How we spent our Sunday

As usual we frustrated our children today. We drove out to Oma's Pumpkin Patch for some good 'ole hay- riding, pumpkin picking, and maze running, only to find out that it is closed on Sundays. Amelia cried --a lot. She got over it when we drove past the coolest park in the world. Not only did it have a tire swing, but it also had a see-saw, a trampoline built into the ground, a merry-go-round, and some bad-ass zebra bouncy thing.

"Do you think it's a public park?" Aaron and I both wondered aloud since most of the stuff was straight out of the early 80's, the kind of playground equipment that schools no longer have due to insurance issues. We decided that it had to be public. There was a large gravel area that resembled a parking lot. We parked our car amongst the tiny white pebbles and proceeded to have the most awesome time the five of us have had in months, maybe even years (that could be an exaggeration, after all i rented Beatles Rock Band this weekend which is ahh-some!).

The trampoline was a hit, Aaron taught the boys all sorts of terribly dangerous games like don't break the egg and the double bounce. He has a pretty knarly scar on his forehead from a childhood trampoline trick gone wrong. This trampoline was moderately safe due to the fact that it was built into the ground. There was no blood, thankfully!

I was the most thrilled over the see-saw. I still remember the devastation I felt as a child when they started removing see-saws from local parks. At age six, they were my playground equipment of choice . Unfortunately there is no comfortable way for a thirty-year-old woman to play on a see-saw. It just doesn't work. I attempted to see-saw with Amelia but I have a good 80 pounds on her so it was pretty much a waste of time. The boys, however, see-sawed their little hearts out.
About a half an hour into our visit to the greatest park in the world, a car drove by slowly, rolled down the window, and appeared to really want to talk to us. After a minute or so they drove away. Weird, I thought.

Fifteen minutes later another car rolls up. I realize that more likely then not we are not playing at a public park. "Hey , hate to bother you but his is our backyard." says the polite man in the car. "we built the playground for our grand kids. We've always joked that someday someone would mistake it for a real park."

"Are we the only ones who have?" I ask

"yep!" he laughs

We compliment him on the amazing park he has created and politely make our exit. I scrawled down their address and plan on sending them a thank you/apology letter. We are dumb asses!

Trying to figure out waht's under the trampoline

The cover

My story made this week's reader cover. I already have two hate filled comments; go me!
http://www.sandiegoreader.com/news/2009/sep/23/cover/

Chucktown

On Thursday, when I leave for Charleston to visit my sister I am orange, the by-product of a really bad spray tan. I have a seven hour flight and I pray that it will magically fade before I reach the Atlantic.

The guy sitting next to me on the plane smells gamey, like he has been camping for weeks and covered him self in animal pellets to stay warm. He shuffles around in his seat a lot and keeps bumping into my knees. I am reading the New Moon, a hand-me down book from my friend Shannon who finds a way to squeeze vampire Edward and Bella into nearly every conversation we have. I don't want other people to see that I am reading the twilight series so I keep the cover neatly folded underneath its pages. The smelly dude next to me is reading over my shoulder. It is annoying. I slant the book sideways so I don't have to feel his hot breath on my face. He sighs.

When Michelle fetches me at the airport the first words out of her mouth are "Holy mother you are tan."

"Orange, actually." I tell her. "Just get me out in the sun tomorrow and you'll see!"

When we arrive at her brand new suburban home with wood floors and a collection of antiques, her husband Brian says "You are tan!"

Michelle and I cannot stop laughing. For the rest of the weekend when her friends or coworkers say "You two are sisters!?" I have to explain that I am also butt white despite my orange Native American looking skin. My sister asks if I am going to have fake boobs next time I visit. "Fake tan today, fake boobs tomorrow!" she laughs. I am not amused.

I get a tour of Michelle's new home. Everything is freshly painted. They have leather couches and a big fury cat. Brian tells me about the popcorn ceiling that he painstakingly removed and how the dining room is painted to match their Lenox china.


My sister drives a pale blue Audi with leather interior. We meet her friends for dinner. They have expensive purses and talk about the recent pay freeze at their companies and who recently passed their CPA exam. My sister no longer binge drinks and passes out at the bar like usual. She has morphed into a responsible grown up who pays her water bill on time. This is all new.

Her coworkers tell me how serious she is at work and how shocked they are when she retells stories of hitch hiking to Grateful Dead shows and getting kicked out of the prom for bringing a flask in. They can't picture it.

"She was a hippie, nonconformist, cheerleader with a 4.5 grade point average" I tell them "she has always been a contradiction"



On Saturday night Michelle invites her friends over for a barbeque. We drink firefly vodka with crystal light and talk about kids, marriage, home improvement projects, and work, always work. Everyone is so Southern. They wear pastel and have good manners. They are funny and down to earth. Mostly I can't believe how far my sister and I have come. I know she sees it too when she visits me in San Diego. We are no longer basket cases. Who would've thought?

Early Sunday morning at around 1 a.m., we watch her wedding video, the one my brother made. It is funny. The whole family is in it. He has footage of prewedding activities, the ceremony, and the reception. I watch my dad in his pale linen pants walking my sister down the aisle and it knocks the breath right out of me. I want to reach inside the T.V and touch his face. There is footage of him playing the flute. It takes all of my will power to hold the tears back. I feel a sudden rage so quick and sharp that I have to look away. He should still be here I think to myself. Michelle's voice is even and steady. She laughs remembering how dad refused to wear seersucker pants and how he jokingly told Brian at the alter, "I changed my mind, you can not marry my daughter." She goes on, happily recounting other funny moments from her wedding weekend. She looks into my face briefly and smiles, the way she always does, the only person in the world capable of understanding just how heavy my sadness is. She turns it around, soon I am laughing too over our dad's wayward eyebrows and the crazy way his hair grew back from the chemo. I love my sister.

At the end of the weekend, riding to the airport I ask her if she ever thinks of dad's illness as a gift. "What do you mean?" she asks. "I don't know," I shrug "I just feel like part of his sickness was blessing. We loved him so completely and appreciated him more then we would of otherwise. We are all so much closer because of it. It's kind of like Stockholm Syndrome or something, only cancer syndrome where we are crazily tight knit now. It was a backwards gift that all of us hated but when we looked at it from a distance there was something remarakable about it."

"I think your right." she says.

I know I am.

Enjoy the ride

For Aaron's Birthday I accidentally allowed Andrew to buy him a pornographic shirt. I had no idea. Aaron wore it to a mother's day brunch (at a park with little children) oblivious to it's nasty sexual innuendo. He was the creepy dude at the park that day

Why is it that things like this only happen to us? I think the fact that no one in my family knew what a mustache ride was automatically makes us wholesome.

The t-shirt features about twenty mustaches. written underneath the staches it says: Enjoy the Ride. I have always thought mustaches were funny I didn't think the shirt meant something gross. I am sometimes stupid.

Aaron was in an in-depth conversation about religion and politics when my friend Steve asked "do you find it as bizarre as I do that he is having that conversation while wearing a shirt like that?"

"huh?" I didn't get it. The whole mustache thing had to be explained to me, to Aaron, and to a few other clueless brunch goers. Who knew that our mothers day brunch would end in a description of what a mustache ride is?

"So that's why some woman at the store appeared visually disgusted when I told her that my ten year old son bought me this shirt!" announced Aaron.

I almost got my ass kicked

Today in the parking lot of food for less I came close to getting my ass kicked. I think the funniest part of the story is that it all went down immediately after my kids attended vacation bible school where they learned about Jesus, and love, and actually held baby chicks. Directly following their wholesome activities I found myself in a verbal feud with a lady about three times my size while innocent onlookers stood with their mouths gapping open.

Basically it’s Aaron’s fault, only because I like to blame my problems on other people. I had to drive his car today. He has unusually heavy doors. This is off topic but I think his car may smell worse then mine, if that’s at all possible. Because of his Isuzu amigo (funny name for a car!), I innocently opened my door and banged the door of the person’s car next to me. Unluckily for me, the woman who owned said car was sitting in it yapping on the phone. You should have seen how quickly she whipped around to glare at me

“I am so, so, sorry!” I told her

She proceeded to get out of her car quicker then I realized a human being could move. She started yelling that I better pray that I hadn’t scratched her car, “Oh, You better start praying!” she kept saying in a really hostile tone. This is were I feel the need to add that her car was a total piece of junk yet she acted as if I had messed with her brand new BMW.

Upon inspection she pointed to an undamaged area on her door and proclaimed there was a scratch. There was clearly no scratch. I looked and there was nothing there, noda, zilch!
I argued that there was absolutely no scratch. Then I made the cardinal sin of telling her to calm down. Bad move! I say the same phrase to my mom nearly every time I see her because she is constantly overreacting. She has told me time and time again that there is nothing more insulting then telling someone to calm down. The big lady lost it, and I mean lost it. She started screaming in my face and waving her fingers about. When people behave this way I am always super calm to the point that the person freaking out is insulted by my calmness and in turn gets more and more pissed off. I’m kind of a smug asshole. As a result crazy lady started to really use her lungs. At this point I am frightened and my kids are kind of cowering in the back seat. Then she made the mistake of calling me a Bitch. “Listen lady, my kids are in the car, don’t talk like that! That's trashy!”

Again , big mistake on my part, apaparently calling someone trashy is just as bad if not worse then asking someone to calm down. Her anger was so intense that I was ceratin she would knock me out. Yet, For some reason I refused to back down and continued a ridiculous yelling match with scary lady. Finally she walked off and I yelled after her that she is insane and a few other choice words! While I was yelling it I was almost positive that she would turn back around, reach her hand through my open window and start sucker punching me. She didn’t though. Instead ,she took out her cell phone and started taking pictures of me. I waved and drove away. She yelled after me “That's right, run away little girl!” and I did just that!

From the back seat Andrew said “She was scary but wow, mom you were rude!”

It’s refreshing when a 9 year old can make you feel like an idiot.

adventures in tampon buying

Since Aaron had to go to the store last night I asked him to pick me up a box of tampons.

“Not an ordinary box, tampax pearls, with the yellow writing”, I told him.

“No way!” he said. “I’m not buying tampons”

At first I was annoyed. Then I remembered that time years ago, right after Andrew was born, when I got a nasty yeast infection (sorry if I am grossing anyone out but all women get them at some point). Anyway, it was really bad. I won’t go into details or anything but I needed some Monistat pronto. Only thing was that due to my rigid catholic upbringing I could not bring myself to buy a box of Monistat. I didn't want it to be known that just like all other woman, I did in fact have a vagina, and not just any vagina, a yeast infected one. Like your average avoidant person I decided to just let it get worse. Finally, while shopping at target, I asked my friend Cami to please buy me something for my awful, hellish, infection. She did it, just like that! She walked up to the counter, without the least bit of hesitation, and handed it to the cashier. I was impressed. At the same time I hated her a little for being so normal and nonchalant about vaginas.

To this day, as a 29 year old woman, I still only go to female cashiers when buying tampons. Also, I have always been embarrassed when buying pregnancy tests because a pregnancy test is actaul proof that I do in fact have sex. That's just gross to have out there hanging in the air at a local drug store. It's almost like having the word "Hussy" written in vivid black marker on my forehead.

After Aaron's flat out refusal, we all went to Wal-Mart, the whole family, to avoid Aaron’s fear of tampon buying. I asked him, just to be annoying, if he was worried that the cashier would think he had a vagina. He was not amused. I was.

While at Wal-Mart I found the tampon aisle adjacent to the condoms, lubes, and feminine itching products. Awesome! There was a man in the aisle an honest to God living, breathing, man, and he was looking at stuff. I was about to congratulate him on his bravery since my very own husband was hesitant to buy a simple box of tampax pearls. Then I noticed that his arms were filled with lube, boxes of condoms, and other stuff that I was afraid to look at. Since I am prude I was automatically convinced that he was a sex addict. I envisioned one of those swings in his room, mirrors, lots of them everywhere, whips, and handcuffs. I was certain he was the type to ahve sex ads on craigslsit and hosted orgy parties on the weekend. Then I snapped back to reality and realized that I might be the creepy one for staring and for thinking about sex swings. So there the two of us stood, he proudly and unashamedly searching for the perfect brand of lube, me humiliated over a box of tampons. I was definitely the freaky one. Oddly enough I found the lube man refreshing. Maybe I will try to be more like him when it comes to tampons and other vaginal products.

I'd like an order of butt fries with that

The other day I had a conversation with the boys that I never considered having. While innocently driving to Target I accidentally spaced off and missed the turn. Upon realizing my mistake I turned around in the first driveway we came upon. That driveway was the driveway to pure platinum; a local nudie bar that I had no idea was in the area.

“Why does it say nude?” Andrew asked. Because I have never been one to sugar coat and like to keep things honest with them I just went with it and told him matter a factly that the ladies who worked there were all naked.

The car was dead silent

“You’re joking!!” Jake laughed. “Very funny mom!”

Both of the boys proceeded to laugh their tiny little heads off. They never take me seriously.

“No really,” I assured them. “People go there to see naked ladies.”

The boys were shocked and totally amazed.

“Why is there a naked place?" Andrew asked

"That’s gross!" added Jacob "Do people go there to eat too?”

"I don’t know? Probably." I shrugged “I definitely wouldn’t go in there. Who wants to eat french fries that have been near butts?” I asked

“Eww butt fries, gross.”

And that was that. Now the boys are aware of the seedy world around them. Who knew that the conversation about strip clubs would come at the tender age of 7 and 9?

Smells like teen spirit

Aaron called me from the work the other day because he smelled like shit! Literally smelled of shit. I am not kidding. I guess the phone was busy when he called so he also sent me an e-mail. I read his e-mail at the exact moment I was in the middle of leaving an answering machine message on Emily's phone. Emily is the lady who lives down the street with whom I carpool the kids back and forth to school with. I laughed really loudly and very abruptly in mid sentence. I am sure it was awkward for her to listen to and confusing because I was all "I can pick Samuel up from hahahahaha, ummm.. sorry, I can get Samuel from school today." She might think I do drugs because I always have messy hair in the morning, am still wearing my pajamas, and reek of morning breath whenever she comes to get my kids. Also, she makes me nervous because she appears to be so perfect and put together. I always end up saying weird and random stuff to her. Is that the way drug addicts behave? Anyway, never again will I talk on the phone while reading e-mails.

Back to Aaron, his message was short and sweet "I smell like shit. Many people have commented on this at work today. I think either the dog or Amelia peed or pooped on my work pants. Please arrange to bring me some clothes." Embarrassing, too funny for words, and completely Bizarre. Two questions popped into my mind

1. How did he not notice a poo smell upon putting the clothes on ?
2. How could the dog or Amelia projectilely shit on clothing hanging up in his closet?

After an afternoon filled with phone tag we never got a hold of each other. He wore shit clothes all day and he was neither pleased nor happy when he returned home from work that evening. . He immediately changed and showered. He forced me to smell the clothes. I did not smell shit. It was perplexing. The night while we were both lying in bed reading, he turned in my general direction to ask me a question. That's when I smelled it. It was terrible!
"I smell it! It's you! It's not the clothes!"
This did not make him happy. Because no one wants to hear that they smell shit. Especially a grown man!
"I'm positive it's your breath!" What did you eat today!!!!!? It's really, really terrible. I recommend downing some mouth wash."

My comments did not go over well. HE was pissed! Not only that but he insisted that I was joking. He thinks that everything I say is meant to be a joke. This was no joke. The shit smell was coming from his mouth. So gross and so funny!

This happened a couple of weeks ago and he still strongly believes that Amelia some how pooped on his pants, which I believe to be a much more disgusting explanation then burrito breath. Also, wouldn't there be a stain along with the smell. It jsut doesn't make sense! I have recommend that he no longer eat the breakfast burritos prepared in the cafeteria at his work. He still thinks I am kidding and will routinely sniff his clothing before putting them on in the morning. I don't think he will ever live this one down!

Why the Braun's avoid boomers like the plague

Last weekend Aaron and I had the genius idea of taking the kids miniature golfing because nothing says love like miniature golf, that and we enjoy torturing ourselves.

Jake, being the highly competitive kid that he is, decided to get a hole in one, and then another one, and then just to really rub it in, one last hole in one. For an instant I was sure that Andrew might completely lose it and start going king Kong style right there at the kid friendly amusement land of family spending. I thought for sure he would start swinging his golf club around while banging his fists against his chest and topple the entire fake wooden city that is shabbily constructed on hole 6. That's how intense the laser beams of anger that he was aiming at Jacob were.

I had a flashback of 8 year old me at the bowling alley with my sister. My sister always consistently kicked my ass at bolwing. She managed to effortlessly and elegantly throw strikes. I always awkwardly rolled my ball toward the gutter. The only way I avoided the gutter was to completely humiliate myself by doing the granny roll between my legs with my butt in the air. Michelle had this obnoxious taunting dance she would do after each strike that involved a hip wiggle and a little hand jive. It took every ounce of will power for me not to chuck the ball at her freckled face. Oh, sibling rivalry how I miss thee.



My sister was always better at everything then me, she made the pom pom squad when I was unable to do even a cartwheel, she got a 4.0 in high school, she was 1st
singles on the tennis team while I was 3rd and lets not even discuss her massive boobs that developed in junior high while I resembled a little boy. I so understand Andrew's agony and was quietly hoping he would make a comeback that involved his own long drawn out victory dance. That comeback never came. As a result instead of experiencing the boomers commercial of smiles and giggles ours was a wretched, angry, and whiny round of miniature golf.



Aside from the hole in ones, miniature golf proved to be extremely frustrating for Amelia. In fact, Amelia lost it completely after Andrew's ball dared to knock hers out of position. Oh the agony! Her reaction was monumental. She didn't throw a simple fit, oh no, this was a spectacle full of sobs and those little gasp of air that people do when they are really upset. To make it even that more memorable, she did a little face dive onto the synthetic green stuff while kicking and banging her fists. It was quite the magnificent display.

Being the inappropriate parents that we sometimes are, and knowing that really there is no use in getting all uptight in these situations, Aaron and I laughed so hard that we had tears rolling down our cheeks. We were paralyzed with laughter for a good five minutes while the nice woman with her well behaved kid waited patiently for us to move on, their mouths gaping open, in utter astonishment at the circus that is our family.

Amelias little fits of outrage continued for the rest of our miserable game. I am certain that the story of our family's miniature golf experience will be retold during the thanksgiving dinner of the poor woman and her well mannered kid stuck behind us.


On the car ride home, Jake, after going on and on about how awesome he is at golf asked if we could come again in two weeks for his birthday. I don't think there is enough valium in the world for me to go through another boomers trip.

And the award for worst human being ever goes to

I forgot my mother in-laws birthday. This is the 2nd year in a row. I am officially the worst daughter in-law ever!

I realized that I had forgotten yesterday while in the produce section of the grocery store. At the moment I realized that I was two days past due on a phone call/card/gift I said "shit!" rather loudly to the disdain of a woman and her toddler near by. I didn't take her glare too seriously because about two seconds earlier her son was running around screaming "I hate you, I hate you!", talk about awkward!

Amelia, who has become a parrot, said shit too. Not only am I a birthday forgetter but I also teach small children how to curse. It was a proud moment for me. As I tend to do, I am blaming this on my own mother who had no idea about Amelia's birthday until a few weeks afterward when I sent her the birthday photos. I am lucky if I get a card within the same month of my birthday from my parents. That's how things roll in my family. Our birthdays are always acknowledged just not quickly. I plan to make this up to my mother in law with a really cool present, one that has yet to be bought.

I called my mother in-law as soon as I got home from the grocery store. I bribed the kids with Halloween candy to belt out "happy Birthday to you." Of course after Jake was done singing he said "can I have my candy now Mom?" My mother in-law was still on the phone. Let this be a lesson that bribery always erupts in your face!

I am hoping that Aaron's brothers marry someone a bit more organized then me. Donna has always wanted a daughter and I am clearly not cut out for the gig. I am messy, absent minded, and am constantly sticking my foot in my mouth. She is soft spoken, put together, and carries a first aid kit among other things in her purse. She is the kind of woman who is prepared for anything. I am lucky if I remember to pack diapers in my purse. I am definitely not the ideal daughter in law. All I can do is try better next year.



Further proof of how miserable I am at being an ideal daughter in law, I let my children get filthy and take incriminating photo's of them. Also, Amelia has a mullet.

.