

I AM SO GLAD I AM NOT HOME EVERY NIGHT FOR THIS BLOOD BATH.

My smirk translated a little differently.

I USE SHOPPING AS THERAPY AND THIS IS WHY.  BE THANKFUL I'M NOT A DRUG ADDICT.


May the odds be ever in your favor!

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Little E: Taking Credit For Others' Hard Work

Like other members of our fabulous, male-dominated family, Little E is never short on gas.

Not the $3.79/gallon type, but the type that clears rooms.

At first I would ask Little E if that was him making all that noise.

He'd look at me and smile.

ME!

And he always owned up to it.  He was proud.

But then things took a turn towards weird.

I've noticed recently that anytime anyone within earshot passes gas, Little E is the first to claim it.

ME!

ME!

ME!

Then it hit me.

For the rest of eternity, we now have the ability to pass gas anytime, anywhere, as long as Little E is close by.

Where we once blamed everything on Poodle Yoy, we will now have a more willing blame participant.  I mean, he actually admits to it.

Yes!

Bring on the Varsity hot dogs!
We actually own this book.  Shocking, I know.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Big E: The Standup Comic

Before bedtime, Big E and I were working on his giant maze book.  This kid is a maze fiend.

I'm thinking this Fall would be the perfect time to drop him at the opening of a corn maze and see if he makes his way out.

Each maze in his workbook has a theme.

Help the frog find his lily pad.  Help the pig find the mud pit.  Help Abraham Lincoln find his top hat.

Hold the phone.  I was not going to be able to sneak that last one by Big E without some sort of explanation.

WHO IS HE?

A great President and American.

WHAT HAPPENED TO HIS HAT?

The wind knocked it off his head (more like John Wilkes Booth, but I didn't want to give him nightmares).

CAN WE SEE HIM?

He's dead (again, no forthcoming details of his assassination).

He was president over 150 years ago (blank stare, concept of time has still not clicked).

WHERE DOES HE LIVE?

Illinois.

Now this is where my story gets HI-LARIOUS.  But only if you know a little hebrew prayer. Sorry for everyone else.

He looks at me and says seriously:

ELOHEINU?

Ok, so I know it's late.  But humor me.

Say Illinois Eloheinu together aloud and tell me that didn't just crack your butt up.

Big E has officially authored his first schtick.  He's three.

I'm so proud!  Maybe I'll rename him Jerry Seinfeld.





The Bubbe Jackpot

A quick vocabulary lesson for my non-Yiddush speaking friends.

Bubbe n.  - A grandmother

That's the sterile version.

To me a bubbe is like a grandma on steroids.  They are rich in crazy stories about the old country, cook incredible foods that you love until you find out what they really are (wait, I just ate cow tongue?), and brag endlessly about their wonderful grandchildren.

Ok, on to my story.

After school today, the Yoys did their required ten minute run through our synagogue's Holocaust Garden.  Mid-stride, Big E stopped in his tracks.

I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!

I rounded up Little E and we headed inside.

Today, synagogue was bumping.  There was an event and busloads of elderly people had been brought over from the Jewish Tower (the local old person home).

As we weaved our way around the crowd, I could see Big E struggling to hold it in.

We got stuck behind a woman with a cane walking slowly down the hall.  I thought this was going to be the end for Big E, but I also didn't want to run her down.  A dirty pair of undies would not be the worst thing in the world.  Knocking over a lady with a cane would be.

We made it to the woman's lounge (fancy bathroom) and it was like entering Bubbe heaven.  There were five old ladies in the process of using the bathroom, washing hands, fixing their hair, and just chatting about old lady stuff.

I CANNOT WAIT TO GET MY HAIR DONE TOMORROW!

They all about plotzed (look it up) when I walked in there with the two little guys.

One woman began chatting up Big E.  Wow, maybe he had finally met his match.  Too bad he was about to crap his pants.

We learned she also had a grandson named Big E.  He was six months old and destined to be a doctor.

I HAVE TO MAKE DIRT!  I HAVE TO MAKE DIRT!  I NEED PRIVACY!

I hoist Big E up on the toilet and shut the door.  I hope these women are all deaf so I don't have to explain what dirt is.

While Big E was using the facilities, another lady closed in on Little E.

HOW OLD ARE YOU?

I answer for him.

She tries to take his fingers to make a two.  He screams in her face.

I apologize for his b*tchy behavior.

OH, HE'S BEEN UP SINCE 3:49 AM.  READ MY BLOG IF YOU WANT THE DEETS.

Then I spent ten minutes explaining the internet.  I should stop self promoting.  Lesson learned.

Anyway, I smiled as I listened to the women chat.  It reminded me of my own grandma and all her widow friends on her condo floor in Aventura.  I suppressed the urge to hug them all.

On a side note, I did a little bubbe research and you can actually adobt-a-bubbe in Russia. Like part of a highway.  Now THIS I can get behind!
There were so many of them...it was fantastic!

MUST. POWER. THROUGH. AGAIN.

Last night was another epic night at our home.

This time it was Little E who garnered the title of Worst Behaved Yoyser.

At 3:49 AM (precisely two minutes earlier than his older brother the night before), Little E woke up Mr. Yoy by screaming for MAMA!

I, of course, didn't hear sh*t because I had settled nicely into my sleep deprived coma from the prior evening.

Mr. Yoy alerted me to Little E's screaming.  And by alert, I mean a nudge to the rib.

I threw on my glasses, my superhero cape, and went dashing down the hall.  Little E is my good sleeper.  He rarely makes a peep between the time I put him down and the time I get him up.  I braced myself for the worst.

I flung open his door and grabbed him.  He was pee, poo, and vomit free, so that was a plus.  He was just upset.  Maybe it was night terrors.

I calmed him down and put him back to bed.

Sleep was not on Little E's schedule.  I was not aware of said schedule.

I repeated the crying/calming/bedding cycle three more times before I waved the white flag. We were going on an hour of crying.  I prayed Big E did not get up to use the bathroom.

I made the executive decision to turn on the television (again).  I hate this and have tremendous feelings of guilt, but my desire to sleep overrides my desire to be mother of the year.

Little E quiets down temporarily, but I cannot fall back asleep because I hear Little E sneaking towards Big E's bedroom.  He wants to play with his big brother.  Normally, I'm on board with this.  At 5:30 AM, I say let's not wake the sleeping giant.

So I move Little E into the guest bedroom with me.  I pull an extra blanket down from a shelf in the laundry room and simultaneously pull down an old dust buster and a can of spray starch.  I scare the living sh*t out of Mr. Yoy.  Sorry for that.

Little E spends the next hour and a half climbing over me, talking, and doing everything in his power to keep me awake.

I concede my second night in a row of waking at 4 AM.  This is awesome.

At one point, Little E climbed on my chest in an attempt to kiss me.  But he crossed his eyes and did this awkward lip pursing thing. In my exhausted delusional state I wondered how Jamie Foxx's Wanda had made it into the guest bedroom.  Should I laugh or cry?

Around 7, Big E came out of his room and the day began anew.  Big E was so proud of himself for staying in his bed all night.

I mustered up a weak encouragement.

Mr. Yoy and I played the who was more tired contest.  I thought I should win.  So did he.

Somehow, I managed to get the Yoys dressed and fed and off to school.

I skipped out on my Weight Watchers meeting this morning, because after eating a tray of brownies on Saturday night I was looking for a good excuse not to go, and crawled back into bed.  And slept.  For an hour of uninterrupted, quiet, relaxed sleep.

Now I'm just watching the clock.  Four hours until bedtime.  I will survive.  Because I have to.
At 6:30 in the morning, Little E looked eerily similar to her.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

MUST. POWER. THROUGH.

I've been awake since 3:50 AM.

I'm not bragging about this, as I'm sure some of you went to bed around that time.

I'm just stating a fact.

My bathroom butts up to the wall by Big E's bed.  I know he can hear activity in the bathroom through his wall, as I've been in his room when Mr. Yoy is in there. (Thanks crappy Winmark Homes construction)

I get up almost every night to use the bathroom, as my bladder is shot to hell.

Last night I awoke at precisely 3:50 to use the bathroom.  My zombie self got the job done and stumbled back to bed.

I stretched out in my cool sheets and prepared to enjoy the second half of my slumber.

Then I heard the familiar padding of feet entering our bedroom.  I expected Big E to ask me to pull his pants up, but this time, he wanted to climb into our bed.  I know this is a bad precedent, but I'm chronically exhausted, and I just don't feel like arguing about it in the middle of the night.

Big E lays in our bed for about fifteen minutes.  He is restless.  Let me paint a more accurate picture.  He is the poster child for restless leg syndrome (RLS).  He quickly sits up.

WHEN CAN WE LIGHT THE MENORAH?  WHEN IS IT CHANUKAH?

While I appreciate his religious enthusiasm, I'm in no mood for his shenanigans.

Mr. Yoy scoffs.  We are both thinking the same thing.

HOW COULD TWO PEOPLE WHO LOVE TO SLEEP HAVE CREATED THIS VAMPIRE CHILD?

I take one for the Yoy team and persuade Big E to go to his bed so Mr. Yoy can sleep.

We spend about an hour in his bed.  Big E is tossing and turning and sighing and asking me crazy existential questions.

I plead with Big E to go to sleep.

I WON'T BE ABLE TO PROPERLY MOTHER YOU TOMORROW IF I AM ON FOUR HOURS OF SLEEP AND A ROYAL B*TCH!

That is a paraphrase of what I told Big E.

It falls on deaf ears.

Around 5:30 we had downstairs so Big E can play.  I tell him that I'm going to sleep on the couch and not to bother me.

I know you know how this ends.  He "HEY, MOM!"s me until a little after seven.

I'm delirious.  I'm tired. I'm mad.

Big E belts out his infamous rooster impression and I evacuate back to my bed.

Big E trails, but instead of following me to my bedroom, he flings open Little E's door and wakes him up.

GOOD MORNING!

So instead of possibly catching a few more ZZZZZZZZZZZs, I've now got a tired, startled, crying Little E on my hands.

Mr. Yoy proclaims today TV ALL DAY DAY and I flip on Disney Junior and drag what remains of my soul back to bed.  I ended up sneaking in about 45 more minutes of sleep.

But make no mistake, I am hurting today.

So I'm pleading for ideas and suggestions to keep Big E in bed.

I already cut out his nap so that he'd be tired for nighttime.

Short of chaining Big E to his bed (not legal), can you think of anything else?

Thanks, readers!
Say hello to my new BFF.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Mrs. Yoy and The Big One

The Big One would be the massive 3.3 earthquake that rocked Beverly Hills and the surrounding areas at 3:26 am on Sunday.

This isn't a very involved story, I just wanted to point out that both Mr. Yoy and I were woken up by the unidentified noise.

It sounded like a mash up of our door rattling and the hard wood floors squeaking.

We both had the same reaction.

SOMEONE IS BREAKING INTO OUR ROOM!

We peered through the darkness of our room to make sure we weren't having an Alex Trebek moment, and then resumed our snorefest.

Living in the city of Atlanta has scarred us for life.

Our go-to thought was breaking and entering.  We literally have criminal minds.

In a million years, we never would have come up with an earthquake.  Even if we were in California.

It truly is a miracle we survived.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Mrs. Yoy and the Bottomless Chardonnay Glass

I always joke about how much wine I drink or want to drink.  But in actuality, I'm pretty lame, I mean tame.

No matter how hard I try to unwind, I always have this little voice in the back of my mind reminding me I will most likely be up with Big E during the night and/or very early in the morning.  So I never blow it out.  Or, I RARELY blow it out.

With five days in LA, I knew this was my window, my opportunity to channel the 25 year old version of Mrs. Yoy.

There would be nothing interrupting my wine induced sleep, except maybe an earthquake.  I was up to the task.

Friday night, the bride and groom asked us to speak at their rehearsal dinner.  We were honored and immediately began working on our schtick.

For the record, Mr. Yoy is a fantastic public speaker, national debate champion, and relentless litigator.

As comfortable as Mr. Yoy is speaking in front of people, I am at the opposite end of the spectrum.  I literally wrote out:

GOOD EVENING, MY NAME IS MRS. YOY FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO DON'T KNOW ME.

I repeat, I wrote out my name for fear I would blank.  I shake.  I sweat.  I mumble.  I suck.

To combat the side effects of being a terrible speaker, I drink wine.  For whatever reason it seems to help.  Friday evening was no exception.

I couldn't even throw out the number of glasses I drank as every time I turned my head the waiter topped me off.

By the time we got up to speak (12 out of 13 speeches), I was ready to sing, not speak our speech.  That's where I was.  I was awesome.  I think.

Saturday morning was a tad hairy, but by the time I had inhaled my breakfast, had my spa treatment, and showered, I was ready to do it again!

Which was very convenient as we were about to celebrate a wedding!

Prior to my California arrival, a memo must have circulated about me.  It seems that everyone was in on the wine conspiracy.

Maybe I even had the same waiter.

Let's just say my glass never fell below the halfway point.

Again, I was awesome.

I danced, took ridiculous photos, and ate loads of chocolate chip cookies.  I think the chocolate chip cookies part was true, although maybe I imagined a waiter with a tray of cookies weaving his way through the dance floor...

And did I mention the boy band cover band?  When I heard the first notes of New Kids On The Block, I knew I was about to enter wedding album immortalization.

At about 1:15 PST, Mr. Yoy gently reminded me it was 4:15 in the morning and we needed to go to sleep.

LAME!

But, I knew that I needed to get my ultra plus super slimming better than lipo spanx off so I could use the bathroom.  Yes, that's right.  After my many liters of chardonnay, I still hadn't broken the seal.

I couldn't risk not getting the spanx back on.  So I suffered.  And possibly damaged a few internal organs.

Thus ensued the highlight of the trip for Mr. Yoy.

We entered our hotel room and I made a beeline for the bathroom.  I guess during this beeline I used up all the remaining energy I had.

So I did what any responsible adult celebrating her first break from her kids in over a year and half would do.

I took a tiny nap on the potty.

ARE YOU SLEEPING IN THERE?

My eyes snapped open.  Mr. Yoy was calling for me.

HOLY CANNOLI, I WAS!  BUSTED!

I'm not 100% sure, but I think these guys were at the wedding.




Mrs. Yoy and the Model

I was at the Shutters' pool.  I had my book, a Coke Zero, and my big, sun-blocking hat.

I stretched out on a pool chair.  I took a big, salty air-filled breath, and dove into Gone Girl.

After blasting through a few chapters, I closed my book and scanned the pool area.

On the people watching scale, I give it an eight out of ten.  I'm always fascinated by people's pool attire.  Not like I'm one to judge, I've poured myself into a Spanx bathing suit with a ruffle skirt.  I'm hiding all of my childbearing scars.

I spot a young lady and her young boyfriend hanging out in a private cabana a few feet away.  I'm going to name her Modelzilla.  She was super tall and super skinny and super accessorized, which led me to believe she was a model.

Modelzilla looked miserable.  Like, I'm about to have all of my teeth pulled out without Novocaine miserable.  Except she wasn't.

She whined about needing to be in the sun.  She slinked over to an unshaded chair and threw herself down. Scowling.  Her lame boyfriend followed.

This was so fascinating to me.  You are at an awesome hotel, on the beach, relaxing, so my question is, WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?

As she pranced around the pool, making sure to check out her reflection in anything she could, a feeling of panic arose in me.

I know I don't have daughters, but how do I avoid raising such a sullen and shallow human?

Another friend asked her joyously if she wanted to go down to the restaurant and get french fries and drinks.

YES, I DO! (That was me, responding to her friend, in my head)

YUCK! (That was her answer.)

Maybe if she ate a little, she'd be a more pleasant person. That was my verdict.

I grew bored of her act and returned to my book.  I was going to relax and enjoy the beautiful day.
Smile!







Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Mrs. Yoy and The Bare Feet

This post is about everyone's ideal place to use the bathroom: the airplane.

I returned home from a trip to LA (of course you already know this as it is all I've talked about for the past month) this evening.  Flying time was about 4 hours each way.

I'm proud to announce I was able to hold my bladder both there and back.  Yes, I did not partake in the airplane bathroom.  Remember, I've birthed two kids, my bladder is shot to hell, but my anti-plane bathroom feelings run deep.

I am a nervous flyer anyway, so the thought of sitting on a plane toilet, without being seat belted in, gives me heart palpitations.

So, I'm half doing my sudoku book and half watching as my fellow passengers wait in the business class aisle to use the bathroom.

Up walks a woman.  She leans on the seat in front of me and gives me what I'd like to call a tuchus shot.  (Thanks for that!)

I'm irritated by this woman and her tuchus.  I must be crazy to pay extra so people can hover about my seat.

I glance down and notice something very troublesome.

It was her feet.  It's not that they were gnarly or warty or anything of notice.  But, they were free.

That's right readers, this lady was about to go barefoot into a bathroom.  Not just any bathroom, not even just any public restroom.  But an airplane bathroom.

When you combine men using a toilet with unexpected turbulence, you get a 0% chance of having a clean floor.

I gagged.

Are you THAT lazy that you can't slide on your shoes?  Has it come to this?

I wanted to poke her butt, point down at her feet, and give her a tsk, tsk, tsk.

Of course, I didn't.  I just closed my eyes and pretended I didn't see it.  I can't be everyone's mother.
Shirt and Shoes Required.  Please!