Expectations: Dinner

I'd like to share how my expectations have evolved (devolved? disappeared?) over the past few years.

What I'd Expect Of A "Nice Dinner":

2010:

Perhaps a fancy restaurant by the water somewhere. Mood lighting that makes me look half do-able to the hubby (though, if you asked him, I'm sure sunlight, flourescent, candle, lamp, overhead ceiling fan, and flash lighting would all be acceptable on that front. He's easy to please, lol). A server who flings out the FABRIC napkin on one's lap (if the concept didn't creep me out and I didn't grab it lightning-ninja-fast-style and place it on my own lap first). At least a half bottle of wine to split, at the obscenely marked up price at whatever overpriced restaurant we were at for the special occasion. A starter salad, with difficult-to-pronounce fancy lettuces and stinky cheese. Gluten filled deliciousness for a main course (to be passed with tremendous bloating and gas the next day or two in private, at my leisure). The oft-disappointed, overly-inflated restaurant dessert (Horizons, I'm looking at you, $17 for a banana split? Fo rizzle?). Nicely, leisurely stretched out to fill the evening.


2013 (45 minutes ago):

A gluten-free microwaveable frozen dinner (We have too many friends and outings these days - no two day private farting opportunities any longer, nor the luxury of feeling like crap by choice when dealing with an infant all day and night long, every day), eaten by the dimmed light of the laptop, on the floor, beside my bed where a sleeping baby lies. Also? Eaten cold still (between dashes down to the kitchen to throw it in the microwave, and the return sprint upstairs to make sure said baby isn't smothering herself in the comforter, or rolling off the bed in her sleep), and eaten quickly, so she doesn't detect my absence and/or awaken prematurely from her nap.

Napkin? I don't need no stinkin' napkin. My shirt is a battleground of puke and BO, anyway.

Dessert? A gnawed off fingernail edge, as I lay beside her worrying about the messy house, the to-do list, and the frustration of not being able to nap beside her while my mind runs a mile a minute.

I still consider this a win, since I actually INGESTED dinner. And before 10pm at that. I'm practically Charlie Sheen winning ALL OVER THIS MAWFACKAH.

My, how times have changed!

Though, I still plan on having a honkin' glass of wine later on tonight. You betchur ass I am.
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Starbucks Is Ridiculous

That's right, I said it.

Now wipe your non-fat, no-whip, no water, half caff latte foam off your nose and listen up.

I feel like such an utter idiot when I walk up to order coffee at Starbucks.

First of all, Y U NO HAVE NORMAL SIZES STARBUCKS!?

Y U MAKE ME FEEL DUMB?!?

I know it's supposed to be like an authentic cafe experience, with the barista and fancy Italian-ish names, but, let's be honest here, you started in Seattle.

And the worst part is that when I just ask for "the smallest size" or "a medium", the barista almost ALWAYS shoots back some foreign-ish, totally meaningless word back at me. I glaze over, much like a terrified deer in headlights. I usually explain at this point that, well, I'm not sure. Which cup is that?

*DERP*.

I can already hear the snickers of the seasoned coffee-goers behind me in line. It's like I'm wearing a neon sign labelling myself "STARBUCKS NEWBIE. BE GENTLE."

I ask to see if I can get something without milk (since I am currently off of dairy for the baby, and her rapidly pooping bum). "Can I get it with soy milk, though?" I ask, fearing the barista may lean over and slap my foul mouth for requesting such an atrocity.

Instead, she gives me a smile that says "Oh, you pathetic little soul, OBVIOUSLY you can. You PAY for crazy requests here. It makes you feel special!"

I'm not sure... do they only have one kind of coffee? Is there decaf drip coffee, for us elderly fogies who shouldn't consume caffeine after 3pm if we want to have any hope in hell of sleeping? (The answer to that around these parts of BC is that, no, they DON'T have decaf coffee which is weird. Decaf Americanos are always offered instead, at a higher price. They are watered down decaf espresso and I personally think they taste like poo, and I'd rather lick my dog's butt. Probably).

Anyway, if I have to drink the caffeine, I want a nice dark roast. I always ask "Do you have a dark roast?" and I never get an answer, just that weird, knowing barista smile again. It almost feels like I ask about 6 questions at the register, yet leave even more confused than when I came in.

Hmph.

So, I finally figure out the puzzle, (Not really, but I order SOME type of hot beverage [I assume]) and ask for hot water in a cup to warm up Baby D's milkies.

We sit. I warm. She eats. I drink my coffee.

And I listen to the throng of people coming through. And here is where it gets even more odd.

I listen to people bark out orders like the barista is THEIR BITCH. I mean, total cool ignorance, haughty even. I've never ever heard more complex beverage orders in my life. And EXPENSIVE ones at that!

One lady ordered herself a tea (I think) that consisted of about 6 special thingies, and the two small children she was with got some soy hot chocolate specialty drinks. They were very young. And her order was over $13. SAY WHAT?! I'm pretty sure she ordered something chai, with no water, with extra foam, with possibly the tears of an angel mixed with a smattering of sugar-free methadone. Something like that.

I told the Hubs that Baby D gets no-name brand hot chocolate out of a packet when she's older, and she's gonna love it. F_ck this $6 hot chocolate bizznazz. You know the kids will have that liquid gold spilled before they even get to the car.

Another lady bought 8 vanilla bean scones. I'm pretty sure she had to take out a second mortgage on her home.

But yeah... so after this weird social observation, I came home and relayed it to the Hubs. He was equally perplexed at the complexity of some of the drinks I spoke of.

Fast forward two days, and we walked down to the Starbucks not too far from our house. I run through my gamut of confused-question asking clarifications.

"Can I please get a caramel brulee latte please?" (Already I feel pretentious, those are fancy-soundin' words, y'all).

I also say it with a lilt in my voice in case I am pronouncing it wrong.

"In the largest size, please?"

She replies "Venti?"
I shrug and nod.

"But could I please get it with soy milk instead of regular milk? I can't have dairy."
"Oh and would it be possible to just get it half decaf stuff? And half regular?"

She says some words that don't make sense.
I nod again.

"Half sweet?" She says.
What?
Who me?
Huh?

"Did you want it half sweet, too, or just half caf?"

I explain I didn't even know half-sweet was an option, but no, thanks, I want full sweet. This ass doesn't keep its commanding size with half-sweet. Word.

Then she asked if whip was "still okay?". I had to pause and think for a moment. Whip... hmm... are we talking like some kinky sexual coffee stuff? I drag my mind out of the gutter (albeit briefly) and realize she PROBABLY means whipped cream. Unless she winks at me.

I wait a moment. No wink.
Whipped cream it is.

I clarify that I can't have that either.

I FINALLY get my drink. Don't even get me started on how many cup lids I have to try and fail at before I finally find the one that fits my cup.

I go back outside and reunite with the Hubs and the dog (baby's been on my chest and embarrassed at my lack of Starbucks-lingo skills all along).

He asks me what I got. I stop myself from rambling through my entire series of questions... and then I realize I am just as bad as everyone else. I have BECOME ONE OF THEM.

Carefully, I explain that I ordered:

"A half caff, venti caramel brulee latte, no dairy, soy milk, no whip."

The Hubs smirks.

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Is There A Failing Olympics?

I know we've already discussed my efficiency and mastering of napping. Well, at least the old me.

But I have another issue on my mind. Is there a failing Olympics?

A real, true, gathering of the failing minds and bodies of all of us souls out in the world who seem to suck at all they do?

Because, I hate to say it again and rub your noses in it... but... I'd OWN that shit.

My newest (and wonderful) Mommy friends (who may or may not read this) seem to have it together. And while we talk about this and they do explain that isn't the case, I still feel like what the f_ck is wrong with me?!?

I don't make my hubby dinner.
Like... ever.

I got all nesty and tried a few recipes back in mid-pregnancy. I gave the poor bastard hope. Then dashed it all every day since then.

I don't even grocery shop any more. I am always with the kiddo. I have started to sort of accomplish laundry (two full flights of stairs while putting the baby somewhere away from my nutty dogs). You know, if carrying the hamper downstairs counts for one day. And maybe sorting it on the basement floor two days later. And then MAYBE remembering to put a load in the washing machine a day or two after that. And it's a damn miracle if I switch that sweet load over into the dryer on the same day. (hehehe "sweet load" made me giggle.)

Actually returning it upstairs and folding it is just going to cause me a panic attack, so let's just say laundry takes about a week to get done. I'm pretty sure we have lots of floor space in our bedroom for the sole purpose of clean laundry storage. Right? Uh.. yeah.

So, yeah, I'm a domestic hero/goddess. OBVIOUSLY.

But my friends... my friends bake cookies. And homemade numminess. And large family dinners. And they knit and/or sew and/or crochet and/or win at life. And they go to the store. And they shop for things. And drive places without (I assume) having a scream-filled SUV of unhappy teething baby misery.

I bought a cross-stitch starter kit geared to eight year olds to bring to our Mommy crafts day tomorrow. (Shut up, don't judge, that frog will GLOW IN THE MOTHERF_CKING DARK, YO). These ladies can sew gorgeous blankets and I have a sneaking suspicion that this frog is going to own me and I will throw it out before the afternoon is done. You know, assuming all goes well.

I know I'm too hard on myself. I just thought this life-is-crazy-there-is-no-order business was supposed to end after the insane newborn stage. But we didn't get that memo, me and Baby D (name withheld).

Other moms apply nicely done make-up. They dry their hair and their babies don't seem to want to rip it out like mine ALWAYS does. They look FANTASTIC and rock bikinis to mom and baby swimming (which they damn well should! Good for them!). They don't seem chained to their nurseries like I do. They vacuum. They might even DUST. (I heard that's a thing?)

And you know what? They don't seem to judge me. They don't say "wow, you really DO suck!". They encourage and laugh alongside and speculate that things will get easier for me and it will happen. I need to stop being so mean to myself. Ah well.


I'm just always so serious.

Ooooh oooh eeee eeeee aaaah aaaah aaaah. You going to eat that flea or shall I help myself?

Clearly.

What do the people around you do that make you doubt your fit-ness for things? What event would you win gold at in the FAIL Olympics?

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