Maude goes to the water park

Recently we took a quick trip to a regional water park/hotel/money sucking industry to celebrate the birth anniversary of the eldest child in our family unit.  We have heard many rave reviews of said water park and our kids (who have no concept of the actual cost of things) have been begging us to go.

Rather than plan a big party where the kid would get a bunch of gifts we'd have to find places for in her already tiny and Lindsay Lohan-esque messy room, we gave her the option of the family getaway or said party.  Of course she chose the water park.  OF COURSE.

First I sold my grandmother's antique china set to pay for the adventure.  Next, we booked, well in advance, so we wouldn't be cursed with our usual hotel room luck:  first floor by the door.  Seriously, I've never trashed a hotel room in my life, how I have been cursed with bad hotel room location Karma escapes me. Oh wait....there was that one time in college....but I don't remember for sure.  Must of been the booze.  Oh well.

After a rainy, white knuckled two hour drive where I was forced to listen to the movie "Santa Buddies" (seriously kids?  in APRIL?!) we arrived at our destination.  I knew in my gut that things would likely go a little south when we passed the LIQUOR STORE, which, aside from the gas station, was the only standing building other than the "resort".  Cleverly, they have a sign that says "open late" and are planted solidly within stumbling distance from the hotel.

Check in was fairly smooth, I'll admit, with those clever Disneyland lines that wind and wind and you think "yay! I'm almost there" only to turn another bend until you finally get there.  Fortunately for my entertainment people actually (and willingly) wear their swimming attire in the lobby.

No, folks, sorry to report, there wasn't much in the way of eye candy for the ladies.  Not even one hot lifeguard.  There were a few nice racks on display,on which I placed a keen and nonchalant eye exam to determine if they were fake like Bonnie and Clyde, or were they the real deal.  It's a fun game I like to play, and now the hubs and I play it together!  Lucky guy.

As soon as we checked in we headed straight for the water park, which was a mistake for a number of reasons.  First, when we got to the water park after another Disneyland-like trek UP the stairs, around the bend, through the doors, to grandmother's house, then back down the stairs, past all the lockers and to the teeny tiny itty bitty little locker room to change.  

One bench, three showers, two sinks and four crappers.  Really.  Given the size and availability of restroom facilities there's no wonder that there were a few ARPs in the wave pool (Accidental Rectal Projectile).  But what I really want to know is why were the ARPs ONLY in the wave pool and nowhere else?  Guess it's that much fun.

I'm not a germaphobe, specifically because I have two children.  Nothing teaches you to relax your standards like a seven and nine year old kids that refuse to wash their hands, and constantly puts them in their pants (and nose, and several other available orifices).

That said, the bodily fluid factor tested even my iron will against germ fears.  ARPs aside, there was the pile of vomit sitting at the top of the walk-in to the wave pool (seriously, it's ALWAYS the wave pool), which sadly wasn't enough for the lifeguards to empty the pool.  So POOP: clear the pool, we've got a floater! VOMIT: Eh, no worries, we'll just clean it up.  EW.

The one that I didn't see, but heard ALL ABOUT was the poor woman whose monthly bill arrived, and she had no idea, but yeah, everyone else did.  I like to think if I had seen it I would have said something, but likely I would have turned away to hide my inevitable dry heave.

One of the few saving graces of this festering germ pool was the bar.  Oh the wonderful adult beverage dispensary, how I love you so.  Two margaritas in and I was feeling no pain.  I was barely feeling the concrete beneath my feet to be honest.  At least a little hooch reduced my inhibitions enough to feel confident in my bathing suit. 

That's another fun part of the public water park, clearly the scent of chlorine coupled with the eleventy thousand screaming kids, reduces and eliminates any concern over what parts of your body might be hanging out.  Thankfully I never saw anyone's Snuffleupagus, but I saw several near misses that can only be described as wardrobe malfunctions.  How you don't realize the cups in your 'kini are two sizes too small is beyond me.  And please, the only cheeks I need to see are the ones on your face.

Our second mistake was not checking out our hotel room location BEFORE we hit the water park.  By the time we got back there, all rooms were full and I discovered that we were, of course, on the first floor, by the door.  Also near all the noise that went on ALL FREAKING NIGHT LONG as children participated in the resort wide scavenger hunt that borders on extorsion, for the cost to participate and even purchase the little magic wand thingy required a second mortgage on our home.

So of course I was awake all night long.  I woke up tired & hungry and discovered my third mistake: not bringing my own food.  If you don't know me, I'm a little OCD about what I put in my food hole, and there was nothing even close to what I would consider acceptable fare for even my children to eat.  And what food there was would require me to sell one of my kidneys in order to afford it.

All that aside, the experience was certainly "an experience" and the water park really took the cake.  I'm not sure that Maude will ever willingly go back, even after the enticing 50% off your next stay coupon the general manager sent me upon reading my feedback survey.  You didn't think I wouldn't say anything did you?  I'm here to help, that's what I keep telling myself.

At the end of the day

This is one of the VERY few times Maude will ever weigh in on a politically charged issue.  Basically, she's all over the place politically anyway, but sometimes, and it seems like when it comes to children, she tends to give her opinion quite freely.  For as much as she jokes about wanting to sell her kids on craigslist, at the end of the day she's so thankful for their presence in her life, and believes that all children have a right to a free, appropriate public education:

I, Maude, work in public education.  I currently work in a district that over the past few years has cut 640 teaching positions, countless classified & administrative positions, programs and more just to stay in business.  All the while being forced to pay for a failing public retirement system that many don’t even want.

However, I’m not going to discuss PERS reform, or defend the school district’s spending habits because quite frankly we can all sit around and piss and moan about it, and it’s not going to be any different than it was when the rest of us were in school.  It is what it is.  

I am quite certain our parents and their parents, and countless parents since the dawn of time had to scratch out on a stone tablet or punch a card in a ballot booth a yes or no to a school district levy.  I believe that while those decisions were hard, inevitably they made the right choice:  YES.

Do you remember the campaign for schools that reflected the inequity in funding to schools that was so poor schools had to have bake sales to pay for teachers and the government was spending tons of money on big giant bombs?  I remember.  And I don't see that much has changed.  Except maybe the bomb part, but public education funding has gotten no better.

Folks, this isn’t the first time our economy has been in turmoil, unemployment high and countless other excuses why we refuse to accept our civic duty, and responsibility, to support our youth, that at the same time we are being asked to set aside what we perceive as roadblocks and to do the right thing.

Are taxes painful?  Yes.  Are increases in taxes painful?  You betcha.  Is there a better way?  There might be, but at the end of the day, voting NO won’t solve anything.

What I really want to talk about are the people who are most affected by the cuts.  It’s not our teachers, it isn’t our retirees, it isn’t administration, and it’s not our classified staff.  No, it’s the children.

I am so tired of reading all the bullschmidt from people finger pointing, blaming and armchair quarterbacking the decisions of the school district where I work.  At the end of the day, it’s the children who are impacted, so negatively, by the lack of funding.

No amount of complaining, anecdotal budget analysis or down with PERS rhetoric will ever change or do anything to improve the current state of affairs.  At the end of the day, it is what it is.

I really wish people would think to count their blessings that they may have been completely oblivious to these same challenges that our parents faced when we were in school and still managed to receive the best education that they deserve.  At the end of the day, we were all just children once.

Anyone who wants to vote no on the upcoming levy, I invite you to walk the halls of your nearest public school.  Stop in, take a look around.  Visit a couple of crowded classrooms.  Ask a teacher what THEY think about PERS.  Ask a student if they like sitting on the floor during history class.  Do whatever you need to do to feel like you truly understand the need, or perceived lack of, the upcoming levy.  

While you’re there, please look in the eyes of the children who will someday be your doctor, your accountant, hell, maybe even your boss.  Look in their eyes and tell them that they aren’t worth it to you, that it’s more important to complain about things we cannot change than to do what is right for the children, and what was done for us.

If at the end of the day you can look in the eyes of a child (yes, even high school students are children) and tell them face to face that you don’t think they are as important as avoiding a levy because you’re unhappy with the current state of affairs, then vote NO and live with the knowledge that you haven’t done everything you can to make sure that these children have the same opportunity that you did.  

And so you know, I was one of those who lost their job last year, and one of the lucky few who found another one shortly after the school year started.  

Our family just purchased a home here, which means we pay taxes on a home in another state (that we’ll probably never be able to sell) and we’re going to pay taxes on our home here.  

I make 50% less than I did before we moved here.  Our income has taken a hit.  I’ve been employed almost as much as I’ve been unemployed since we moved here three years ago.  And here’s the kicker folks:  I send my kids to a private school.  Not because of my lack of faith in public education, but because I want them to have a religious education.  That’s it. 

And I’m voting YES on the levy.  Because, at the end of the day, it isn’t about anything other than the children who will someday grow up to be the very people that care for me in my old age, that will hire my children and grandchildren, and the same group of people who, in all likelihood will be faced with this same decision to make: YES or NO on another school district levy.

I hope we demonstrate as a community that these kids matter.  That they are worth of a better education than what they’re getting.  That they deserve our support, no matter how painful it might be at times for us to do so.  I never once heard my parents complain about having to pay more taxes to give us a better education.  

Where in our right minds did we ever decide that it was OK for us to do so? Publicly, online, in print.  In front of our children.  Shame. On. Us.

No amount of second guessing PERS, district expenditures or anything else is going to change that fact that, at the end of the day, these are all children:  someone’s daughter, son, niece, nephew, or grandchild. 

And they are important.  

And THEY deserve your support.   

Girls Night Out gets REALLY funny...

About a week ago I had the opportunity to hear an amazing local band out at Jantzen Beach.  Heavy Metal Machine was playing and my friends and I felt like we were long overdue for a much discussed but never done ladies night out.

We're all about the same age so any band covering Poison, Guns N Roses and Journey would totally be our thang.  So we all got dressed up in our bestest mom sweaters and high-waist jeans with our cleanest practical shoes and drove out to JB to dance our asses off.

I elected to be the sober driver, mostly because I don't really like to drink anymore, too many calories and well I'm 40 now so it feels like a natural time to say "I'm too old to drink anymore" (and also because a couple of months ago when we hosted game night with our friends I had lots of beverages and spent all of Saturday with "the flu", according to my children, and well, I'm still not over it!)

Three moms, one long week and an 80's metal band playing at a hotel/convention center was literally a haven for blog material.

You know since we're moms, we left on time to be sure we got there early, but then the bar wasn't open, so we went to the "other" bar/restaurant to get our drank on.  I had A GLASS of wine, that took me a very long time to drink.  The ladies had a beer each while we eagerly awaited the opportunity to pay a $10 cover to get in.

TOTALLY WORTH THE $10 COVER CHARGE!!! I would gladly pay $20 to hear the band, and the people watching?  Fricken' PRICELESS.

Here's a quick rundown on the evenings bounty:

1.  BUST A MOVE:  Middle aged white people who have only had a glass or two of beer to drink cannot dance.  (my company aside, who seriously have some SWEET MOVES) most everyone else on the dance floor at the beginning needed some lemon drop shots to loosen up a bit.  It was like watching ducks bob up and down on a pond.  Then again, the drunker you are, your dance moves don't necessarily improve.  You just think they do.

2.  FEELING VULNERABLE:  As I mentioned, the hotel also hosts conferences, and early on before the dance floor got really crowded, as I was soberly (but giving it a good effort) shaking my ass with my besties, I looked behind me and noticed a line of dudes, likely all married, holding their drinks and simply enjoying the show.  At this point I realized A) I'm sober; B) I gotta write this shizzle down for my drinking buddies; and C) the blog is writing itself.

3.  DANCE LIKE NO ONE IS WATCHING:  One of my favorite peeps of the night was this guy who was wearing a tie dyed peace sign shirt, you could tell he was really feeling the music, if you know what I mean.  I LOVE free form dance.  Really, I do.  I am not sure if he was drinking, but I almost wanted a lil' of what he was having.  He CLEARLY felt ALL RIGHT.  I'm not even sure he noticed everyone else out there.

4.  DANCE LIKE SOMEONE IS WATCHING, YOU FREAK:  Then there was this guy who was like AIR HUMPING the band while they were playing.  Seriously.  No schmidt.  AIR.  HUMPING.  With the whole put-your-fists-out-front-then-pull-in-together-and-force-your-hips-forward and REPEAT air humping.  Then, his "date" showed up, and I kept thinking GET A ROOM.  And then they did.

5.  I AM 50 HEAR ME ROAR:  As expected there were a few Cougars in the room, but sad to say the average age at the bar that night was probably 40.  Happy hunting, ladies.  In all, it was refreshing because it wasn't like a hook up kinds of night, so us lil' old ladies with our crochet purses didn't feel all out of sorts. 

6.  BARBIES:  There was a group I called the plastics.  Have you ever seen that woman that's had so much plastic surgery she looks like a cat?  Yeah, I think she was there that night.  I was so afraid to go near her, I thought her nose might fall off.  And her friends all had work done too, one lady had some seriously nice lady junk, I was almost a little jealous.  They were so funny to watch too, I was watching them over my buddy's shoulder and she was like "the show is on stage" and I said "oh, no really, the show is right behind you!"  And it was.  Until....

7.  HAPPY ST. PATTY'S INDEED:  The luck of the "Irish" clearly doesn't translate into avoiding a wardrobe malfunction, however you also would need to wear clothes that aren't 4 sizes to small and screaming for relief.  I'm thinking stripper barbie got the night off and forgot to change into something less whore-ific.  Let me attempt to describe from the bottom up:  thigh high Pretty Woman-ish streetwalker boots, short and tight black skirt that covered most of her generous ass, and topping off the ensemble was a bright emerald green corset (again 4 sizes too small) with gigantic boobs flopping out and over them.  And seriously, flopping out and over.  And over and over and over.  I watched her scoop those puppies back in every three minutes.  It. Was. GROSS.

The whole entire night was really, really fun.  Periodically I would run to the table and type up my notes for the blog.  I would down a big glass of water (after they charged me $2 for a soda water & lime)!  For shizzle!  After the glass of wine was $8!  Beer was $5, I need to re-visit the whole beer drinking thing.  After college it's been tough to gag one down, too much of a good thing and all.  But seriously $8?  For WINE?!  I wouldn't spend that on an entire bottle for shit's sake.

After all the water I had to pee really bad, and dancing (gravity) only made it worse.  I made the mistake of asking the bouncer for directions to the loo, and he gave me PERFECT directions, except for they were directly to the men's room.  Which makes since because he's a dude, and that's where he goes!  Glad I noticed the sign before I barged in.

I visited the ladies room many times, and the last time I was in there, well, a little something something was a-going on in the handicapped stall.  Oh my.  And that's all I'm going to say about that.  Felt kinda bad for interrupting.  Not sure what to even say... so I said nothing, and was as quiet as possible ('cause I wanted to hear what I could hear of course) and left as quickly as I could.

I was pretty tired that night at the end, us moms, we shut that mo-fo down!  We bitches be cool!  So as I'm looking at my notes there are a few things I don't really remember, and sadly, I really wish I did:

Drunk sweaty guy doing the mosh pit
Near threesomes
White dudes and air guitar
Nike running tights

It's a mystery....but maybe when I go back, and I WILL GO BACK, to the scene of the crime I'll remember the rest.  Or, as luck would have it I hope, I'll just have more material.

Signing off,

Maude, the menopausal dancing MACHINE

Sweet blast from the past

At our house we're crossing off another rite of passage in growing up a girl: Kaylee got her very first diary today.  I felt a heavy sigh as she ripped open the box with such gleeful anticipation.  My heart sank, just a little bit, because now in her life, apparently there's a need to keep things secret.

My sweet boy, upon watching the spectacle began to cry.  He's a pretty empathetic little dude so I assumed he was also mourning the loss of a small piece of Kaylee's little girl wonder.  I pulled him on my lap, cradled him gently and asked what was wrong.  His response?  He was so worried about the things that a big sister would write in her diary about a little brother.

I giggled and explained that I almost never wrote anything in my diary about my brother.  No, there were far too many other exciting and juicy details to write about besides my stinky, mean dork of an older brother.

To prove my point I ran upstairs and found said diary.  My heart sank a bit, as the key that opens it was not anywhere to be found in my sock drawer.  This I find most amusing because, really, WTF would I need to lock my childhood diary for?  Geesh, I'm 40, married with two kids and there's nothing my hubs doesn't know about me.  Or does he?

Fortunately for me time has not been kind to my locked diary and I was able to open it up far too easily.  I think my brother greased the skids all those years I KNOW he was SECRETLY reading my diary.  Surely it gave him all the ammo he could use to needlessly shame me in front of my friends (and his as it turns out).

Much like computers, diary technology has progressed far beyond what I could have envisioned as a young girl.  My sad little broken golden key, long since missing, is no match for the VOICE RECOGNITION PASSWORD JOURNAL that my daughter now owns.  This means that her voice and ONLY HER VOICE can access the diary.  Oy.

But back to my diary.  For me, it was like opening up a book to a past long forgotten (purposefully and also because of all the brain cells I killed in college with copious amounts of alcohol).  I started to read some entries and found myself LAUGHING OUT LOUD at the crap I used to deem worthy of paper.  I sincerely hope that my writing abilities have progressed far beyond what I found on those pages.

And because I found it all too funny I felt the need to share a couple entries with you.  And I know I'm totally poking fun at a defenseless, insecure 8-10 year old child, be she was me and it's my God-given right to make fun of myself.  So here you go:

3/13/1985: Dear Diary, Today I went to 93 Zoo FM and took a tour of it. I still haven't talked to Dwayne but I don't care. I'm going to Skatetown tomorrow. I hope Dwayne goes. REALLY HOPE! (this was double underlined btw). Well I better go. 'Bye.

3/14/1985: Dear Diary, Hi! I'm going skateing (that's how I spelled it!) in a few minutes! I can't wait! I hope Dwayne goes. Sort of. He's not cute anymore. Well I'd better go. Bye. Hello! Dwayne went but he didn't skate. He spent his money on video games. I'll leave you with this: Let's go surfin now, everybody's learning how, come on the safari with ME! Bye!

This is the kind of schizophrenic schmidt I found in that little pink diary of mine.  First of all, Skatetown was a total meat market when I was a kid.  You went hoping to see boys from your school and meet new boys from other schools. 

You would certainly not feel any sort of worth unless someone asked you to skate, just like if no dude gave you the time of day at the Bistro.  If you didn't get asked to skate on a doubles skate at all through the whole night, life was over, you were a total loser and very unpopular. 

Skatetown was the singles bar of my adolescence.  The only difference is that I was slightly shorter.  All my memories of those days are a bit fuzzy (like bar hopping in my 20's) and the night was only a success if I got some digits.  

The only other difference I can think of is that I didn't almost get arrested for passing out on a park bench in front of Skatetown, but I did almost in front of the Blues Bouquet, but that's another story for another time.  Mom, you might want to skip that blog post....

If I could talk to little  Amy from 1985 I would ask her what on earth could have happened to Dwayne in 24 hours that he was suddenly no longer cute?  I can't for the life of me imagine, unless he got a bad haircut, had all his teeth punched out, or came to school covered in pimples.  I've got nothing.  And my diary is FILLED with so and so is cute, then so and so is so NOT cute.

I also could barely keep track of who was "going out" with who.  As my Dad would say, it was a bit of a soap opera, lovingly titled "The Dumb and the Senseless" if you want to know the truth.

And I TOTALLY forgot that Randy Harless was my first boyfriend ever.  He asked me to go with him, and I went with him for awhile, though I don't recall actually going anywhere, so I'm not sure how it all turned out.  

Allegedly he was popular, which I find hard to believe because based on my entries I wasn't popular and no popular boys liked me as anything more than "friends".  The story of my life. I actually though my first real boyfriend was someone entirely different, so I am super glad I found my diary to set the record straight.

I also found it humorous that even as a fifth grade girl I found it super annoying that a boy would choose to play video games than do something as exciting as skating.  I mean really people.  Video games?  

And yet, as I type this, my husband and children are playing a video game of sorts on the iPad (a ghastly game called Plants versus Zombies) and I am still equally irritated over the choice of a video game.

In closing, I will be digging into this little gem of a find and posting more stuff to mock.  Seriously people, it's a freaking GOLD MINE in there.  If you find your diary and can bust it open, I certainly hope you find as much to laugh about, as I have in mine.  At the end of the day, if we can't laugh at ourselves....then we haven't found our old diary.

And WTF is up with the "let's go surfin' now" thing anyway?

A Story Never Told...

A friend of mine sent me THE FUNNIEST story about a woman who, for the first time, attempted to wax her bikini area with a DIY kit.  It was some funny shizzle, I tell you what.

I emailed back a quick description of why I don't wax my eyebrows and days later I realize it's a story worth telling the world. Why the hell not?

A few years ago, several years after I should have noticed, I realized that atop my eyes was a unibrow not unlike Bert (Ernie's life partner) and something needed to be done.

Most women figure this out in their 20s BEFORE the surging hormones of pregnancy turn your plural brows into a singular hedge that needs a good trimming. 

Me, well, I'm always a little slow to notice things.  Like the hairs I discovered the other day that showed up in an area that suspiciously looks like a beard.  According to the kids, they've been there.  AWHILE.

Back to the wax.  So I don't remember if I had a gift card, or a coupon, I'm that traumatized.  But I do distinctly remember the act of getting my eyebrows waxed.  Having given birth to two children, I figured what the hell, it can't be any worse.

I knew the process, I was aware of what was coming. Sticky warm goop, press some paper stuff on, cooling time and then let-er-rip.

It's sort of like that time I watched real life in the ER and saw an actual c-section being performed.  Kind of gross, but it really didn't seem that bad.  Until I had one.

Now comparing childbirth to eyebrow waxing to most folks might seem, I don't know, a little extreme?  But remember the giant hairy unibrow I mentioned earlier.

Knowing what's coming, doesn't make it any easier, as was the case with the aforementioned c-section.

First of all, when the wax went on, she was all "so tell me if that burns at all, is the wax too hot?"  Have you ever had your child stomp on your bare foot wearing their biggest clodhopping shoes and you can't even form a syllable because it hurts that freaking bad?  Yeah, so um, on to step 2.

Apparently my silence (and tears) didn't indicate the appropriate level of pain I was experiencing, so she picked up those little paper/fabric thingys and smashed SMASHED them onto the wax.

You know, I would hate for the wax NOT to stick to it when it's go time, but honestly pressing 500 degrees of wax that was already burning the shit out of my forehead and eyelid was a bit extreme in my opinion.  Gently should work, right?

I kept kind of waiting for her to put a stick in my mouth like in the "olden days" during childbirth (see, so many similarities) so I could clamp down on it through all the pain.  But no, not so much.

After waiting the appropriate amount of time, meaning just long enough for the wax to cool and my skin to probably start to blister, it was time to remove the strips.

When the woman approaching you to remove the wax actually appears to use part of your face as leverage, you kind of have to know you're screwed.

If you've ever seen the 40 Year Old Virgin you will understand (on a much smaller but nontheless equally hairy scale) what transpired in that session.

I'm not sure if she was a kind Christian woman, but if she was she's likely praying for my soul to this day.  And if you know me, you know I'm pretty foul mouthed as it is, but in this instance I even made myself blush.

But the fun really began AFTER she took the cooling thing off and came at me with the tweezers.  Tweezers?  WTF?  There couldn't possibly be any hair left for her to pluck, and yet, there she was.

After all, the whole freaking reason I decided to get my unibrow waxed was so I didn't HAVE to tweeze, something I'd tried and it made me cry like I was watching the end of Bridges of Madison County.

I channeled my inner child birther, pretty sure I did some lamaze, and finally the session ended.  Exhausted, bleeding and sore (just like childbirth, eh?) I took my former unibrow out of there, tipped the nice gardener who was so kind to rip the shrubbery on my forehead out by the roots and never looked back.

To this day I do not tweeze and I do not wax.  I will never ever ever wax any part of my body, not even my new beard and mustache.  Sorry hubs, you're just going to have to share your razor.  But please don't borrow mine if you want to "manscape" it simply doesn't go both ways.  Unlike Bert & Ernie.