children mentioned towards the end...
While I was out running errands today, I decided to do something nice for myself. It was sort of one of those make-your-own-garden-grow, Candide-like moments of wanting someone else to show up with a treat but knowing that you have to put on your big girl panties and buy your own candy sometimes. The other thing that brought out the self-pinook* was finding my school's Wikipedia entry and finding almost every single one of my classmates names under famous alumni AND NOT MY OWN. Which really wouldn't matter that much to me except for the last time I was up at my grad school for a conference, I was staring longingly at everyone else's books while I had to stand there saying, "nope, I put writing to the side for a bit. Just doesn't go that well with fertility treatments."
I am a famous alumni, damn it. The people at my local food store treat me like a rock star. The people at the post office know my post office box number before I say it. How much more famous can you get?
I swung by an organic market and picked up a bar of dark chocolate with orange peel as well as a no-foam latte at Starbucks. As I was ordering, my conversation with the 14-year-old barista went something like this:
Barista: What would you like, Ma'am?
Me: I'll have a no-foam latte.
Barista: Ma'am? What size?
Me: Oh...a grande. A grande no-foam latte.
Barista: Thank you, Ma'am. Ma'am, that will be $3.56.
I have many pet peeves and perhaps I will list them in a different post, but towards the top of my list is people calling me "ma'am." Ma'am conjures up steel-haired uni-boobness (you know what I'm talking about--that matronly breast shelf?). My hair is far too greasy and far too covered with a bandanna to be called ma'am. I am wearing non-sensible shoes that are as far away as you can get from ma'am. This should count for something.
I'm not sure what I would rather be called, but I can say with certainty that I would rather be called Snatch than ma'am.
Barista: What would you like, Snatch?
Me: Hit me with a no-foam latte.
Being called ma'am ages me at least fifty-eight years. I need those 58 years. According to my graduate school's Wikipedia entry, I haven't done jack yet.
The Wolvog decided this afternoon that he would like to give up his diapers. Which would be a great thing if I had finished Elizabeth Pantley's No-Cry Potty Training Solution. I was planning on reading the book during Pesach. But when a man decides to grab his underpants by the elastic and declare his ability to control the flow of his urine, you listen to him. You throw caution to the wind and slap on a pair of underpants and then follow after him asking if he needs to urinate every 8 minutes.
We got through dinner and jumped into the car, still diaperless. As we drove home, I proudly thought to myself, at least one thing has gone easy. Why were you stressing so hard with this? I called back to him a few times, "how is the underpants situation unfolding?" and each time he barely looked up from his Playmobil catalog to mutter, "fine."
I was still pretty pleased with myself as I unbuckled his seatbelt; that is until I saw the large wet spot against the hip denim Britax Roundabout.
He is in bed now. I've been soaking his pants. Thank goodness that this Snatch bought herself some chocolate earlier today.
*pinook: there really isn't a word like it in English. It means special care. TLC. Someone help me out with a better translation.