Our car has been to the mechanic often lately. Both of them, actually. Our wallets are not too happy about this but we have amazing mechanics and love that we always feel comfortable bringing our cars to them. Probably because neither of us are self-proclaimed car people. We just, I mean. They’re cars.

We’ll change their oil and clean their carpets. I’ll even be sure to rotate the tires and name mine … but I don’t care about my car too much. It’s a thing. I also don’t care about your car – that’s another thing.

I care about old Ford Pick-Up’s and my very first car. Otherwise? We’re pretty clueless about them.

I’ve spent some quality time in the lobby of our mechanic’s office recently and it got me thinking – with all the rearranging of schedules and phone calls and whatnot … there are days that our mechanic knows more about my daily life than my husband.

Can’t come in today, threw my back out.

Kids are off school right now, next week?

I guess this could be considered chit-chat, something I am terrible at. Is this small talk? Am I now making small talk with our mechanics?

Or am I just that girl who is awesome at the awkward conversations?

Nature is ridiculous. And being left to my own devices in nature? Also ridiculous.

Aaron and the kids were talking about bears and OH MY’s! when I kind of went off the map for a bit there – totally ignored by my family I entertained myself with my camera.

This can also be chalked up to: Jodi embarrasses herself for your enjoyment. Although, honestly, I’m not embarrassed. I’m also no actor – this is just me.

Being slightly dramatic. Which is rare, obviously.

It’s colder when you’re not moving your legs and carrying 30 pound children up a hill, by the way.

That’s my cold face.

Here I am double checking to make sure I’m still only performing to an audience of trees. And deer.

Which I was.

And that some how made me feel giddy. I’m so dangerous.

What?!?! No, I am not taking photos of my self in rapid succession. Thankyouverymuch. Look away, Aaron.

He makes a joke, I laugh. It’s what we do.

Then I cry for help. SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF HERE.

Zoolander comes for a visit.

And we end on dramatic surprise pose.

Scene.

Who wants to go hiking with me? I promise I’m not high maintenance but if you give a mouse a cookie … Jodi’s gonna want to take your picture.

These photos brought to you by “Being the photographer on vacation” and “Hiking on a mountain is effin’ awesome”.

For more frequent updates like that one lets be friends on facebook, mkay?

It all started when we were on a playdate Friday morning and I had a ladies issue that needed attending to. Excuse me, dear readers: I am going there.

I did not have the equipment with me that was needed. And if we’re going to be talking about this then we’re going to be talking about this. I needed a tampon.

My girlfriend happened to have some in her purse, albeit very old ones. So I took the plural “light days” applicators with me to the bathroom and whatever. Magic happened, ok?

Ladi-dah. All is well. Playdate is wonderful. I’m always slightly blonde and foggy-headed so ok, no big deal. I apparently don’t bring feminine hygiene products with me anywhere I go.

However, and this is where it gets awkward, upon returning home it happened to be time to visit the rest room and switch things up a bit. And lets just say I didn’t get a full refund.

Folks: I was certain there was a tampon stuck. In there.

What the? What do I do?

Immediately I start thinking of Danielle whom I had the humorous pleasure of hearing first hand about how she went through a similar situation when I was at BlogHer Conference 2009.

I knew I didn’t want to wait days and days or do anything while my 50% off coupon was floating around my uterus so I decided I should just call my OB. It happened to Danielle, so of course, this has to be kind of a normal thing.

Right?

Ring Ring. Ring. WayTooLongOfARecordingForAnOB’sOfficeGreetingMessage
AndMenuOfOptionsPleasePreeFour.

Beep. (That’s me pressing 4.)

Dead silence. No music while on hold. Only the echo of my mind going “When they answer you just have to be honest. Say “I think I have a tampon stuck” and let them ask the questions … over and over again.

PhoneNurse: Hello?
Me: Hi, my name is Jodi and I’m pretty sure I have half a tampon stuck … um … inside. You know. There.
PhoneNurse: Half of one? What were you doing?
Me: Yes, well. Nothing. Just routine maintenance really. It was an older tampon I used in an emergency but only half of it came out.
PhoneNurse: That’s almost impossible!
Me {thinking}: Of course it is! Why yes, yes it would be an almost impossible situation that I would be in this circumstance.
Me {actual talking}: Oh. Well I guess this stuff just happens to me? What do I do?
PhoneNurse: What’s your DOB.
Me: {gives info}
PhoneNurse: Is this Jodi???!!! Jodi?? This is Sarah!
Me: Yup, yeah. This is Jodi. Sarah?? Oh hi! Sarah from highschool! Hey! Hi! Yeah, how are the kids? Oh wow! So weird that you’re the one who answered my call! Huh heh. Heh …. ha….. ha.
PhoneNurse {Now Sarah}: So funny! Yeah! Well we can get you in to see the doctor, want me to get you an appointment?
Me: Yes, lets just do this.

They got me in to see the doctor within the hour, only I had my kids with me … still. So I quick called my mother in law who was very willing to watch them while I took care of this as soon as embarrassingly possible.

Doctors Visit:

Hi Doctor I’ve never met before. You’re younger than I was envisioning. Oh, yes. Please. Let’s shake on it. OK, hi.

You’re absolutely right. I’m embarrassed about why I’m in here. Can you please say it out-loud a few more times? “Getting a tampon stuck.” “I see many women with the same question or fear.” “Sounds like you came in right away which will save you from infections and {very disgusting descriptive words about symptoms} …” “As an OB this is one of those problems that easily solved, I love these problems!”

Awesome. Explains the career path, bringing life into the world aside, you must be very good at what you do. Hows about we just get this over with?

Oh, you need a nurse in here for this? Of course you do. Please get ANOTHER witness to this situation. I would LOVE that.

Nurse enters, we “solve the problem” and then the nurse says – Sarah {PhoneNurse} wants you to stop by her desk before you leave.

THANKS, NURSE, FOR THE MESSAGE!!! It’s like my own personal assistant following me around.

I was relieved to have lived through all of this for the YoungerThanExpected Vagina Doctor to be all: Nope! No tampon in here! Let’s get you dressed so you can go see your friend EXCLAMATION POINT EXCLAMATION POINT.

Yup.

Thank you? Thanks. I, uh. Well, good then. You’re sure? The rest of my body can’t swallow things right? I’m not going to have weird stomach pains that turn into an emergency x-ray showing I have a weird formation of cotton floating around, right? Don’t answer that. I’m choosing to believe you. You seemed thorough enough.

Nurse, where’s PhoneNurse-Sarah’s desk?

M’kay. Alrighty then. Wonderful. Bye!

No worries, dear friends, it was great to see Sarah again. Caught up on her beautiful family, assured her I was A-OK and made tentative plans for some coffee. She has my number.

It will be nice to be the one on the other end of her phone next time

There are pans, gadgets and cake stands every where you turn. Or – behind every cupboard. She’s equipped for every possible party invitation, as a host of any theme, she’s ready to take on any baking assignment and will bat her eyes with modest appreciation when you compliment her on the arrangement.

Which is why it’s hard for me to out-right steal from the lady. Because if she didn’t love it so much, I would totally clepto my way to her equipment.

Those loaf pans? How many are there? At least 6. I have one. As in “Let’s learn to count, we always begin with ONE.” One.

I’m envious.

Muffin tins, griddles, baking sheet after glorious baking sheet.

Wooden spoons, I counted 3 wire whisks … spatulas that don’t crack and break. Rolling pins, oh my!

It’s not that I don’t have these things. I do. I have one of each of these things. What I don’t have is ample space to store extra’s, a dishwasher or a griddle. I don’t have one. I weep.

I equate this kitchen status to something like retirement. One day I’ll be part of this club. With cake stands and cupboards and a kitchen-aid. Until then … I’ll just take photos of my mom’s baking supplies, her organized cupboards and racks and racks of pie dishes, pyrex and bowls.

And I pet them when no one’s looking.

Ever since this past summer when I skipped my period entirely and then freaked out over 8 failed pregnancy tests and blood tests at the hospital I finally returned to a regular scheduled working uterus. You’re so glad you know that, don’t you? Who wants the last 4 seconds back from their life? REFUND!

I should just let you all off the hook now, I am not pregnant. But thanks for working so hard at reading between the lines.

However that didn’t stop me from requesting that Aaron go on that special run to the pharmacy when I thought (by calculations done in my head while driving around, which is never a good idea FYI.) I should have already started my you-know-what.

Surprise, surprise … our birth control has yet to disappoint us and a negative reading we did receive. It’s a ritual now. Freak out! Test! Negative! Emotional roller coaster for 5 minutes! Starts period within 12 hours!

Hi! I’m extremely uncomfortable right now, you?

But this time it was different. I thought I learned my lesson about absorbency that one time in the 6th grade when my mom thought it was a good idea to buy me white jeans the same year I started my period; yet had absolutely no knowledge whatsoever of how to keep track of said obligation for the rest of my life.

Talk about an awkward Homeroom Role Call. Jodi? HERE! No … uh, Jodi? You need to visit the ladies room. {Shrinks 17 inches below my desk and forgets what dignity ever felt like in a room of 12 year old boys.}

I am a twenty seven year old woman, I’ve given birth twice. I should have a black belt in Menstruation by now.

Yet, here I am, being all grown, and waking up to a tsunami godzilla period.

No worries! I’ll just clean up in the bathroom and then remember that all of my underwear are in the wash. Every single one of them.

Which is so convenient when the kids start crying and I have to check on them. Naked.

Don’t worry, parenting prepares you for this kind of embarrassment. Plus it was dark, what could they have seen? Exactly. I don’t want to know.

Fast forward to wakeful hours of the day and let’s get ready for a play date! In public!

Totally awesome that in the 45 minutes it took us to arrive I had already made a mess of my own situation. This morning should have taught me a valuable lesson. Forget extra clothes for the one in potty training … pack a pair for your self, woman!

This playground is special though, parents can get right in there and play with their kids! Which my son already knows, we’ve been there before. He wants Mom to come, too! MOM!! Why aren’t you playing with me??!!

Mommy has an owie. I can’t play today, dude. Sorry. You go though! Have so much fun, I’ll be right here … watching.

{Crickets}

I made it to the end of the playdate, through the rest of our day and into the evening which happened to be Date Night!

Oh Date Night. We tried a new restaurant (strike one) and then went to see a movie (strike two) and then decided to browse a book store for a bit (I’m out).

I’m sitting there thumbing through some decor books when it hits me.

I have to use the bathroom.

Right. Now.

Aaron was on a phone call so I just dropped my book and bee-lined it to the bathroom. I actually tried to buy a tampon from the vending machine (only 10 cents!! What the hell? Why is the pad 25? Who uses the pad’s MORE!!!??) but they were out.

There was some weird creaky water dripping happening and after the movie we saw my senses were on overdrive, so I’m looking all over the bathroom thinking someone’s behind the door waiting to get me. I’ve assessed my exit strategy – looked for hidden cameras (gross) and made sure my door locked.

I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. I had visions of having to send an SOS text to Aaron and him finding me on the bathroom floor.

Of course by this time I’ve already blogged this in my head and didn’t know how I was going to get this story to you had I ended up on the bathroom floor. It was not pretty.

So there I am trying to finish everything up before one of the employee’s comes in to check the bathroom for closing. Only I did not want that to happen, to have any kind of witness to what was going on in there (Hello, internet.) and I probably would have just spent the night in shame.

You know what you do? You wrap your underwear in the 1/2 ply commercial toilet paper and then get. out. fast.

But quick buy a book before you leave the store because there’s no possible way you can leave a note on the mirror with a $20 explaining how you realize this was never part of their job description.

Life goes on.

And gravity comes into play at some point and then you’re sitting there remembering when your bottom didn’t wave hello to your knee’s every morning or your upper arms stopped saying hello and goodbye when you did.

Tragedy that aging might be I have a letter to myself at eleven that I would now like to write.

Scene: 5th grade. The principle was actually my teacher as part of a job share with my best friends mom. It was an awkward last year of elementary school for me. My mom had started dating after divorcing, my dad had too. I was one of two little girls in my grade who had parents that had divorced.

I was good at math and reading – loved those subjects – but I struggled with history and geography.

Struggled should be read as: I did not understand the concept of caring about the past or where Aruba was. That light never came on for me.

But right now – I have an eleven year old to deal with. And she’s confused and a little worried about her life. Let’s hold her hand for a minute, shall we?

Dear self,

You go girl.

I’m sorry Mom. And Grandma. And any guy who reads this. Ever.

My son is 2 1/2 and very inquisitive about his world right now.

I don’t ever get alone time, even in the bathroom.

Who knows where this is going?

And sometimes that’s difficult because there are certain times of the month when I just really want to be left alone in there and not get asked these questions:

Mom, is that for your bum?

Is that your bum band-aid?

Let me see it.

What are you doing?

Where does that go?

Can I have one, too?

Thankfully he has yet to announce these findings to anyone when we’re out in public, like, HEY Stranger! My mom has these really cool rocket band-aids!!! Wanna see??

Although, in fairness, I am waiting for that day.

What do you think?

I’m not really allowed to use the Internet to self diagnose any more. There was that one time this summer that I was positive I had Pituitary Cancer because there were certain Lady Things that had not happened and eight pregnancy (yes eight) tests later and a blood work up from the hospital all told me the same thing: I was not pregnant.

Obviously it was pituitary cancer. You see how this works right?

Not to mention it was, um, a stressful summer. Moving. Moving and oh we moved! Right on the heels of a conference I had co-planned and in the midst of saying “Yes! Please, can I pay you to buy this house??” … I was under some stress. Fair enough.

I had pink eye as a child and recently I remember hearing somewhere that one of the “awful” ways you get pink eye is being exposed to poop.

Well, shit.

That is the number one thing I am exposed to on a daily basis. Lots of it.

And we’re out of hand soap.

And we don’t wash our own clothes … or have any bleach in the house.

Pretty much we live in filthy filth every day and then we touch our eyes.

So I’ve been wearing my glasses today because it kinda sorta hides it … right?

And part of me wanted to wear sunglasses to church because a year or so ago (maybe 2?) Britney Spears made headlines because she and her boys were wearing sunglasses and people, GASP!, HORROR!, thought that meant they were hiding a case of pink eye.

Well, duh. If the paparazzi thinks it’s terribly disgusting and worth making fun of then it must mean I, too, am an awful parent for somehow contracting this little bacteria.

We’re all on the same boat here, aren’t we? Speaking the same language?

Just checking.

Anyway … I think I have pink eye and it’s probably because I haven’t boughten (bought?) new eye makeup brushes in years. Haven’t washed my pillow case in about 2 weeks and ran out of the sanitizing hand wash. (But not the gallon pump of the anti bacterial water free hand sanitizer!! Points for me, points for me!!)

If I’ve ever touched you, you should probably take cover.

I have chronicled my wonderful housekeeping and total hygienic mothering here before: See here, and here, and please try not to see here.

I had to pick up some booze from the grocery store in order to finally make some homemade vanilla and I had already run a couple errands that morning so I knew that just popping in and out of the store for this ONE thing would be OK. I wouldn’t be stretching the patience or my luck with 2 kids in tow.

Except, when did I ever think that my luck ran that far?

I was holding my son, two years old, through the store because my daughter, 5 years old, asked to push the smaller version of a grocery cart to which I said yes, she could.

Half way through the shopping trip my son decides that this set up is not fair and he loses his marbles. Literally kicking and screaming in my arms. The folks in the aisle infront of me stop, turn and watch as I pass with my five year old pushing a cart with the biggest bottle of vodka available and me holding my thrashing (and filthy) two year old in my arms.

There wasn’t blood. I hadn’t been hit or bit or scratched, so it wasn’t that bad right?? He did finally get his stuff together and we make it through the check out line.

He’s sniffling and I have to tell them both that, No, we are not going to be riding the Penny Horse today – I almost get out of the store (Vodka in hand) when I walk right into the exit door. Still holding my son.

Which means that I smacked his head into the exit door, while holding Vodka and trying to corral my daughter into following me more closely as to not run into traffic.

Which I stopped dead when he started screaming from the pain of getting his head smashed into a door. It was an accident!! And the vodka wasn’t for me (kind of) … I wasn’t going to be drinking when I got home (although, who wouldn’t have thought that after seeing me?).

People from a good 300 feet away turned around, stopped returning their carts or loading their groceries and watched me walk to my car with my vodka, filthy/hurt/screaming child and my daughter.

I got in my car after calming my son down and making sure he was ok and sat there.

Just. Sat.

I was in shock, stunned.

And then I called my mom.

I thought about taking a shot when I got home, don’t you worry, but I saved it for the vanilla.

If there’s one thing I just don’t know how to handle yet where this blog is concerned it is most definitely how to have the conversation wherein I admit I have a blog at all. And most definitely to the other mom’s of preschool.

I fully understand that when I write all of my innermost thoughts and feelings, ideas and what-have-yous all over the internet that I am opening myself up to all kinds of interpretation and speculation. I get it, I accept it. I try to deal with it respectfully. However I know full well that I am not making that decision for my kids. So … when other parents who have children in the same class or school as mine do bring up my website I cringe a little because (and maybe this doesn’t matter at all) I’m worried about their foresight’s onto my kids BECAUSE of me. (I’m just insecure, I suppose, in a group of other women who do the same thing I do but we never actually discuss how hard it is, how tiring it is or how much we love it and hate it at the same time … mom’s, we’re kind of intimidating.)

Double standard? I have no idea. I hope not. And it’s getting more comfortable but it’s also a little narcistic to talk about myself talking about myself and I’m trying hard to be wise in that area. Or mature? Pretty much I just don’t want to be the one who always has to say something, just to fill the space. Or be some one because I feel pressure to perform.

Nevertheless, I still love writing here so I will get over myself.

(Hi Mom’s!)