We had the appointment with our tax preparer yesterday.

I dread the tax appointment more than almost anything else in life. My income is different every year and of course I never do the things my tax guy says I should to prepare. You know, the stupid stuff like save business receipts or pay quarterly taxes. So I’m always sure we’re going to owe a bazillion dollars and I’m going to get yelled at for being horrifically disorganized.

The appointment always goes better than I fear, but that fact doesn’t stop me from putting it off to the very last possible instant and losing sleep for months. This time I actually had to have this conversation with myself as I pulled into the parking lot of the tax office:

Hysterical Me: I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS.

Logical Me: What’s the worst thing that could happen?

Hysterical Me: He could say we need to pay $111,834 and if we can’t write a check right now he’s taking me to jail.

Logical Me: That’s probably unlikely.

Hysterical Me: But not completely out of the realm of possibility?

Logical Me: I’m not totally sure. But the worst thing isn’t death, right? So that’s totally something.

Hysterical Me: That’s true… I’m pretty sure I will live through the appointment.

Logical Me: See? And then it will be over. So focus on that. The tax appointment most likely won’t kill you. Plus, if you just continue to avoid this and pretend there’s no such thing as taxes, they probably will come and take you to jail. So… going to the appointment is definitely the best plan.

Hysterical Me: I feel like they probably don’t have wine or Diet Coke in jail. OK, I’m going.

I actually sort of feel bad for my tax guy because I’m not in the least bit shy about communicating how painful the whole process is for me. He emailed me a couple of days before the appointment to confirm and ended with, “I look forward to seeing you Monday.” I replied back, “I’m not sure I’ve ever looked forward to anything less.” Because I’m an asshole. Although really it’s his own fault for deciding to make his life’s work as The Guy Everyone Hates to See. It’s kind of like the dentist. Or my waxer. They knew what they were getting into.

The point is, I would rather do almost anything than go to my yearly tax appointment. In fact:

1. I’d rather attend two back-to-back elementary school beginner band concerts that my kid is playing in. It’s actually worse when your kid is playing in it, because you can’t just zone out and go to your happy place in your seat to escape the asynchronous noise that’s reverberating off the school gym/cafeteria’s walls. No, you have to engage and pay attention so if he sees you out in the audience you can wave and smile and then afterwards you can tell him which piece of ‘music’ you liked the best, all while your ear drums are being assaulted.

2. I’d rather brush my teeth with the toothpaste flavor my kids concocted by mixing together the normal mint paste and the watermelon flavored gel. They call it the minty watermelon.

3. I’d rather be a contestant on Survivor and be forced to go without makeup, grow out my armpit hair and detox from wine and Diet Coke simultaneously all while being filmed for national TV. (Like seriously it’s no wonder the people on that show act like lunatics.)

4. I’d rather watch that scary movie Felicity is in, at night, home alone, while Jason is out of town. You know the one I’m talking about? The one they’ve been playing the trailer on TV to where the birds fly into the house and Felicity bangs her head against the window until it breaks. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping just because I saw that commercial too close to bedtime.

5. I’d rather submit to a four hour session of Realtor Torture (aimless driving from house to house while starving and desperately needing to pee, yet still continuously smiling and maintaining small talk).

6. I’d rather see that guy break his leg in that basketball game on Easter five more times in a row. Even though it almost made me barf the first time I saw it.

7. I’d rather have a wax done after a year of not waxing by an attractive man who is clearly repulsed by the task at hand. It might be the perfect, truly evil combination of humiliation and pain, but I’d rather do that than have my taxes done. I would.

8. I’d rather eat ‘grut’. Grut is something a girlfriend of mine was served at a backwoods family reunion a few years ago. Apparently you boil milk, stir in flour until it makes a paste, spoon the paste onto your dinner plate and then mix in butter, sugar and cinnamon. That’s the whole meal. And it’s called ‘grut’ (just to add insult to injury). I’d rather eat that than go to my tax appointment.

9. I’d rather read books 2 and 3 of the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy. Book 1 almost killed me with equal parts boredom and rage at the insipidness of the characters. Reading books 2 and 3 would almost definitely cause the part of my brain that enjoys reading to die.

10. I’d rather find out I’m pregnant and have two years of forced sobriety, gaining 50 pounds, changing diapers and sleepless nights to look forward to… OK, no. I didn’t mean that. I actually would rather go to my tax appointment than that.

So… there’s something else positive to focus on: the tax appointment won’t likely end with me knocked up. THANK GOD.

Isortofwanttowritethisentirepostlikethis, all jammed together with no spaces, because that’s how I’m feeling right now, but it seems like it might be sort of a turn off for my legions and legions of readers. So I won’t.

The point is, the ‘normal’ level of chaos has ratcheted up 3 notches between work being insane, trying to keep up with all of my hobbies and the fact that:

Last Friday Jonas had off of school because his montessori observed Good Friday, but Bennett and Gray had school because the Mesa Public School District decided Easter was too early this year.

Monday Jonas also had off because his school takes every holiday and adds an extra day.

Tuesday, 17 seconds after I dropped Jonas at school the nurses office at Bennett’s school called to say he needed to be picked up because he was sick.

Wednesday Bennett was also home sick.

Thursday I had ALL THE KIDS IN SCHOOL, but I spent a large part of my day driving to a showing 25 miles from my house with a brand new client, only to realize I’d left my lockbox key at home (which was a career first for me), have to turn around, drive home, turn back around and head back to the house.

And today, Jonas has school, but Gray and Bennett do not. Because the Mesa Public School Distract thinks it would be funny if my head exploded.

So… I’m not doing a real post today. But I did want to get one more quick little plug out there for Ignite Phoenix, the show I’m speaking at on April 26, 7PM. Tickets go on sale tomorrow morning (Saturday, April 6) at 10AM and they are expected to sell out fairly quickly.

If you’ve never heard of Ignite, it’s really a super cool thing. It’s local people speaking in a specific format (5 minutes, 20 slides) on something he or she is passionate about. The audience is encourage to participate in social media during and to interact with the presenters before and after. It’s at the Scottsdale Center for the Performing Arts and there will be live bands, food trucks and several bars outside in the courtyard after.

I’ve been to three Ignites and they’re basically just a big party infected with creative energy. They make you want to connect with people and do cool shit. They make you feel like Phoenix really does have the community haters are always saying it lacks.

So… that’s the best I can do today. I have a house to show. And a fun dinner to attend. And an Ignite Presentation to finish writing. And a trapeze class to take. And a run to do. And a child to pick up from school. And…

How to Enrich and Foster a Love of Art in Your Children While Rejecting the Rampant Consumerism and Commercialization of a Pseudo-Religious Holiday – A Step-by-Step Tutorial in Self-Righteousness

Step 1: Have lunchtime cocktails with several of your oldest and dearest friends. Blow directly past the ‘appropriate lunchtime beverage consumption’ line due to encouragement from friends and amazing drink prices. Recognize it could hardly have been helped.

Step 2: Decide since you’re in a shopping center, you probably need to sober up a touch, and it is the day before Easter you should probably wander around and figure out what you’re doing for your kids for their Easter baskets the next morning. Pat yourself on the back for not waiting until the literal last second. You have been known to make 9PM Target trips to purchase whatever is left in the store at that point, after all.

Step 3: Buy a birthday gift you’re two weeks late in sending, a new iPhone case for yourself and a pair of ridiculously short shorts. Determine shopping while tipsy is way more productive than doing it sober. You’re so decisive and un-over-think-ish!

Step 4: Wander into OfficeMax starting to feel sleepy. Consider office supplies as Easter gifts because WalMart is way down at the other end of the plaza and Target is all the way across the street. Office supplies could be fun, right? Stumble upon a rack of brightly colored and patterned duct tape. Decide this is the answer. Purchase several rolls of duct tape for each child without really knowing what they might do with them.

Step 5: Head to Marshall’s and find three coordinating striped shirts in small, medium and large as Easter outfits for your kids. Mentally give yourself the Mother of the Year prize because you’re totally killing it right now.

Step 6: Get home and have this conversation with your husband -

You: Dude, I’m totally awesome. Look what I got for the kids’ Easter baskets.

Him: Duct tape? What are they going to do with that?

You: I don’t know… they’re boys. They love tape. And it’s in Angry Birds and I <3 Bacon patterns. Plus pixelated camo! What says ’12 year old boy’ more than pixelated camo duct tape?

Him: I guess…

You: I’ll download directions for making projects with them online.

Him: Ok, but what about actual baskets? Did you get any of those?

You: No… do I have to do everything??? I hate the Easter baskets. We use them for 20 seconds and they stay around all year. Such a waste. We must have like 30 around the house. Can’t we just use the ones from last year?

Him: If you can find them. Um, and I’m not sure I would characterize what you’ve accomplished so far today as ‘doing everything’. You day-drank and went shopping.

You: Hey, I also went to a Ballet Booty class this morning that was extremely difficult. My ass is going to be sore for days. And I didn’t taste-test any tequila when I stopped at Total Wine, which was a huge accomplishment, thank you very much.

Him: I stand corrected. You’re practically super-woman.

Step 7: Google ‘How to make stuff with duct tape’ and get lost down a wormhole of weird people making things of all sorts out of duct tape on YouTube for 2 hours. Eventually stumble across a couple of tutorials about making baskets out of duct tape. Have an epiphany that you can kill two birds with one stone by having the kids make their Easter baskets out of duct tape as an art project and pretending this was all an elaborate, intentional, well-thought out plan by the Easter Bunny.

Step 8: Find a cute looking woven basket pattern, print out the directions and leave this note for the kids:

Step 9: Realize after reading the directions and doing the math, each basket will require 16 rolls of duct tape and 43 skilled artisan man-hours to complete. Try not to cry.

Step 10: Find a YouTube tutorial on how to make a basket out of duct tape that looks so simple your extremely elderly cat has a good chance of completing it, even without any opposable thumbs. Know this is probably the only chance you have at coming out with anything remotely resembling a basket.

Step 11: Get up the next morning to two slightly confused children who aren’t sure why they’ve been give duct tape as a present. Show them the YouTube tutorial on making the basket. Realize you don’t have all of the supplies necessary for the project. Run to the grocery store to get three more rolls of plain silver duct tape and balloons.

Step 12: Begin by taping the balloons sticky side down instead of sticky side out. Argue indignantly that you know what you’re doing when your husband points out the error in this logic until you watch the video again and realize you’re completely over your head with this.

Step 13: Start over and this time enlist the help of your husband because you clearly don’t know what the eff you’re doing and this is all way harder than you thought it would be.

Step 14: Yell, “I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE OR TOUCH ANYTHING.” 87 times because it turns out balloons covered in duct tape sticky side out are kind of a problem.

Step 15: Threaten to send anyone to timeout who doesn’t look like he’s enjoying this enough.

Step 16: Use all of the willpower you can muster not to murder your almost-teenager for emerging from his bedroom 2 hours after everyone else gets up only to look on with disdain at the project and respond, “It doesn’t appear I have an alternative,” when asked if he wants to participate. Decide not to have any more teenagers because they are THE WORST.

Step 17: Feel excessively joyous and exceedingly proud of yourself when both baskets and smiles begin to emerge from the chaos and wreckage.

Step 18: Punch your husband in the face when he calculates that each of these baskets actually cost in excess of $15 each to make, not counting labor.

Step 19: Vow next year to buy baskets and get a pedicure with the money and time you saved.

I bought this magazine in the grocery store a couple of weeks ago because I’m a sucker for lists of wacky adventures I should probably put on my to-do list:

Coincidentally, this was number 98:

It’s a coincidence because I’d just recently gotten a wild hair to put together a presentation to submit for Ignite Phoenix 14.

If you’ve never heard of Ignite, it’s a show where 18 people get up and present about something he or she is passionate about. Each person gets exactly 5 minutes and 20 slides. The talks are submitted online and chosen by a panel. I’ve been to a few (they have an R rated version called Ignite Phoenix After Hours that’s racy and held in a bar, so of course I’m super into it) and the talks are often hilarious, sometimes socially important, sometimes super ridiculous and always fairly fascinating.

I submitted two presentations: one on boxed wine (because we all know I’m the resident expert and could pontificate for hours on the subject) and one on trapeze (because my friend, Bill Risser, who’s very involved with Ignite suggested it would be a fun topic).

This morning they officially announced the line up and I’m on it for the trapeze presentation. Which triggered my realization that public speaking literally makes blood cease to flow to my extremities, foul-smelling sweat to drip from my armpits and my entire body to twitch like I’m having a seizure. Oh right. That happens. 

So the point is, I’m pretty sure this is going to be a complete disaster. Also a super public one since the show generally sells out they and are expecting 850 people at the Scottsdale Center for the Arts on April 26 (which is in LESS THAN ONE MONTH).

WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING? I had trouble getting through my maid of honor toast at my sister’s wedding.

Luckily, if nothing else I’m pretty used to humiliation at my own hand. I had a dream last night I went to a party and decided I should just take my shirt off and walk around topless because Whatever. People have done it before. They’re just boobs. If more people just put it all out there more often it would be NBD and our society would be better for it. But then people just looked shocked and really uncomfortable and I eventually left and went home and felt really humiliated and disgraced by my actions and how I’d probably offended everyone. And then I woke up and realized the dream was about my behavior on social media. *SIGH*

But the point is, I’ve committed to it, so IT’S ON. And you can definitely expect an outfit. Plus, I’m definitely taking another class really soon here to get some good pictures for my slideshow, so if you’re local and you’ve always wanted to try trapeze and want to go with, I’ll be posting the plan on Facebook when I get it worked out. We should all go together, it will be rad.

Tickets for Ignite Phoenix go on sale April 6. There looks to be a bunch of other really interesting presentations and I can’t wait to meet all the other presenters (although there’s a girl doing a talk about hyperbole and how social media makes us all exaggerate too much and UM THAT’S LIKE THE ONLY THING I DO EVER… so she’s probably going to hate me). Come!

I took my sister and her husband out to look at houses Saturday.

Usually I’m super hands off with my clients and what houses we see. I have them give me basic, objective criteria, like necessary bedrooms and boundaries of where they’re willing to live and then I set them up with a search on the MLS and let them pick the houses we will see.

I learned pretty early on in my real estate career people have wildly different opinions and tolerances for work that needs to be done and you can’t talk them into (or out of) almost anything. They usually need to figure it out for themselves. It’s really just my job to make the information (and houses) available and let them figure out what’s right for them.

Turns out this is harder to do with my sister. I blame my parents for having me first and nurturing me into kind of a bossy-pants. Although ‘blame’ is maybe a strong word. Because really what they did was just make me super good at ‘knowing best’, which is actually a benefit to me and everyone around me. The point is, it’s possible I inserted some of my opinions about what my sister needs in a house. It went like this:

House 2

Me: You definitely need 4 bedrooms and more than 2000 square feet. There’s one in Dobson Ranch over near where the Legges used to live. Let’s look at that one.

Sarah: I think I went to a party here in high school.

Me: Like a party in this actual house?

Sarah: I’m pretty sure. Um… is that a two story climbing wall next to the stairs?

Me: Oh I need to go get my camera phone.

Me: Wow, your boys would totally love that in about two years. Who needs to take the stairs when you can just literally climb the wall?

Sarah: Well and the kitchen is painted almost identically to my bedroom when I was 12 and mom helped me do that aquarium mural. So that is clearly also a selling point.

Me: You’re definitely gonna pay extra for that.

Sarah: I feel like maybe the parents who owned this house moved to Japan and let their girl/boy twins and some of their friends live in the house for a few years before it was foreclosed on.

Me: Those silly Walsh’s. What were they thinking?

House 3

Me: I’m just saying I think you need to open your minds to some areas you maybe weren’t considering. This next one has everything you were wanting. Even a pool! It’s just a little bit outside of the boundaries you set.

Sarah: Huh… they managed to take the picture of the front of the house without including that plywood lean-to structure on the side here.

Me: It’s in a cul-de-sac…

Sarah: I’m not sure I feel safe getting out of the car, much less living here.

John (Sarah’s husband): No one needs to get out of the car, we’re not buying this house. We don’t need to see it.

House 5

Me: I really think you should consider Ahwatukee. It’s such a nice area. I know it’s a little cookie-cutter for your taste, but I think you need to get over that.

Sarah: Well it’s not even just that. I am a high school teacher at an Ahwatukee school. It makes the kids act like total weirdos when they see me out in my natural habitat. I went running out here a couple of months ago and the next day at school I had like 9 students tell me they saw me and ask what I was doing as though the answer could possibly be anything but running for exercise. I see these kids enough. I don’t need to encounter them at the grocery store when I’m not wearing a bra.

Me: You’re being ridiculous. Ahwatukee is a big area and it’s not exclusively populated with your students. Keep an open mind.

Sarah (As we walk into the entryway of a two story vacant house): If you say so. Um… I think there’s someone in the bathroom down here… I just heard a toilet flush.

Me: That’s super weird. It’s supposed to be empty. HELLO? Is there someone in there?

Kid (opening the bathroom door and walking out): Oh, sorry. I was just using the bathroom. Ms. Tolar? What are you doing here?

Sarah: Josh? Well… I’m looking at a house. What are you doing here?

Kid: My parents own this house so my cousin and I are staying here. I should probably go. *Leaves*

Sarah: I had him last year in my 5th period.

Me: My bad. Ahwatukee is apparently populated exclusively with your students. Let’s move on.

House 6

Me: The key is sticking in the lock. John, can you see if you can get it to work?

*SNAP*

John: Um… the key broke off in the lock.

Sarah: I really wanted to see this house!

Me: This one wasn’t my fault.

Sarah: God, John, stop being The Incredible Hulk.

House 8

Me: This one even says in the description that it’s not ‘one of those cookie cutter houses’! And it’s in Tempe! I bet it’s perfect.

Sarah: There is carpet. in the master bathroom. around the toilet.

Me: OhmygodI’msosorryIbroughtyouhere.

House 10

Sarah: Ooo, I really like this one…

Me: Why? Because of the hippie tile mosaic everywhere?

Sarah: Yeah, isn’t it pretty?

Me: No. Some of it is ok, but for the most part it’s half-assed and poorly executed. They only finished 2/3rds of the border around the garage. And John just touched one of the tiles around the front door and it came off in his hand. And the stuff on the interior floor is hideous. They took normal floor tiles in varying shades of brown and broke them into huge, uneven pieces and grouted them with inch-wide grout gaps. It’s revolting. Not to even mention the fact that the entire west wall of the house is coming unattached from the rest. This house is structurally fucking unsound. SFU. It’s a technical term.

Sarah: But it has a hand-painted mural of The Beatles in the formal dining room.

Me: That is kind of cool. Did I ever tell you about when Bennett said to me he thought it was really cool that The Beatles named themselves that as a pun because of ‘beat’ and I NEVER REALIZED THAT even though I’ve always been a huge fan? And then I felt really stupid but I didn’t tell him I didn’t know that because he’s 12 and he already thinks he knows more than everyone on the planet?

Sarah: I never realized that either. He does know a lot.

Me: DON’T TELL HIM THAT. The point is, this house is terrible. It’s not for you. We’ll find you a nice, structurally sound house that you can do all your own wacky hippie art in.

Sarah: Yes. Based on today I have tons of faith in your abilities.

I was going to write about the Lululemon transparent yoga pants scandal today, but then I realized I don’t have that much to say about it beyond:

Aren’t all yoga pants kind of see-thru to some degree or another? I mean, generally speaking, I’m acutely aware of the pattern and style of underwear whoever is downward dogging in front of me is wearing at any given class. I thought that was just sort of how they are. There are entire websites dedicated to enjoying this phenomenon. How is this really a shock?

Although, if you pay $90 for yoga pants I guess you deserve to expect a baseline amount of coverage. So the bottom line is probably that Lululemon should get their shit together and bolster up that fabric, or cut their prices so we all lower our expectations and just know our pants are gonna be see-thru like when we buy them at Target and wash them twice. 

And then I thought about explaining how Jonas informed me yesterday his two favorite girlfriends, Kacie and Riley, invited him over for a playdate, and I’m not sure I trust those two little harlots as far as I could throw them. Kacie’s been announcing for months to anyone who will listen she’s planning to marry Jonas but he confessed to me he’s in love with Riley. I feel like the whole thing just wreaks of a Days of Our Lives plot to corner my son into a commitment he’s just not ready to make.

But then I decided it’s probably improper to make jokes like that about five year olds.

After that I considered writing a diatribe about how it makes me sad for our culture as a whole when I find some completely awesome piece of clothing on the clearance rack. How is it that an adorable shirt like this:

would end up where I found it in the sale room at Old Navy? Shouldn’t only undesirable things end up discounted? How could a solidly constructed chambray denim shirt with super fantastic stars all over it ever be considered undesirable? I mean it seems like the entire capitalist system has broken down. Or everyone else just has completely terrible and boring taste. I don’t know which possibility makes me sadder.

But then I realized you probably don’t give a shit about my cute new $12 shirt.

Finally, I concluded I haven’t eaten enough carbs today and I’m pretty sure my creative writing abilities subsist on white flour, high-fructose corn syrup and salted butter and I’m starving them to death with all the veggies and ‘good fats’ I’ve put into my body in the last two days.

You really can’t have it all, can you? Face or ass. Bikini body or brain. Always gotta make a choice.

I need a nap. I’ll try harder next time.

1. MapMyRun doesn’t congratulate you when you’re done.

How am I supposed to feel like I accomplished anything when there isn’t anyone to track my route, time and calories burned, tell me how awesome I am when I’m done and immediately notify all of my social media contacts of my physical prowess? WHAT IS THE POINT, I ask you.

2. It’s too easy to STOP.

Part of the reason I was able to run 13.1 miles at all during the one half marathon I’ve completed is because at several points during the race I weighed the pros and cons of quitting and it actually made more sense to just. fucking. finish. Even during my training runs I knew quitting 5 miles into a 9-miler would mean calling my husband to come pick me up, sitting on the side of the road getting cold until he did and then the utter humiliation and personal emotional degradation of admitting to him and myself that I was that goddamn pathetic. Those reasons were enough to keep me putting one foot in front of the other even when it was really kind of painful. On the treadmill… well let’s just say it’s one step to the left between my intended 4 miles and a super wussy 2.5 because I was sort of tired and my hip was a little achey. Not that that happened on Saturday. Or that I would tell you if it did.

3. You sound like an elephant when you start running.

It’s not good for my self-esteem. I’m just saying.

4. You hate the person next to you regardless of what she is doing or how fast.

If she’s running slower or walking, I fucking hate her guts for probably being less miserable than I am right now. If she’s running faster and/or looking cuter, well then I just fucking hate her guts because OBVIOUSLY. What a bitch. Stop being next to me, OMG.

5. It’s way sweatier than running outside.

I’m sure there’s not more actual sweating that’s happening, because it’s air-conditioned in there, but damn do I not just DRIP the whole time I’m running. Outside it evaporates or blows off me or something more attractive than just looking like it’s raining from my pits, hairline, cleavage and crotch like on the treadmill. Gross.

6. You have too much info about how fast you’re going.

MapMyRun lets me know how fast I’m running once every mile and I think that’s actually plenty for me. On the treadmill I can’t help but obsess over the number I have it set at and whether I should bump it up a few notches because I could probably work a little harder or if I’m actually feeling out of steam and should dial it down. *Beep* (Up a level.) *Beep Beep* (Down 2 levels.) *Beep* (Up a level.) *Beep* (Up one more.) *Beep Beep Beep* (Down 3 levels.)

7. It basically ruins the joy of TV watching.

I bring my iPad with me to the treadmill stocked with whatever awesome show I’m currently sucked into. I try desperately to stay involved in the characters and the plot but I always end up inevitably checking the time left and hoping the episode I’m watching is almost over because it means I can stop. WHICH IS HORRIBLE. So much creative energy and money went into the production of whatever quality TV I’m trying to absorb I feel like a total asshole for ruining it with running. Dear Walking Dead, I apologize for hoping the art you created would be over as soon as possible just so I could stop crotch-sweating all over my neighborhood gym. You’re awesome. Love, E

8. It forces you to have long internal conversations about what the guy on the elliptical directly behind you was staring at for the last 45 minutes and whether your choice of grey leggings was inappropriate. 

I mean where did that guy come from? He totally wasn’t there when I started running. Is my ass hot or gross in these pants while running? Because I feel like it could go either way. It’s really impossible to know what you look like in motion from behind. And how do I want him to feel about it? I mean I don’t want him to think I look gross, but I also don’t want him to have picked that spot just so he could stare while he ellipticized. Ew. Maybe he didn’t even care and just randomly picked that spot and I’m being completely vain to assume he had any thought about the view. God, is it even worse to have a completely unremarkable ass? I need a drink.

9. There are no bunnies to count, no coyotes to be terrified of, no sunrises to marvel at.

In short, inside there’s nothing fun and amazing to distract me from the misery of running.

Dear Mom at the Pool Today,

Your kids are super cute. They also seem pretty well-behaved. Well, I mean, I didn’t see either of them throw a water gun at another kid’s head and appear non-plussed when the kid burst into tears, like mine did. So points for you there.

Also your tiny little bikini is fantastic. It really accents your sparkly belly ring and adorable lower back dimples that only come with 3% body fat. Where did you get it? No, never mind. It’s OK, I have no use for that information.

Anyway, I just wanted to say hi and give you some friendly advice for, you know, general survival in our subdivision. Well, and around any other women ever. Just a little neighborly chitchat to help you out.

So here goes:

Um, it’s really just bad form to look like that with two children under the age of 4, wear that swimsuit and lounge poolside while eating a burrito the size of my head from Filiberto’s. Also the bag of barbecue chips? Was just insult to injury.

The men at the pool may have been convinced. They were all likely thinking to themselves, See? I don’t know what Sherrie is talking about. It’s obviously easy to maintain a fit physique and also enjoy fun food with me after she’s given birth several times. My wife is just really not trying hard enough in some way. Like… genetically. She should try harder to have better genes. But here’s what it comes down to; we ladies all know what was going on was one of two things:

1. You didn’t actually ingest that burrito. You were carrying it around as a big Fuck You to the rest of the Moms gathered around the pool trying desperately to camouflage our stretch marks and puffy areas with ruffles and bold prints. You took one bite to make it look realistic but the rest of that enormous potential food baby? Went right in the trash.

OR

2. Your master closet is regularly home to ziplock bags filled with the evidence of the purging you are required to do to look like that and eat like that, until you have a chance to secretly get rid of them so your staff/husband don’t know what’s going on.

If the situation is the latter, you should really knock that off and get some help, because that is not good for your teeth. Or like anything else about your body and soul. You just have such a sweet body (and I’m sure soul); I really want to help you, is what I’m saying.

And if it’s the former, shit like that is not making you any friends, Dear. Our husbands might be enjoying the fantasy, but at some point that sort of behavior is going to get you lynched. I’m not saying I’ll lead the charge or anything (unless they like really need a leader and then, well, I mean what can I say? Neighborhood causes are important to me and I’m all about lending support where it’s required.) but it’s going to happen. Like I said, I just don’t want to see you get hurt.

I guess the point of all of this is, you’re hot, and that’s like really great for you that you can grow several human beings in your womb and end up physically free of all evidence of such trauma, but extravagantly rubbing it in by pretending it’s scientifically possible in any way to eat giant burritos after having kids and still look like a Victoria’s Secret model is the way bitches get cut. And I don’t want that for you. Because I care.

Kisses,

A Loving Neighborhood Mom Just Trying to Help

Remember how when skinny jeans first started becoming a thing we were all like, Um, right. I’m totally going to wear those. Right after I strap on my muffin-top enhancer and adhere my thigh expanding inserts. But now they’re in all of our closets along with neon lace tops and we completely dig them because they look so cute with flowy tops and tall boots, right?

The point is, the concept of ‘what looks good’ is heavily influenced by a fairly arbitrary standard set by fashion magazines, designers and (let’s face it) teenagers, amirite? Even people who consider their style ‘classic’ (versus those of us who tend toward ‘trendy’) end up eventually succumbing to the major crazes; it just takes them longer.

Being aware of this fact has not made me immune to it, unfortunately (and obviously).

I was mulling this the other day while blow-drying my hair and noticing my silver roots were once-again ready to be dyed into submission, when I had an epiphany: Rather than being mindlessly influenced by the trendsetters, maybe I should try to harness this sheep mentality and use it to my advantage. Check it: if I grow out my grey hair in a deliberate manner and regularly remind myself and everyone else that SILVER IS SPARKLY AND SPARKLY IS PRETTY, I bet I can totally convince us all I’m actually lucky to have so many sparkly hairs! It can be my thing.

I mean, right? There’s lots of evidence if you embrace something enthusiastically and convincingly enough people will start to believe it. Carrie Bradshaw’s visible bra straps? Kim Kardashian’s ginormous ass? Charles Manson’s general crazy? And please, I’m nothing if not enthusiastic and convincing.

So Saturday I announced I was planning to grow out my grey hair on Facebook (which is obviously the format for any important and life-changing announcements, as this was). The next day, I saw my sister:

Sarah: So you were kidding about that growing out your grey hair thing, right?

Me: No. You don’t think it will look good? It’s… sparkly… right?

Sarah: Well… I think it’s fine if you want to, but I think it will probably make you look… mature.

Me: I’m going to go throw up now.

And then yesterday I saw my mother, who explained matter-of-factly that grey hair inherently makes your hair look thinner and that because I already don’t have a ton of thick, luscious hair, I would probably end up looking closer to bald than sparkly.

Because you can’t argue with science, I stopped at the grocery store on the way home from lunch with my mother and sister and this is what I brought home:

It turns out instead of being the newest fashion maven and hairstyle trendsetter, I’m having a small mid-life crisis in reaction to turning 35 in just over two months in addition to adjusting to the idea that I am really, seriously, no joke going to be required to dye my hair every 3-4 weeks for the rest of my (sad, old) life unless I want to look bald… and mature.

(I thought maybe writing about this would make it better, but I’m pretty sure I’m actually more depressed now.)

This is what happens every time my mother and I are trying to get to the same place if we haven’t both been there 800 times previously:

My mom: I’m here… where are you?

Me: I’m… here too. Where specifically are you?

My mom: I’m just turning into a parking lot. There’s a Home Depot and a Chili’s and one of those paint your own pottery stores…

Me: I don’t know where any of those are. I’m right by the theater. Well sort of back behind the theater. It was that one we saw Wreck-it Ralph at. Remember that one? Oh wait, you weren’t with us. Do you see a theater?

My mom: There’s a theater here. But I can’t get into the parking lot right in front of it. How do you get into that lot? There’s like not a way in!

Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe you’re in the wrong complex. Do you see a Target?

My mom: No… is there a Target where you are?

Me: I don’t know. But I do see a truck with a Target logo on it. It’s by some trees.

My mom: There’s trees and a truck where I am too. But the truck doesn’t have a Target logo. So it’s probably different trees. I don’t know what to do.

Me: Ok, we can figure this out. Do you see guys in neon yellow t-shirts directing cars to parking?

My mom: Yes, there’s one right here.

Me: Hand him your phone and let me talk to him.

My mom: Sir! Can you please speak to my daughter on my phone?

Random guy parking cars: Hello?

Me: Hi, I’m trying to get to my mother so she can drop my son off to me but we can’t find each other, so I need you to tell me where you are. Or I could tell you where I am and you could explain it to her… oh wait, I think I actually see you! I’m behind you! I’m waiving and I’m wearing a pink tanktop. Do you see me? No, turn the other way. Hi!!

Random guy: Oh… yes, I see you.

Me: Can you just let my mom pull into that parking lot for the movie theater for a second even though she’s not going to a movie? I just need to get my son out of the car.

Random guy: Whatever.

My mom: Oh, I see you now!

Me: Whew, that actually went pretty well this time.

My mom: I KNOW.