Little White Non-truths

Today at the store I bought some yogurt-covered pretzels, and I thought to myself: this is not yogurt on these pretzels. It's frosting. These are frosting-covered pretzels, and I know it. But I will continue to eat them as a healthy snack. Because I am a liar. The end.

Anyway, as long as I am on the topic of Lies We Tell Ourselves, I thought I'd make a quick list for your reference. Feel free to add to it in the comments, if you so desire.

Lies We Tell Ourselves:

1. Yogurt-covered pretzels are covered in yogurt

2. Graham crackers are crackers (not cookies)

3. If my friend were here, she would laugh at the way I am making fun of her right now

4. My friends never talk about me behind my back

5. I was funny in junior high (not annoying)

6. I was always nice to everyone in high school

7. My children are less annoying than other children

8. People like to hear about my dreams

9. My friends on Facebook care about how bad this traffic is

10. I will get up early tomorrow and [fill in the blank with anything]

11. I will not regret staying up to watch this episode of Full House tomorrow morning

12. Everyone watches reruns of Full House in their spare time, not just me

Hustle and Fail

Well, I coached my first basketball game last night, and let me just tell you, it did not go well.

Here are a three things I learned about coaching basketball:

1. After the other team scores, and your girls are about to bring the ball down the court, that is NOT an okay time to call for subs. If you call for subs at that time, the ref will stop the game and come over to yell at you. You will feel very stressed and confused, and you'll feel like you might cry, but you won't actually cry (thank god).

2. You should definitely know the difference between Rachel and Lauren. If you don't, then you might accidentally tell Lauren to go in and sub for Lauren. Then she will look at you like "Oh, you're insane" or "Oh, you don't even know my name." Neither is really great for player morale.

3. If you are bad at coaching, you might at one point catch the coaches from the other team laughing at you. It will bother you a lot -- you will (again) feel like you're going to cry. But you don't. Later, you cry in your pillow as you go to sleep.




The worst part is we have another game right now. I am sweating preemptively.

The Stranger Who Shamed Me PART THREE

Hi how was your Thanksgiving I don't care let's get to the point.

I was shamed, once again, by a stranger. But this time it happened ON THANKSGIVING. Are you shocked? Are you throwing up in your respective mouths at the mere thought? You should be. Please do so now.

It all started when I went to the Lifetime Fitness Turkey Day 5K.

(For those of you keeping track, you will notice that each shaming incident has occurred while I am attempting to work out: the bike race, the parking lot, and now this. Conclusion: exercise is the worst.)

For as long as I can remember, my family's Thanksgiving has always involved a rigorous workout. When we were little, my mom would take us to the gym before it closed at 2PM. Now we go downtown with approximately 400,000 other people to run a frigid 3.2 miles in the street. Doesn't that sound so fun?

I know other people's families do stuff like sleep in, drink Bloody Mary's, and watch the parade in their pajamas, but not my family. We're just a little too great for that.

So ANYWAY, now that the family has grown, we have these "children" to worry about. We used to leave them at home during the race, but at this point there are too many, so we bring them along. This is of course a terrible idea. (Small children are not into 5K's.)

At the time of "the incident" (don't worry I have not completely forgotten my point) I was standing in a jam-packed lobby with two strollers waiting for my husband to pick up our race numbers. It was not a good situation. The strollers are large and unwieldy and they made it difficult for people to get past me. I think I said "sorry" 600 times. I knew how annoying I was being, but I had no choice -- I had to run the stupid 5K. Family traditions are the worst.

One brave man decided my apologies were not enough. He looked at me, looked at the strollers, and rolled his eyes. Then he gestured to them and said "This is really stupid."

And bam! The familiar chest-tightening and face-reddening of stranger-shaming. I was so mad. The only retort I could muster was "Thank you, sir; Happy Thanksgiving!" But get this, I didn't say it in a nice voice -- I said it in a jerky sarcastic voice. Win.

At that was it. My holiday was ruined. It's probably ruined forever, who knows.

 . . .

Rather than end on that depressing note, I will tell you what I am thankful for this year: You! You're reading this even when you are supposed to be doing other things, like parent or your job. That's so nice. Thanks.

Still here . . .

Ugh. You guys are so mad at me right now. I wake up, and I can feel your angry disappointment nagging at me for a lack of posts. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry.

Last week was full of great stuff: random barfing, late work nights, a three-day weekend excursion with friends -- it was pretty sweet actually, minus the barfing. However, it did not leave much time for narcissistic rambling.

Another development from last week is that a student teacher began working in my classroom. For those of you who don't know, a student teacher is a college student who wants to become a teacher, and this one will allegedly learn to do this by watching me make an idiot out of myself every day for a couple months.

If this woman wants to be a weirdo teacher who kids do impressions of in the hall, I'm guessing she has already learned a lot.

Like, a lot.

I don't know if there is an equivalent for those of you in more typical office jobs, but imagine someone just sitting next to you watching everything you did on your computer and listening to your phone calls all day long.

Image from Businessweek.com HERE.

Would that make you uncomfortable? Might you second-guess some decisions? I bet you wouldn't be reading "The Lazy Stand-up" all day long, like you usually do.

Anyway, my point is that it's hard to quietly open a text document and draft a blog entry during my students' silent-reading period these days. I have to look professional all the time. During my prep, I have to walk down to the cafeteria and get a spoon to eat my yogurt instead of secretly using the lid like a shovel. It's ridiculous.

But we will get through this, guys. The blog will go on, just like Celine Dion's heart. And just to keep us on track, here's a preview of what's to come:

THIS WEEK:

1) Funny games for funny people

2) My son is Tiny Tim except without the health concerns

3) Thanksgiving Prep

Silent Auctions: The Silent Killer

I mentioned awhile ago on my Facebook page that I'd had yet another unfortunate run-in with the dangerous world of silent auctioning. Well it's true. (Everything people write on Facebook is true.)

My experience with silent auctions always starts same. I go to the event, planning to spend zero dollars. This is usually because I am cheap and afraid to spend money. I walk through the room of items, glancing here and there, thinking: Bleh. I don't need any of this stuff. You can't just put a bunch of crap in a basket, tie it up in plastic, and make me pay for it. I'm not stupid.

Then I visit the bar.

Later I'm walking through and I'm thinking, well, I'll just low-ball some things. You know, to look like I'm generous and drive up the price. Yeah, that's a good idea. I'm so smart.

So I bid on a couple things -- great things that will surely go for a lot of money. I make sure everyone sees me writing on the sheet.

Then I'm bored so I visit the bar.

Another trip around the items, just to make sure I'm being properly outbid. But now I'm noticing some other stuff that might be nice to have -- a night downtown with dinner, drinks, and a show? Yes, I could use something like that. I'll just make a little bid. Could be fun.

Oh look, this item has no bids. That's so sad. I bet the people who donated it are going to feel embarrassed and never donate again. That shouldn't happen. I'll throw down; after all, it's for charity.

By then all of my good deeds start to make me feel thirsty, so I visit the bar.

Before we leave, I decide to make one more visit to the room. Wait, this bozo is trying to steal my commemorative wine goblets? Is he serious? Well, Bidder #2308, guess what? I play to win. So take that.

Hold on hold on hold on, did someone else bid on the Night on the Town? What the hell is that about? I deserve that. I'm a working mom. I need a BREAK. You will not take that away from me, Bidder 1627. You will NOT.

I am on fire! I am totally going to win this thing! I am the most generous silent-auction-guest of all time! Of ALL TIME! Hahahahahahaha!

Time to celebrate at the bar!


And so it happens. When all is said and done, I end up with commemorative wine glasses, and theater tickets I can't use, and a massage from a unlicensed masseuse, and bunch of crap in a basket tied up in plastic.

And a headache.

********************
Coming up: a silent auction to help earn back what I've spent at silent auctions. You guys are all invited!

There will be an open bar.
 

*********************

Sunshine and Lollipops

HAPPY MONDAY!

Just kidding I would never write that earnestly.

This Monday was actually off to kind of a bad start. I realized I left a library book on an airplane yesterday. That's right, a library book. I read those because I am from 1970. And now it is probably lost forever and I don't know what to do. The librarian is going to be so mad at me, you guys.

Second, I am a bit fatigued after spending this weekend at a college-friend's wedding. It was really fun, but somewhere along the way I got confused and thought I was actually in college. At one point Taylor Swift's song "22" came on, and I was like "Yeah! I AM feeling 22!" and I actually said that, out loud, to people I respect. That's the kind of night it was.

The next day I woke up and my body was like "I hate you" and I was like "No, I hate you" and now here we are: Monday.

At this point you are rightfully wondering why, after that litany of misfortune, I would choose the title "Sunshine and Lollipops." Well guess what? Everything is better because I WON A CONTEST today! I never win things. I know people always say that, but I also am saying it.

I entered a giveaway on my favorite blog and I won! I get a special cookbook that one day will prevent me from sending my child to school with a thermos full of Sunny D and a cold hot dog. 

It's a little embarrassing how excited I am. 

So, I should probably do a giveaway on this blog, too, right? It's what all the cool bloggers are doing, after all. But what would I give away? Sunny D, maybe? A stolen library book?

Suggestions welcome.


 

 

The Stranger Who Shamed Me: Vol II

The second installment is here! Thank you once again to all my contributors . . . I'm always happy to publish your humiliating experiences.

Road Rage

 

A few years ago I was driving along a bustling suburban street.  The lane I was in was merging into another lane.  Like the distracted driver I am, I didn't give the other driver the right of way and cut him off.  He probably had to hit his brakes to keep from hitting me.  I admit it.  It was my fault.  I should have been paying more attention and yielded to him.  I can admit it.

 

Of course, he started honking, waving, probably giving me the bird.  I don't remember that part.  The part I remember was pulling into a nearby parking lot, him following me in there, parking me into a parking spot, getting out of his car, coming to my window, and screaming at me.  I mean screaming.  The only thing that made me feel better was all the people around the parking lot who were staring at him with horror.  I like to think they were on my side.

 

-- Liz B.

Parking Patrol

A few winters ago when I was about six months pregnant, I decided to go to the gym after work. It was around 6 PM, already dark outside, and I was circling the lot looking for a parking spot. The car in front of me seemed to be doing the same thing, but I was pleasantly surprised when a spot opened up and he drove right passed it. He must be on his way out, I thought, and happily pulled into the spot. 

I was surprised to see the car had stopped in the middle of the lot, not far from where I'd parked, and I started to get nervous. I didn't know what was happening, so I got out of my car and started to walk to the gym. 

Upon seeing me, the man gets out of his car -- still running in the middle of the parking lot -- and approaches me. I thought I was going to throw up. He had this awful, patronizing smirk on his face, and he goes "You know, I always wanted to talk to somebody like you."

I looked at him: I'm sorry, what?

"Did you not see I was going to park there?"

"Oh, no, sorry. I thought when you drove past it, that meant you were not parking."

"I was going to back in."

"I'm sorry, would you like me to move my car?"

"No, I just always wanted to ask someone like you exactly what was going through your mind when you did something like that."

"Oh. Well I didn't think you wanted the spot."

CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS CONVERSATION? This actually happened to me. I was sweating and nauseous and debating whether or not to run. I wanted to point out that, in that very crowded parking lot, not ONE car was backed-in. Backing-in is not a common thing to expect! But I was too overwhelmed with terror and shame to defend myself.

And this is how the shaming ended:

[Horrible Man]: Can I ask you just one more thing?

[Me]: Okay.

[Horrible Man]: Are you from Minnesota?

[Me]: ...Yeah.

[Horrible Man]: Yep. Figures.

What is that??? What does that even mean??? I don't understand. Are Minnesotans notorious space-stealers or something? Explain yourself, man!

 

Needless to say, my workout was ruined; especially when I saw him come in later and it turns out he WORKS AT THE GYM. 

 

LITERALLY.

 

That was a lot of question marks and capital letters, but I hope you see that they were all very necessary. I still don't walk through that gym without nervously looking for him, and I never wear that winter jacket anymore in hopes that he won't recognize me. Ugh.

It's just one more reason not to work out.

 

--The Lazy Stand-Up

"Can I start a room for you?"

Photo from HERE.

This is going to be a good post because, while I am writing it, my child is screaming in the next room protesting a much-needed nap. The sound of his shrill wailing leaves me totally at ease and ready to form complete, clever, thoughtful sentences.

Anyway.

It's been a hectic week with the transition back to "working mom" from "stay-at-home mom." Summer was delightful and, at times, terrible -- just as I predicted in this post. The part about standing in the pool bathroom with poop on my hands actually happened, you guys. Am I some sort of modern-day soothsayer? AM I????

Then again, if I really were a soothsayer, I might have talked myself out of a certain shopping-spree I went on last weekend.

And there is my transition.

A while ago, I decided that I needed to "up my game" and shop at a store that doesn't also sell candy in the check-out line.

Now I am second-guessing that decision, because I am poor.

My main issue with high-end clothing retailers is that the people who work there are way too intense for my comfort level. I prefer warehouse-sized bargain basements where no one will help you even when you want them to very badly. Even if you are on fire.

After my brief interaction with a certain sales woman, you would have thought we were best friends. You would've thought we were going to meet up for coffee this week. You would've thought we were planning a girls' trip to Cabo this spring. But we're not, because it was all a lie. She didn't care about me. She just wanted my money. I feel so used.

And poor.

And, B.T.W., Jessica, the black dress does NOT make my waist look tiny. LIAR!

That's all. I have to go give-in to my baby now.

The Stranger Who Shamed Me: Vol 1

Thank you to those who submitted a story! I fully understand it is difficult to talk about these things, especially when you have successfully managed to block them from your memory. 

Here are a few great ones to start the healing process. I will write another entry with my own incident at a later date. If you'd like to share an incident of your own, please email it to me at thelazystandup@gmail.com.

Now, let's get through this together.   

 

Produce Police

 "I was at the grocery store grabbing some sugar snap peas from the produce bin.  I like the big fat ones, so I was hand-picking them and putting them in the plastic bag.  A woman creeped up on me and said, "There is a utensil there for a reason." 

I was confused by her statement, so I politely said, "What was that?" and she repeated, but now in a more hostile tone, 

"There are utensils there for a reason.  You're using your hands and now I don't want them anymore.  I was going to get some peas, and now I don't."  

The word "utensil" was what threw me off, but I quickly realized she was referring to the plastic tongs on the shelf near the other veggies.  

Something seemed off about her to me; maybe it was partly because I couldn't see her eyes because she was wearing sunglasses in a grocery store.  It was clear in just that 30 second interaction that she was a very bitter woman, but logic was out the window because she somehow managed to make me feel awful.  She may have been right, I probably should have been using the plastic tongs, but her approach was so unpleasant and off-putting.  I've seen her around a couple times since the grocery store and I'm tempted to shout out, "Hey crazy lady, see you in the produce section!"

-- Mary B.

Keep Off the Grass

"My husband Tom and I totally got bitched out by strangers once, and it still makes my cheeks flush with hot embarrassment to this day.

We were taking our engagement pictures in Lincoln Park in Chicago, and were trying to play along with our photographer who was being "creative."  At one point, he wanted us to lay in this grassy area near the lagoon with the Chicago skyline in the background.  We really did NOT want to do it, but were nearing the end of our time and thought, this picture could turn out to be hilarious. So not only did we lay in the grass, but Tom got on his stomach and I got on my stomach . . on his back.

So, we (30 year old adults) are laying stacked on each other at 11:00 am in the middle of a public park when these two older women start SCREAMING at us to get off the grass.  At first, we didn't even realize they were yelling at us, we thought they were just yelling (old people are crazy).  And our photographer (Habib) starts to shoo them away and keeps taking pictures of us, grinning like mental patients while mumbling to each other "are they yelling at us?"

Apparently, there were small signs right near the path that said they were trying to grow these natural grasses in the prairie landscape, and to kindly keep of the grass, and here we are throwing easily 300 plus pounds of engaged bliss on top of the seedlings so we can get a "creative" picture.  It was HORRIBLE. 

The worst part was these women followed us for the last 20 minutes of the photo shoot yelling at us about how horrible we were to abuse the park that was there for everyone and how irresponsible our photographer was.  Ugh.  I still want to die."

-- Molly A.

Pretty Blue Car

"In high school, I drove a little blue car. It was a breeze to parallel park, and I was kind of a pro at getting street parking even in busy areas.

One day, I returned to my car, which I had parked on a residential street in Uptown, Minneapolis, to find an angry note on the windshield.

It began: “To the owner of the pretty blue car…”.

It went on to describe how the author had stood in his house and watched me hit his car while parallel parking (for the record: no damage whatsoever to my car or the surrounding ones). He had taken my license plate number and would probably be calling the police.

He went on to berate suburban teen girls for coming to his neighborhood and selfishly taking up all of the parking.

As a rule-following kind of girl, I was disturbed. I stood by the car and started to cry. Eventually, he saw me crying and came out of the house… not to console me, but to reiterate in person my laundry list of parking wrongdoings.

Upsetting, yes. But in the end - I like to think because of the crying - my police record did remain clean."

-- Emily H.

 

Anti-Dentite

I feel relatively good about myself as a human being most of the time, but twice a year my self-esteem takes a plummet and I begin to question my own value.

It's the dentist.

I strongly dislike the dentist.

I went to my six month check-up today, and even though I was deemed cavity-free, I still walked out feeling no better than a dirty piece of rotten garbage. Because no matter how straight and white my teeth may be, it's never good enough.

I want so badly to please my dental hygienist. I want her to praise me, to marvel at the wonder of my pristine mouth. But no, it's always "This spot looks a little dark" or "How often are you flossing?"

You guys, I practice decent oral care. I brush twice a day, and floss at night. Isn't that enough? Are the rest of you brushing and flossing three times a day, and in comparison I'm a dirty hobo? (No offense, hobos?)

Have you ever had the soul-crushing "flossing lesson" where they make you look in the mirror while they floss your teeth, just to make sure you "get it?"

Me neither.

I just hate sitting tipped back in that chair, mouth open, blood rushing to my head, awaiting judgment. The poking, the prodding . . . every time that little hooks sticks ever so slightly in my molar I hear a "hm" noise as she writes something scathing on the little chart: 

Gross build-up on 12 bilateral - probably due to a combination of laziness and gluttony. 

And there's nothing I can do but lay there, defenseless, with drool on my chin.

I assume it's like this for everyone? Right? RIGHT?

I'm so self-conscious right now.

Well the good news is I was released today with no cavities or follow-up appointments. But I did have a few teeth put on the "watch list," which basically means they don't have cavities now, but I can plan on them having cavities next time. So . . . I have that going for me.

I'm going to go drink Listerine.

Someone needs a talking to.

A long time ago I wrote this joke:

Having a baby is like riding a bike; they both really hurt your crotch.

Eh? Whaddaya think? Pretty good, right?

I was thinking about that amazing joke because over the weekend I participated in a large-scale bike ride (it was NOT a race, so it's not a big deal that I came in last), and it was intense. I was on my bike for over three hours, peddling, alternately loving and hating life depending on the grade of the road.

The entire experience was actually great except for one moment. One small incident that irked me and is causing me to write a blog entry about it. I was CHASTISED.

There are few things in this world that I dislike more than getting in trouble. (It's a unique attribute, and I am special because of it.)

This particular dressing-down came from a complete stranger which is the WORST because it's so surprising. She was passing me on her bike (probably about the 5,000th person to do so during the ride) and as she went by, she yelled "Stay to the right if you're not passing!"

Until that point, I was happy, enjoying the scenery and singing the lyrics to "Moves Like Jagger" in my head. But that one comment completely shamed me into a guilty hate-spiral in which I felt stupid but also hated that lady so much. I mean it's not like I was weaving all over the place on a busy city street. I mean I don't think I was. I mean you can't prove it.

Have you ever been put in your place by a stranger? Why is it so awful? Is it just my Catholic guilt at work or does everyone feel this way?

I really think people should email me stories of getting in trouble with strangers at thelazystandup@gmail.com and then I will create a post with everyone's stories (anonymous or not, your choice). It would be very therapeutic for all of us.

You should do it.

Yes, you.

I have another story about a time a man actually got out of his car to criticize my parking. It was bad; I don't even want to tell you, but I will -- if you share some good ones with me. See? Motivation.

Can't wait to hear from you!