Monday, March 23, 2015

Big E: Cookie Monster

On Saturday, we took the boys for breakfast at Goldberg's.  As we pulled up, I noticed a crowd of animated girls in front of the restaurant.  They had signs and were trying to catch my attention.

Well, it worked.  It was the dang Girl Scouts.  We are deep into cookie season, and up until this moment in time, I had done a pretty good job of avoiding the delicious mouth gift that are thin mints.  Or samoas.  Or tag-alongs.  Or anything chocolate-y.

I dragged the Yoys into the restaurant where we met up with Mr. Yoy.  I commented about the cookie situation out front.  Big E was on it.

CAN WE BUY SOME COOKIES?  PLEASE?  CAN WE?  CAN WE?

Mr. Yoy gave Big E a $5 and told him to go out front a buy a box.

I started getting the cookie sweats.  Those thin mints would soon be melting in my mouth.  Giving me surprisingly good breath while sticking around in my back molars for days to come.

Through the window, I watched Big E chat up all the older women.

He proudly strode back to our table with the drugs.  I mean cookies.


Except he bought these fake girl scout cookies.  A flavor I've never heard of. Savannah may have been smiling, but Mrs. Yoy certainly was not.  I was holding back tears.

And then I booed my kid.  Not my finest moment, but my disappointment was palpable.  If I had an uncooked egg, instead of my plated egg bagel sandwich, I would have thrown it at Big E.

One word: lemon.  And don't you dare come to the defense of savannah and her smiles.  I tried one.  Out of pity.  I didn't vomit.  But there was no comparison. 

There's nothing left to do but cry myself to sleep and dream of thin mints and samoas.






Little E: Big Time Bad Timing

With the onset of daylight savings, the morning bus stop has, once again, gone dark.  I could wait for the bus in my bathing suit and no one would know any differently.

Little E has developed a phobia of the dark and insists on waiting for the bus up on our front porch, which is always lit up like daytime.  In summary, my kid is deathly afraid of waiting for the bus in the pre-dawn hour, but has a pretty strong relationship with all the ghosts that live in and around our home.

The bus is slated to arrive around 7:10.  We headed outside around 7:05.  At 7:15 I saw the bus round the corner on the far end of the street.  She stopped to pick up a child.

As I turned to yell out BUS! to Little E he yelled down to me.

MOM!  I HAVE TO POOP!

Of course.  He's been sitting on our bench doing nothing for ten minutes.  But now that we are t-minus 30 seconds until the bus pulls up, he's got a bathroom emergency.

I sprinted up hill to the house.  Big E yelled for me to stay with him.  Unfortunately there is only one Mrs. Yoy and no one will be sawing me in half today.

I grabbed Little E and began to run into the house.  Little E tripped and fell.

MOM, YOU HURT MY KNEE.

There was no time for injuries or feelings.  I launched him onto the toilet for what was the fastest BM of all time.  

I picked him up and sprinted back down hill, carrying all 35 pounds of Little E, where the patient bus driver was waiting.  Thankfully.  I helped him up the steps and collapsed on the sidewalk for dramatic flair.



Maybe I should put a toilet on our front porch to avoid any future issues.

Little E: Music Critic

Little E's current favorite song making its way around the pop airwaves is the Rihanna/Kanye/Paul McCartney combo of FourFiveSeconds.

AND WE'VE GOT THREE MORE DAYS TIL FRIDAY...

And if we are listening to this song and it is more or less than three days til Friday, he goes ballistic and makes me turn it off.

First we count the days.  Then he makes the judgement.  Basically, the only day we can listen to this song in peace is Wednesday.  Sometimes he will let me listen on a Tuesday, if I can explain how I'm counting the days.

Little E is way too literal for a four year old.


Friday, March 20, 2015

The Yoys: For Sale

Our home went up for sale last Friday.  I teared up as the man hammered the white post into our front yard.  We've had like 8 million showings this week.  Well, not actually 8 million, but it feels like it.

For each showing, I go through a multiple hour process of transforming my lived in home into a soulless hotel.  And I'm not talking about the Bates Motel.  I'm talking about something you want to actually stay in.

The process involves cleaning, removing everything from the counter tops, replacing all used towels with fancy, unused towels, replacing used pillows with pillows I bought strictly for house showings, and turning the end of my toilet paper into beautiful bouquets.  Yes, I'm losing my sh*t.

My realtor sent out his stager.  She provided me with a lengthy list of things I MUST do to sell this place.  She told me I had to pick up the dog poop in the back yard.  I growled at Poodle Yoy, but agreed that the minefield had to go.

She told me I had to remove my giant rug(s) from under the dining room table as they were too patterny (is that even a thing?).  And yes there are two rugs, stacked on top of each other, due to some redecorating and lack of a basement to hoard things in.  I moved my mammoth dining room table with the help of those slider pads only to discover the rugs, rolled up, weighed more than I was able to lift.  This was not a solo project.  So they stayed.

And then there are the closets.  I ran out of steam after I worked on mine and the Yoysers.  Open the other closet doors at your own risk.  While wearing a hard hat.  That's the sign I wanted to hang on the doors.

We have a family coming back for a fourth look on Sunday.  I'm hoping this nightmare ends soon and that we can go back to being the disgusting pigs we really are.


THE YOYSERS ARE SO FANCY.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

The Yoys: ATLiens No More

The beginning of 2015 has been a very stressful few months for me.  I have hardly been writing as the stress has been debilitating.  Every creative thought was banished from my brain to make way for agonizing ones.  Atlanta's own Waffle House had nothing on the infighting happening in my own brain. Insomnia took root and the 4AM Law and Order and I become besties.  How I love Lenny and Mr. Big.  I parked myself at my kitchen island and stress ate anything I could find.  For the record, it's not Skinny Pop if you chow the whole damn bag in one sitting. It was shameful, really.  Even as I type this, I'm listening to Indigo Girls.  I might as well go down in flames, right?

What is the root of the this angst I speak of?

The Yoys are moving.  To the suburbs.  East Cobb, specifically. I can barely say it aloud.  I'm excited.  I'm scared sh*tless.  I'm leaving my wonderful, amazing community of moms who are my support system.  I'm leaving the elementary school that I love.  I'm taking my boys away from their buddies.  Away from a place I know that they are happy.  I'm leaving the Synagogue that I was married in.  I'm leaving the local taqueria that is my crack rock.  

I barely survived a school event last week.  I cried no fewer than four times when I was approached by friends asking about the move.  My hormones rival my pregnancy hormones.  I'm not, just in case you even wanted to think that thought.

We've been in our home for nine years.  I've lived in the city since 1999.  I love living in the city.  My community is full of characters. The downside of living in town is the occasional crime.  And I am hypersensitive to it.  Growing up, my family was a victim of crime countless times.  I hate it.  I hate the way it makes you feel so violated.  Luckily, we've been spared since moving to our neighborhood in 2006.  But many of my neighbors have not.  My nerves are frayed.  Mr. Yoy works late.  It's just me and the Yoys most nights until 9 or 10.  I'm afraid to take a shower when I'm home alone.  My heart stops when the doorbell rings. I hardly sleep when Mr. Yoy travels for work.  In summary, I'm a wuss with a side of crazy.  

I hope I am making the right decision for my family.  I am excited to meet my new neighbors and embark on the next chapter of our lives.  And the second Little E heads out the door for college, Mr. Yoy and I will move into the St. Regis and live off of room service and spa treatments until we are old and gray, just like we've always planned.

Anyway, thanks for listening to my emotional ramble.  I actually feel better.

To be completed early Fall 2015.