Snippets of Misadventure

Fireworks and Alcohol= Darwin Awards. (January 2013)

Welcomed in the New Year with a bang. Literally. Holzgerlingen at midnight on New Years Eve is like Baghdad in March of 2003–it shock and awe via showy pyrotechnics (just add drunk Germans). Mongo set to work igniting the 400 fireworks he bought at the local Lidl and making our neighbors jealous with their pansy sparklers and under two foot Roman candles. A cigar in his mouth, he donned my Russian fur Ushanka and a head lamp which blinded us every time he looked at us. My face was pasted in a permanent grin as I watched the cold night sky light up. Mongo hollered, “Hey, honey–you want to fire one?”. I did. Badly. I didn’t know if it was the lure of rocket power or the countless Sidecars (throwback cocktail)  I drank but I ran out and picked up the biggest, fattest rocket we had and I then asked, “okay, what do I do?” to a man who has completed two combat tours in Iraq, dodged IEDs and used a EOD team to blow up a pair of my heels he didn’t like. I was sure he would give me a full safety rundown. We spent most of today debating what his reply was–we agreed the words “light it” and “just let it do it’s thing” were in there but never were the words “then let go” uttered. (Note: I realize now that even a monkey would have assumed that “let go” was step 2 but rocket power and sidecars have a powerful effect). To make matters worse, I yelled the the crowd of our neighbors, “Hey, everyone! Look at me!” then lit the rocket. The first few seconds were uneventful and the hissing of the fuse made it’s way to what I can only assume what a shitload of gunpowder. Then it happened, the rocket ignited and I began to scream as tiny shards of fire began to burn my scalp. Like a pyrotechnic, hysterical Statue of Liberty, my grip tighten on the rocket stem as if hundreds of French children had welded my fingers to the stick with their pocket change. At some point–likely when some of my hair began to burn–I took a knee, re-aimed at the ground (for no apparent reason other than to save myself the purchase of a wig) and finally let go, sending the rocket to a dirt grave approximately 15 feet away from me, but not before it pin balled around our neighbors patio furniture. This morning, as I went to wipe off what little makeup did not transfer onto my pillow case, I also picked off small melted plastic pieces off my neck and face and small nests of burned hair. It is official, I am one of those people the Navy Safety Center writes about.

Open staircases. Designed by people without children. (July 2012)

The open four story circle staircase, categorized by the realtor as “German modern” and later categorized by me as “death trap” after several ass luge tumbles, has now been recategorized by Emily as “urine waterfall”. One two many sippy cups coupled with an intense obligation to finish Toy Story 3 led my sweet 3 year old to have an accident on the top floor, step 5 of the 42 open steps that connect the 4th floor to basement. As I heard her cry for me, unaware of the wave of what can only be described as a pee tsunami, I headed for the stairs thinking the tapping, tickling noise was a broken pearl necklace that she had been playing with. I looked up, mouth agape, about to inquire about whatever issue she was having when the first splatter hit. With cat like reflexes, I grabbed the side of the wall as she seemed to have directly aimed her urethra at the center of the staircase. She hit every step, her second crowning achievement of the day– the first when she mistook my waterproof mascara as lipstick and became Poncho Villa. Ole.

Because parents, in any large gathering, are just assholes. (December 2015)
Well done to my sweet Emily on her Holiday concert today!! She was brilliant and energetic—singing 100% in sync and nailing the choreography. She waved to us after her performance–all smiles and excited for winter break. I wish I can say I felt the same. One would think that watching a gym full of adorable children sing about the fun of the season would leave me all warm and fuzzy, maybe even a bit teary-eyed from the overwhelming waves of sweetness. Nooooope. Thanks to the parents, who shall from here out be referred to as “The Kluge of Assholes” (KOA’s), I left white knuckled with a desire to commit vehicular homicide. First, like Europeans on a Ryan Air flight, everyone bum rushed the gym to get the seats in the two front rows. Those who didn’t can be grouped into three categories: 1) the polite people who orderly took seats in other rows, 2) the somewhat-polite people who moved to the sides to get their view and 3) the KOA’s who lumped themselves, armed with IPADs and large tablets directly behind the music director, cutting off the view of those sitting. No worries, I thought. I can see Emily and have a straight shot to record her musical genius. The kindergarteners were second to last so I just relaxed and people-watched the group shuffle back and forth as one parent after another bumped their way through the group holding their IPAD over their head until they could get to the front. Eventually the shuffling was so bad that they bumped into the music director, almost knocking her into the kids and forcing her assistant to use his body to blockade the crowd, mouthing the words “back it up, back it up” so as not to disrupt the kids. I snickered and readied my phone for filming. The kindergarteners stood up to sing which prompted the second row—now known as the second group of KOA’s–to stand as well. Emily disappeared instantly and all I had to video was the fleshy backs of women who obviously didn’t understand that simply staying in your seat and leaning slightly to the right or left could get you a clean shot of your kid. To make matters worse, they held their phones, IPADs and tablets over their head despite the fact that the first row remained seated. Their move created a domino effect in the crowd as parents lost their perfect shot—and all decorum–frantically moving seats and phone angles to catch a small glimpse of their kindergartener singing about snow and wearing a construction paper hat. I found my anger levels rising and for an instant thought I would throw something at the second row KOA’s. I actually briefly looked in my purse for something less valuable and non-attributable to throw. I finally gave up when I found that I could watch Emily through the phone of another parent’s phone and took my seat just in time for the guy sitting next to us answer his phone. Judging by his attire and flip phone, I made the hasty assumption that he was not in a life-saving vocation—such as a doctor—and could have probably let it go to voicemail. He rumbled on for a minute before Mongo asked him to take the call outside. “Ok buddy,” he replied and kept yammering on. I’m not sure what Mongo said to him next but I can only assume it went, “Hey, flip phone. Close it or I’ll crush it” and the man hurriedly hung up and began to stare in the opposite direction. When the concert ended, the children listened attentively and followed instructions. The parents—not so much as the KOAs bum rushed the kids instead of leaving the gym as they were instructed to do. Annoyed at the blatant disregard for common courtesy, simple directions and the fact that the “Holiday” concert’s musical program centered on celebrating snow days (no mention of any holiday what-so-ever–and to a degree–promoting laziness), I mentally committed to sending Emily to a private Catholic school next year where we passive-aggressively guilt each other into courteous behavior, no one uses a goddamn IPAD to film their offspring and kids sing about the goddamn birth of Christ at Christmas. And now to confession for the gratuitous over-use of the GDs. 

“Plans are nothing. Planning is everything.” Obviously, Eisenhower didn’t spend much time with toddlers. (September 2015)

Planned my promotion party, reception and wet down to the nit-noid painstaking, phased detail. With a four star general officiating the ceremony, precedent dictated nothing less. I imagined the day much like a bride envisions her wedding day—everything would be perfect and years later I would reminisce over the event with photos of me in my brand-spanking-new-whites, my angel girls in matching Lily Pulitzer outfits on either side of me, hair in pigtails and smiles abound. It would be a great moment captured on film and displayed on my mantel for years to come.
Someone call the Urinalysis Coordinator. I must have been on drugs.

My day kicked off well at 0400, putting 20 lbs of pork in the oven, making lists, moving chairs and ensuring everything on my uniform was in its exact place. I left my capable family in charge of last minute preps and headed into work. The morning rapidly pressed on and I avoided some last minute disasters like missing photographers, lack of paperwork for alcohol, almost losing an O-6, and the wrong flag for a 4 star. I almost managed to get 30 people badged and into the Director’s Award Room in a top-secret facility without any real drama. Until my mother called shortly before they arrived, “Now, don’t get upset but The Kraken fell into the corner of the coffee table just before we left and hit around her eye. Her eye is okay but she’s bleeding a lot and I think she’s going to need a stitch. She’s, um, pretty upset too. Just so you know. Love you, bye.” ‘Upset’ was the wrong adjective. I have only heard noises like that once and that was from my newly spayed cat hiding in a closet and plotting my death. The moment she saw me, “The Kraken” clung to me like an alligator about to take down its prey in a death roll, trying desperately to rub her bleeding wound on my newly acquired white uniform. Any attempt to put her down or give her to anyone was met with glass shattering screams. Later, I found small cuts in my arms and neck from where she dug in to better her grip. A room full of friends, family and GOFOs awaited. I’m not really sure what happened next, the mounting stress hurled me into a functional trance as I decided not to fight the situation but simply give up and drown in it. That photo of smiling girls what not going to happen and I was pretty sure I would promote with her on my hip. The General and I gave up on the whole “entrance of the official party” thing and took position in front of the flags. Neither one of us clued in the narrator who loudly announced, “Please stand for the arrival of the official party”. We were two feet away from him. “Ah Chris,” the General shouted over The Kraken’s wails, “I think we are about as arrived as we’re going to be”. The General began to deliver some very touching remarks about me and if it wasn’t for The Kraken’s shenanigans, I may have actually blushed. However, The Kraken filled the speech with shifts from high-pitched wails to thoughtful repose whereby she played the “where’s your nose?” game with my face–sticking her fingers in my eyes, nose, ears and mouth. She would start to smile a bit before her face would quickly fall again and look at me and the crowd as if to say, “Do any of you mother-fucker’s realize that I am BLEEDING FROM MY EYE!!” She began to violently squirm and I put her down where she ran to my father, grabbed his bottle of water and b-lined it back to me, loudly indicating that I pick her back up. I had her in my arms for 1.2 seconds before she dropped the bottle on the floor and the cap popped off, spilling the half the contents on the Director’s carpet. Excited, she dropped into the spill, emptying the rest of the water, creating a puddle. That she played in. She splashed, she licked her hands trying to drink from the puddle and splashed some more. I prayed for someone to call in a bomb threat. Never missing a beat, The General gave a stirring speech which my sister later compared to Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address in its eloquence describing my ability to achieve “work/life balance” while The Kraken defiantly Gene Kelly’d in her puddle. By the time everything was said and done, we forgot to publish the orders, the shoulder board piece went backward, and I was covered in blood, sweat and tears. It was an awesome shit show of epic proportion. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

In the end, The Kraken didn’t need a stitch, just some motrin and a nap. Poor baby.

Because…yarg. (May 2014)
Yesterday, while hurrying out of the house to get The Kraken to her doctor’s appointment, I threw my sunglasses on and bustled children and requisite bags, IDs, supplies (milk, lucky charms, diapers, ect) out to the car. It was a bright, beautiful morning, I waved at several neighbors who looked at me funny. As I was backing out, a woman almost T-boned me as she sped through our parking lot. She made some rude gestures, followed me to the stop sign and pulled up next to me. I slowly turned my head to give her a dramatic, “Are you kidding me?” She too looked at me oddly, with an expression I can’t really describe, and drove off. I hit heavy traffic at the gate at Ft. Belvior and decided to throw on some make up. As I pulled down the vanity, I was shocked to see that the left lens of my sunglasses had fallen out. I had no idea! I found it later on the kitchen counter where I originally picked up my sunglasses which means I left the house, loaded the car and drove for 20 minutes like a one-eyed cyborg. Not sure if the lead-foot-asshole in the parking lot was thinking when she saw me- fear of the pirate captaining the USS Flex or remorse for flipping off a one-eyed disabled mother. Regardless, I am due a vacay. And maybe some new sunglasses.

On the plus side, I now know I can simply knock out a lens when I want people to leave me alone. 

Because it’s going to happen. Best to maintain some distance. (April 2016)

Last week was a challenge. Work was crazy and I’m pretty sure I was operating, due to stress levels, on “batshit crazy” mode. Wednesday was the worst and after peaking by yelling at no less than two unsuspecting people with vigorous jazz hands to express my complete frustration, I simply logged off my computer, picked up my purse and B-lined it for the parking lot. I was looking forward to just relaxing at home with my sweet baby girls. I went to open the front door and the handle came off in my hand. I stood there staring at it for a moment and then just shrugged, placed on the porch and walked in to freshly painted home– it looked wonderful and I wandered room to room congratulating myself for the amazing color choices I had made. Then I discovered the 3×3 patch of wall where The Kraken and a green crayon had met and frolicked with reckless abandon. (Note: Much like the parents of Sleeping Beauty rounded up the spinning wheels, I had sequestered what I thought was all the crayons in the house and locked them away. It was if some Crayola Maleficent had willed The Kraken to the wall, eyes glazed over, arm out stretched and fingers clutched around the green crayon). Meh. I shrugged and decided that it was nothing a little left over paint couldn’t fix. I made some chicken for dinner and a little extra for my lunch the next day. After picking up the edemame shells that The Kraken had thrown on the floor at dinner, I found myself in an argument with Emily about why she couldn’t eat a whole big of candy for dessert. Mongo stopped by the house to see the girls, kissed them good night and left while I put them to bed. Emily was upset with me, convinced my argument that candy rots your teeth (and is generally unhealthy for you), was utter bullshit. She sulked while I put The Kraken down. I crawled into to The Kraken’s bed, looking forward to the peace and quiet and sweetness that comes with listening to a two year old slipping off to sleep. “I want Princess Baby. I want Princess Baby. I want Princess Baby”- she repeated this no less that 17 times until I finally said no and told her to go to sleep. Silence. Then, “I want bear. I want bear.” I stopped her at the 8th time, “GO. TO. SLEEP.” She began several other rounds from wanting milk to wanting sheep until finally, my eye twitching, I decided it was in our collective best interests for me to just leave. Emily was sleep sulking, arms crossed and mouth agape, even her soft snoring was windy with distain. Vivienne, my cousin and nanny, had set the alarm and gone to her room and I went in the kitchen to clean up dinner and clean out my lunch bag. The extra chicken I had made for my lunch was gone and I texted the suspected offender. “That was my lunch”. Mongo replied “No. That. Was. Delicious.” Eye beginning to twitch again, I began to rinse out my lunch bag (even though I now had no lunch to put in it) when the house alarm went off. I jumped three feet and then dashed to the pinpad to disarm it quickly as it was wailing at eardrum-crushing decibels and I didn’t want the girls to wake up. The code said the basement window was open. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I shouted upstairs for Vivienne, several times, but no answer. The door to the basement was open so I quickly made the decision to close it and wedge my thick flip flops under the door to prevent anyone from opening it easily or quietly. I ran and got my gun from the safe and then ran up stairs to Vivienne’s room–she was blow drying her hair. I brought her up to speed on the alarm situation told her to call Mongo, put him on speaker phone and follow me downstairs. She was sufficiently freaked out. I opened the basement door and because I lacked the creativity to say anything witty, shouted, “Hey asshole! I’ve got a gun.” Using my extensive room-clearing training from watching multiple Law & Order marathons, I burst into every room while Vivienne followed behind me. At one point, I turned around to find her, wide-eyed, head on a swivel and holding a South African bottle of Grenache. “What are going to do with that?” To which replied she would (duh) defend herself. “Goddamn it, Vivienne, grab the cheap shit. That’s why God made Yellowtail merlot.” We looked everywhere but there was no one down there, the windows and doors were locked and nothing looked disturbed. But our adrenaline was high and so I decided to move the girls into my room where I could easily defend us should Hannibal Lector be lurking in the house somewhere. I had just finished tucking the girls in my bed when I heard Vivienne screaming from the kitchen. I ran, gun in hand and ready to give a lead tasting to what I thought was an intruder attacking Vivienne, only to find her standing in a flooded kitchen. I realized that I had never turned off the water when the alarm went of and it had been running for 10 minutes with my lunch bag plugging the drain. We used every towel in the house to soak up the water and the next morning after my shower, I had to dry myself off with a sweatshirt. I was exhausted, it was now after 10pm and I looked forward to just laying down with my slumbering cherubs. No sooner did my head hit the pillow, The Kraken pointed out that she had to go potty. So we went. Back to bed, not more than 2 minutes had transpired and The Kraken declared she had to go potty again. “No you don’t, now go to sleep”. We went back and forth a few times before she stood up, pulled her diaper half way down and began to pee. In my bed. I grabbed her and she peed on me for a few seconds before I plopped her down on the toilet to catch the last two drops of urine. “I peed in the potty!” she cheerfully exclaimed. I was so tired I simply threw some dirty laundry and the spot she peed in my bed and found a dry spot on the end of the bed. The Kraken crawled up next to me and we laid nose to nose. I wrapped my arms around her to cuddle and she responded by sticking her fingers in my eyes, nose and ears, identifying each. Then she began: “I want Princess Baby.” 
To say that I am overdue for a vacation is an understatement.