Pee & Tweet

Tweetpee: a wet idea?

I know you are probably sick of me talking about pee.  But this product intrigued me so much that I just had to share.  So, here’s one more pee story (well, until the next opportunity arises and we all know that could be at any time).

While I was sitting in a doctor’s waiting room the other day, a commercial came on the television.  Actually the news was on and the news aired it.  You can currently find this product in Brazil.  But I’m afraid it may be coming to a Walmart near you sooner than you wish.

It’s called Huggies TweetPee.  Somehow this little birdie is part of an “app.”  You know, for your smart phone?  At first glance, it seems kind of weird.  At second glance, it seems even weirder.

Here’s the lowdown: This little bird attaches to your baby’s diaper, in the general area of where urine comes out.  Upon sensing the “wet”, the bird does what it does best — tweets.  No, it doesn’t actually tweet, like “chirp chirp.”  It tweets.  To your Twitter account.  Let me repeat that in case you don’t understand:  The plastic little birdie who is attached to your child’s groin, sends you a message to your twitter account to let you know that you better stop watching General Hospital,  get your ass up off the couch, and change your baby’s diaper.  Pronto.  Or what?  I suppose the pee police will come.

I am feeling a mix of emotions here.  A little bit of jealous with a whole lot of dismay.  The jealous comes from the fact that I had to check my baby’s diaper the old fashioned way.  You know… sniffing, feeling, looking.  What a waste of time.  I feel deprived.

The dismay comes from the fact that someone or somepeople actually spent time and money to come up with this gadget.  Okay, so sure.  We have all been guilty of sometimes letting our babies sit in a wet diaper for a a little longer than we should.  Did it kill them?  No.  But we can still be too lazy to get up and change them.  The difference is that now we will know that the diaper is wet therefore adding more guilt to our already Guilty Mother Conscience.  Well played Huggies.  Well played.

Oh and hey you.  Go change your baby’s diaper.  How do I know?  A little birdie told me.

Oh Bloody Hell

When I was a kid and we were living in Germany, there was a nursery where my parents would take us if they wanted to go out.  Not a nursery where you grow and sell plants.  A child’s nursery.  Like a daycare center but I only remember going at night.  Although my mom argues that we only paid an overnight visit a couple of times, my brain tells me it was more.

I hated the nursery.  The sight and sound of this thing still throws me into flashback hell, with it’s creepy little tick tock song:

FPT-05Bb- Teaching clock - cropped

Nothing bad ever happened to me there.  In fact the women who worked there were terrific.  I was just like a dog going to the vet.  Planting my feet firmly in the ground, not wanting to go in.  There was no real reason for my fear.

There was nap time at this place.  We would take these naps in a little room with cots.  Once during nap time, I occupied myself by tying the shoes together of the little boy in the next cot over.  Genius.  When he got up, he fell.  The nursery lady on duty asked who did it.  I kept my mouth shut as I pointed right at him.  The boy didn’t even try to defend himself.

The nursery is where I acquired my pretty chin scar.  It was a late rainy night when the folks picked us up.  On the way to the car, I fell on my face and ripped open my chin.  I can still remember the blood soaked towels I had to hold to my face on my way to the hospital. An added bonus was the big light glaring in my face in the ER as I laid (or is it lain?) on a gurney as the on-call doctor did a “butterfly” number on me.  I hated that doctor.

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My 40 year old scar

It’s called Karma.  For doing the shoelace thing.  And it’s a pretty little reminder of my evil side.  My alter ego.  She’s fun. Be careful or I’ll ask her to come out to play.  Are you scared?  You should be.  Just don’t turn your head when you are wearing strings.

Holy Heel

In my previous life, I was a heel wearer.  A pretty high high-heel wearer.  I could wear those suckers all day at work.  I could run down the hall to the copy machine or to catch a train.  I probably could have even worked out in them.  With no problems.  These days, my footwear of choice are either something resembling that of a senior citizen’s orthopedic or hush puppies.

Last year, DH and I went into NYC with friends of ours.  You cannot go into NYC looking like a shlump.  So, I went to TJ Maxx and bought myself the cutest high heels that I could find in my size.  And that I thought I could manage.

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My gorgeous niece, who happens to be an amazing and talented hair dresser wears shoes that are about 3 inches taller than this all day at work.  So I know she would just roll her eyes at me and say that these are nothing.  To her and many other 20-somethings they ARE nothing. To me, it’s like wearing a torture device that resembles that of a nail bed sticking into the balls of my feet.

We drove into the city.  I wore them starting from home and all through dinner.  At this point, I want to cry.  I am already a wobbling, limping idiot.  But I didn’t want to take them off for fear of not being able to get them on again.  When we were at dinner, I sat there with my legs crossed tightly because I was afraid to walk to the bathroom which happened to be upstairs.  When I finally realized I had to give in or REALLY embarrass myself, I stared at that staircase in fear.  As if I were going to be walking to my execution.  And when I just could not possibly hold it any longer, I looked like a drunk three-toed sloth.  Might I add, we were in a really trendy, pishy-poshy eating establishment whose clientele was young enough to be my children.  And I looked like a complete ass.

After we finished dinner, we decided to walk to the comedy club.  Why I agreed is beyond me.  I should have hailed a cab.  I was so desperate to NOT walk, that I would have thrown myself in front of one just to stop the pain.

Since then, I have tried to wear them on a night out again.  But the thought creates such anxiety I need a Xanax.  So I settle on my orthopedics.  What can I say?  I rock those orthos.  And my feet have thanked me time and time again.

That Sink-ing Feeling

I spent 5 hours cleaning the first floor of my house this past Monday.  No, I don’t clean my house like this every week.  It’s just that I hadn’t cleaned my house since before Christmas.  As you all know from this post — Manual Labor Was Invented by the Devil — I am not a fan.  But it was getting pretty nasty in here so if I didn’t want a divorce, I figured I should probably do something about the dust monsters under the couch and the Christmas tree needles, well….everywhere.

You know that feeling when you have completed the task of scrubbing down your house?  It feels really good.  But if anyone comes in here and walks around on the floor or messes up the soap dish, you want to kill them.

Every Monday night I get together with some friends.  I know.  It’s great.  I highly recommend it.  I left at 7:30 and got home at around midnight.  It was pretty late, so I went straight to bed.  When I came downstairs to help the kid with breakfast the next morning, this is what greets me:

photoLet’s see…I was gone 4.5 hours.  When I left, there were 2 people in this house and 0 items in the sink.  There are now 2 plates, 2 bowls, 6 glasses/cups, 1 pot, 1 spoon, 2 forks, 2 knives, 1 measuring cup, 1 wooden spoon, 1 rubber spatula, 1 serving spoon, 1 strainer, 1 pan from the toaster oven and 1 sink strainer basket that has mac & cheese, tomato pieces and strawberries in it.

There is actually an allergy to dishwashing machines.  Yup.  I looked it up.   Apparently it has struck 2 of the 3 people living here.  Hmmm.  I guess I shouldn’t complain.  These DID make it into the sink.  And that counts for something, right?  RIGHT?

Goody Two Shoes

Let’s go back to 1979.  Remember Caldor?  Well, do you remember the bin in the back of the shoe department?  You know the one.  It was filled to the brim with Cal-Pro sneakers.  Each shoe was attached to its twin by a really nice elastic rubber band.  Awesome.  Every 12 year old girl’s dream.

Yup, you guessed it.  I was one of the lucky few who got to actually own a pair of these. When all my friends had those totally nerdy Adidas and Pumas, I got Cal-Pros.  I was incredibly cool.  The envy of all the school.

The first time I tried them on was at gym class.  When I got them on, I saw that one shoe was a whole size larger than the other.  I literally spent the entire class with my toes lined up so it would look like they were the same size.  I’ll tell you, playing dodgeball with your feet pressed together doesn’t work very well.  Let’s just say I was an easy target.

I’m not sure what ever happened to those sneakers.  Did my mom return them?  I don’t remember.  I guess I blocked it out.  And the rubber band system?  What were they smoking at the factory?  Thanks a lot potheads.  You were a huge help in my development and for that I’m forever indebted to you.

Hyster-ical

When the kid was about 2, my monthly visitor Flo, started getting a bit too heavy for my taste.  I could get graphic, but I will spare you the bloody details.

It only took about 10 years for my OB to realize that my fibroid was the “first I’ve ever seen in my 30 year career.”  It had faster growth than Arnold Schwarzenegger on steroids.

These were my choices:  medication that would catapult me into early menopause (having bamboo shoots rammed under my nail beds seemed more appealing) or a hysterectomy.  The good doctor thought I should think it through, talk to the hubby.  Yeah right.  My hubby isn’t the one with the tumor the size of Mount Vesuvius, which by the way,  oozed less than I did.  I immediately replied with a “let’s rip ‘er out.”  No thought necessary.

I think I was most surprised by everyone’s reaction.  I thought for sure they’d all be as happy as I was.  I felt like I did when I first learned of my pregnancy.  I couldn’t wait to share the news.  DH thought I should get a second opinion and some thought I would be hurled into a depression.

Well, the second opinion?  Thanks, honey, but if you’ve removed one uterus, you’ve removed them all.  This isn’t brain surgery.  And depression?  I had one person send me a link to a Dr. Oz show on just this thing.  Give me a break.  I was more depressed when they stopped airing “Thirty Something.”

So, I had a Bon Voyage party for my period and on April 7, 2010 my tumor and lady parts were removed and deposited into the nearest dump.  I kid you not — I was the happiest I have been EVER!  As far as all the incidentals I still had: I wrapped them up in a pretty bow and gave them to my daughter as a gift.  She didn’t appreciate it.  Ingrate.