Miscalculations in Banking

May 31, 2012

I love running around with a jogging stroller, but when I say running around, I literally mean running around.

Running around doing errands with a jogging stroller? Now THAT'S a straight up bed wetting nightmare. And lately, I've been doing a lot of literal running to run my errands.

Does that make any sense?

In other words, thanks to the downtown location of the studio, Maggie and I actually run to the post office, the bank, the pharmacy, the playground (her errand), and Dairy Queen. Actually she rides, I run--lucky little crapper.

So yesterday we ran to the bank--a fancy ass bank with big old heavy freaking doors.

Have you ever tried to get through ANY set of doors with an 8-foot long jogging stroller with bicycle sized wheels? Okay--have you ever tried to get through a set of 900-pounds doors that hate to stay open and want to squash you in their hinges like a hairy little spider?

Yeah, it's tough. And there's only one way in...backwards.

You basically have to throw open the door with every gut you've got, catch it with your ass, and blindly back 'er up with just enough speed and precision to avoid the door from bumping the front tire and tampering with your trajectory and vectors.

So I did it. I threw. I bumped out the backside and made a square catch. And I backed in, in, in...and then DAMN IT...the door slammed right onto my front wheel. And that bastardly thing must have adjusted my angle by at least 45 degrees.

Plus, a little lip on the door was all tangled up with the bolt on my front axle. I was pushing, pulling, spitting, maneuvering, and I'm not even exaggerating, there was a cartoon arrow up above my head that said, FRAZZLED MOM ALERT! And another one that said, CONSTIPATED!

How thoroughly embarrassing.

Dripping sweat, and cursing my existence in this cruel cruel world, I finally backed that thang up all the way into the bank lobby. 

Or so I thought.

When I finished wiping my brow, and my path of vision came into focus, I immediately saw a sign sitting on a desk that said: Matt Dwyer, Vice President.

Nightmare. I'd over corrected my stroller angle and backed all 8 feet of my rig right into the Vice President's office (very nicely decorated, if I do say so myself). 

And then...THEN...I had to open my fat old lips and mispronounce the guy's name.

I looked right at the 'Matt Dwyer' name plate and said, "Oh, hey Matthew Dyer! How'd this happen? You know me and m'little snafus."

Then I RErecorrected my stroller angle, inched my way back, and smacked my front wheel ALL up on his trinket display case. Horror.

So Mr. Dwyer, I'm sorry about the whole thing. But next time I accidentally end up in your office, could you offer me a Tootsie Pop?


Wardrobe Change

You know what's funny about being a public-sector development consultant and a fitness trainer? The uniforms are totally different.

For one job, it's all about the flattering trousers and blouses from the clearance rack at TJ Maxx. For the other job, it's all about full body spandex from the clearance rack at TJ Maxx. Same store, very different looks. And I don't know if you know this, but spandex is a ridiculous b*&^% to put on and take off.

Most days, I'm doing some form of both jobs. Like yesterday, it went like this:

6am-10am: Personal Train 4 people
10:15am-2:15pm: Consult about a bridge project
4pm-5pm: Train an office full of financial advisors
6pm-8pm: Annual Meeting for consulting job

And somewhere in between all that, I was picking up kids, dropping off kids, leaving kids crying on city curbs, getting parking tickets, and eating 3 chocolate chip cookies the size of my face.

Right now my life is like a puzzle with wrinkles and zits. I mean really, is this middle school or middle age? Don't even get me started about zits popping up IN wrinkles because I swear I will cut Mother Nature--I'll cut her with a knife.

So my schedule. It requires all kinds of quick wardrobe changes, and much like SuperMan, I've taken to layering up and ripping off suits in very public places.

A typical outfit is a sports bra, spandex shorts, and a solid colored tee-shirt as the base layer. Black trouser pants, a black suit jacket, and pearls are the preferred over layer--very awkward when a Nike swoosh peeks out near the lapel, but hey, STOP LOOKING AT MY BOOBS!

Runnning shoes and ballet flats. One pair on my feet, the other in my purse. Always barefoot. Yes, it's stinky--but it expedites the switcharoo. And that's the first priority right now--switcharoo expiditation.

So yesterday, as I previously mentioned, I had my annual meeting for the day job. I did a quick wardrobe change in the front seat of my car and walked into the restuarant banquet room with 1 minute to spare. I looked good, I smelled kind of bad, and dang it felt like I had a load in my pants.

But I was late. They funneled me straight to the presenter's podium--no time to investigate.

When I finished my presentation and went back to my chair, my sitting felt kind of lumpy. Well, very lumpy--like maybe I was sitting on a rumpled up cloth napkin. But I wasn't, I checked.

Finally, after the 2 hour meeting wrapped up, I waddled out to my car like Maggie (you know--a toddler with a diaper hanging down to their knees because their mother belongs to a church called The Church of I'll Only Change You for a Poop). There, I was met by a very chatty woman. Who only likes to chat about work related issues. And I had a TV waiting for me at home. You know how this goes.

Only 2 minutes into the chat, I kept picturing myself punching her in the face. I played out the scene through like a slo-mo movie, then like a loony toon, and then like I was Jackie Chan--actually opting to round house kick her in the face rather than a plain old punch.

Finally, when I could stand no more, I lost my judgement. I reached my hand down my pants, pulled out the culprit--a single brown sock, looked her right in the eye and asked, "Do you ever find stray socks in your underpants? I JUST did!" Then I held it up so she could see.

She did that awkward howamisupposedtolaughrightnow laugh, excused herself and drove away.

And I finally got home to my dear, sweet TV.

Then I wore pajamas.

Four Months

I got a check in the mail yesterday. From BlogHer. For $20.03.

Then I remembered that I had this blog. So yeah. I'm not four months pregnant, I'm four months blogless.

I tried to sign in and realized that Blogger changed EVERYTHING about posting, so I'm not really sure what I'm writing or how to press publish or how to tell my left from my right. Ya know, I could be obliviously posting in a Chinese speaking porn forum right this very second.

When I opened that check yesterday I thought, "Oh man, I remember that old thing. I can't write on my blog anymore because I don't have any time." Then I was like, "Man, I hate people who say they don't have time."

Today, I'm supposed to be getting ready for my big ass annual meeting for my super secret day job, and since I have reports to write and deadlines to meet, I thought this would be the ideal time to whip up a post.

This is my fifth annual meeting with that job, and every year my report becomes significantly less impressive. Last year, I kid you not, I printed two reports per page, and ripped the copy paper down the middle. It was all raggedy and frayed, and when I handed it out, I just acted like those reports were ass freaking incredible. I acted like I was ALL about the earth and ALL about efficiency. Now don't get me wrong, I love the earth, it's my home. But actually, on that given day, I was ALL about printing out full colored 8.5x11 pictures of vegetables. A pepper's a very saturated image, so by the time I printed out my ideal salad, I had no ink over for annual board meeting reports.

This year, I might try an oral report.

Okay, so anyway, it's been a while. Isn't it so dumb when people write posts about not posting? People like me? So dumb, but seriously, should I catch you up?

Jared's good. He's planning a weekend fishing trip. That's all.

James is good. He turned 7 last month and his head is huge. He was recently ousted from the gifted & talented program for not doing his homework, and Jared and I were too unmotivated to try to fight it. What can we say? He's walkin' in our shoes.

Maggie's really funny. She still draws on everything, including, but not limited to furniture, walls, floors and clients. For real, I have this woman who comes into the studio five times a week, and last Friday, Maggie drew on her face with a purple marker. She's a really bad Assistant to the Junior Coach, but she's a really good daughter.  And cute alert...Maggie calls herself a 'cess.' As in princess. If I was a good Mormon, I'd take some old fashioned looking instagram pictures of Maggie in a homemade princess skirt and write a nice, fat paragragh about the word 'cess.' Imagine it. It's cute.

Here they are reading an ice cream menu:

And me? Well, lots of farting lately. Oh, and this is my last annual meeting with my super secret job. Assciting! Kennebec Valley Chiropractic and Kennebec Valley Coaching are gonna pay all the bills starting at the end of June. Why not? If we get foreclosed one, we'll just add that experience to our already robust wisdom file.

But we won't.

This might be my last post until the end of June, because (oh I hate to say it), I'm really busy. But things are lightening up, so maybe I'll be back!