How to Dress Like A Grown-Up

The struggle is so real, folks.

I see people my age, out in the world, dressed like big kids (or, adults maybe), and I don’t even know where to start.

After a tumultuous week, I finally took my Mom’s advice (which was, “men don’t get hints. Be bold! Say, ‘I want this job and you know I’ll be good at it!”), and talked to my boss. And also cried. Because I have overactive tear ducts, and they don’t know what to do in serious situation. I’ve tried talking to them, about controlling themselves, but the moment I started to say, “I’m crushed! I feel like I’ve done a great job these last 6 weeks, and now I’m told I’m ineligible, because of a technicality?!” Cue the tears. Thankfully, my boss has daughters, and obviously understands the struggles of emotional ladies.

The next step will be to interview, on Tuesday (send me positive energy, please). Which means dressing nice. Eeks!

Apart from the 6 months I worked in a salon, all the way back in 2005, my work attire has been bathing suits, and workout clothes. I had to dress up for monthly meetings when I was the Aquatics Coordinator back in Germany, but, not only was that nearly a decade ago, I was also pregnant for more than half of it.

Add to that the whole “Mom” thing. Every time I attempt to shop for myself, I either go crazy buying clothes for my kids, or I stumble into the fitness section and end up with running shorts and workout pants. Sometimes tops. Later I think, “crud! I was there to buy one pair of jeans! How did I end up with 10 neon tank tops!?”

I didn’t even let myself look at the fitness section. No! Booty shorts are not interview appropriate. Are they? Maybe if I was 21 and a size 2. But probably not ever. I don’t know anything about anything.

Have I ever mentioned that I’m a sweaty girl? If I just think about warm weather, I start sweating! Nothing says Professional Lady like boob sweat! That adds extra thought to any outfits. Ooh, pink! Just kidding. Better stick with darker colors. Can I please just wear running pants and a t-shirt?!

Justin was helpful: “What?! No! Sammi, that is not business casual!” Our kids were bored: “Mom? Can we buy something? Anything?!” Xander was full of compliments, as usual, and Shea gave all kinds of style advice, to include choosing this shirt:Nothing says “real, live grownup, who wants a big girl job,” like a t-shirt that reads, “Oh Please.” She gets it.

Outfits have been bought, adult status has hopefully been achieved. Honestly, for me, that was the hardest part of the interview process. I’m an introvert who loves to perform (that has to be an oxymoron), and that’s really all an interview is. Look at that, my performance major is actually relevant in life!

Can I Get A Do-Over??

It’s been a weird day. The even weirder thing about today, is that last Tuesday was also weird. I better start with last Tuesday–you’ll thank me later.

It was a typical day in the life of me. Typical for what my life has been this last 6 weeks: Crazy, work-filled, out of the house the entire time my kids are at school, and then home to play catch-up all evening. Shea had just informed me that our cat, Jessie, had puked in the laundry room, and was trying to cover it up with dirty socks. Obviously. What do you do when you throw up on the laundry room floor?

Ah, the adventures I have. Don’t be jealous. No really, I know it’s hard not to envy this insanity.

Off I go, to clean up regurgitated cat food, because morbidly obese Jessie likes to binge and purge. I was having a serious, one-sided discussion, with her about her need to eat too fast, and then cry about not having food. No, I will not feed you again. Eat slower, and this won’t be an issue.

And then, BAM!!! Or splat. It was super loud, whatever it was. I stood up and started asking, “what was…” There was no point continuing. Goodness, gracious, great explosion of laundry detergent.

This is what happens when a 210oz container of laundry detergent tries to murder you.

Well, that just happened.

I wiped it up with towels, washed the towels, and then our floor drain said, “too much soap,” and started spitting gross drain water all over the floor.

As a Buddhist, I should be willing to accept that these are all signs that I need a karmic boost.

This might have even been the same night that, in an attempt to figure out why we had a world of ants walking two-by-two across the floor, I located a cinnamon-and-sugar bagel Xander had “misplaced.” In his defense, I believe our puppy, Emma, knocked the bagel off the arm of the couch, which is located right up against the back of the computer desk. Xander thinks, lost and gone forever; ants think, THIS IS AMAZING!!!

I also got reprimanded for serving pasta and meat sauce on Taco Tuesday. I am not winning any Mother of the Year awards in this house. Of course, in all of my extra work hours, I have once again forgotten about the ever-important Taco Tuesday. I was reminded by Xander, on the walk home from the bus. He’s probably going to ask to trade me in for a better model–the version who remembers Taco Tuesday.

Fast forward to today. Honestly, when 23 May rolls around, if you can’t find me, I’m hiding. I’ll see you on the 24th, mmkay?

Eligible, and ineligible, all at once.

The day started moderately well. I forgot to ask my doctor to for a new prescription for birth control, but other than that, it was just another day. Until I read my email, and found out that I am not eligible for the Assistant Aquatics Manager position. Yes, I applied. And yes, I am not “qualified” for a job I have actually had. You might as well tell me I’m not qualified to breathe–wait. Maybe I’m not.

Let the record show that it doesn’t bother me.

Just kidding, it’s crushing.

Fast forward, fast forward, fast forward. Home from work, hanging out, trying to figure out what smells like…shit?

Well now, that would be the shit that Emma is playing with. Human shit, no less.

Knowing I will probably regret my actions, I walk toward the bathroom. Wouldn’t you know that one of my children, at some point in the day, took a giant poo, left the toilet open, and didn’t flush. If you were ever contemplating motherhood, let me tell you, it’s a glorious life. A gloriously shit-filled, stinky, dirty life.

Emma reached her poopie face into the toilet, grabbed a turd, and then played with it from there, to here. 30-so feet of poo smear. My gosh, I’m a lucky lady.

Also, the dish-washing fairy did not visit while I was at work. Crap.

Literal crap. Here, there, and everywhere. See why I stared with last Tuesday?! It was much more sanitary.

I’m a Mess

No really, I’m a total mess. Disorganized. Disheveled. Mainly, I’m too busy trying to remember to do everything, so when I jump from one task to the next, I end up lost. In my mess.

I’m currently sitting in the waiting room at the health clinic, because I like to wait until the very VERY last minute to do everything. Last night I took my very last anti-depressant. I ran out of birth control probably 6 months ago. And MY HIP.

Of course, then as I’m filling out the required nonsense (how hopeless do YOU feel today), this gem catches my eye:

Yeah, that’s not going to work for me. I manage to convince myself to come to the doctor once in a milennia.

But of course, I set my bag down and realize the pink canvas messanger bag I carry my life around in is covered in coffee stains.  Obviously. Because I spill coffee on a daily basis (I’m not kidding. I’ve even managed to spill coffee into a pair of boots, while wearing them). But of course stains on stuff are just gross, and even worse is that on pink, coffee stains come across more like blood stains! It looks like a murder occurred in close proximity to my bag! And I am carrying this around on my person!!! 

I can only picture what people think when they see me out in the world, with my murder bag. I know what I would be thinking, if I saw someone who wasn’t me. Gross!

This is me, unable to adult. Once again. I have no shame.

Lies. I have so much shame. Well, a little shame. I can hear Justin: “why are you gross!?” I can’t help it. I have a limited number of things I can remember to do on a daily basis, and Not Be Gross isn’t on the list. Although, really–it should be.

And of course when all is said and done, I still managed to forget to bring up my lack of birth control. So, I guess I stuck to their 2 Issue Limit.

Yeah. That’s right. You wish you were carrying around the coffee stained murder bag. Don’t be jealous. Not everyone can pull off the homeless look.

Who Taught You Manners!?

It’s been a crazy few weeks, especially at work. I haven’t been able to work out my typical 5-7 days a week. Instead, it’s been more like once or twice a week, if I’m lucky. And by lucky, I mean, if Justin is around on weekends to watch the kids so I can go for a super slow run. I am so, so slow.

I also have to add that nothing about me has changed. I haven’t gained 100lbs, or something weird like that. If anything, I’ve probably  lost a little weight, simply from an increase in stress, and a decrease in time to eat (well, ok. I did have ice cream for lunch one day last week. Don’t judge me).

Yesterday, while running up and down stairs to the office I currently occupy, I was called over to the side of the pool by a woman who comes in and does water aerobics nearly every day. I thought for sure she was going to make a comment about me only teaching once this past week. Boy, was I mistaken:

“Sam! Are your pants too small?”

Um…I’m slightly confused, but don’t worry, it’s about to get so much better.

“I’ve never seen you with a belly!”

I pull the waist of my workout pants up, tucking my gut, and the extra skin riddled with stretch marks, back into the confines of the spandex (for the record, it was well hidden under my shirt). “Oh, I’ve always had a belly. I just hide it well.”

“Well, I’ve never noticed you having a belly before! You came down the stairs, and I thought, ‘oh my gosh, is she pregnant?!'”

Excuse me, what?! “Oh, no no no. No more babies for me. I’m done having babies.” I smile and walk away, sucking in my gut the entire way back up the stairs.

Did that just happen?!

When I told a co-worker about what was just said, he nearly spit his drink out as he burst out laughing. “It’s not funny,” he responded, “but, I mean, it kind of is.”

This woman is notorious for being nasty to the lifeguards. In fact, there are quite a few senior women who feel as though they are allowed to be disrespectful, simply because the lifeguards are young. Normally, I am not the one on the receiving end of their nasty attacks–obviously because I’m old. Or at least much older than the average lifeguard. I am constantly telling the kids working, “they would be horrified if any of you spoke to them they way they speak to you.”

Has no one taught them manners?! Or have they decided that they’re too cool–or perhaps too old–for manners. These women complain frequently about disrespectful millennials. Yet, they can saunter over to me with a grouchy face and say, “excuse me? Whose music is this?? Do you realize we are old?? Can’t you put it on Golden Oldies, or something like that?!” My response was, “of course I can!” But as I walk away to put something else on, I think, “‘C’mon N’ Ride It (The Train)’ is over 20 years old. It’s older than most of the lifeguards!” Who in the world walks into an exercise class and immediately complains about the music!?

Perhaps these women have just been catered too for entirely too long. Or they have too much time on their hands. Or NO ONE EVER TAUGHT THEM MANNERS!

I suggest we spend a week speaking to them the way they speak to us. The complaints we would receive wouldn’t be worth it. But where can we send our complaints about nasty patrons??

The girl guarding during my interaction with little miss “are you pregnant,” later said to me, “What the fuck was that about!? You handled that so well, cuz I probably would’ve kicked her in the face!” Dang, why didn’t I think to kick her!? Her face was perfectly located at foot level. But, alas. My momma taught me manners. She also taught me to kill them with kindness.

So, it’s fine. It’s whatever. I’ll keep my “I carried 2 babies” belly safely hidden behind the confines of some good quality spandex. And I’ll keep smiling and saying, “good morning,” while I think, “what a bratty old hag.”


This evening, Shea was in a little school concert. It was pretty cute, and she got to be an adorable Box Fish.

After the performance, Xander and I made our way through the millions of parents (more like 30-50, but I’m not one for crowds, so you have to increase the actual amount, for dramatic effect), to Shea’s classroom. Shea’s teacher was standing in the doorway, looking happy, hand up, and……

I went for it! HIGH FIVE!!! Except that about half a second before contact I realized the invitation was for Xander. Too late to back out, I mumbled, “oops,” and gave the weakest half slap.


Immediately I became super awkward. Not knowing what to do, I scooped up Shea, said goodnight, and turned to leave.

I could hear Justin (from California) say, “why are you so awkward!?”

As we made our way to the car, I started giggling. And texting my sisters. Instantly, the playback in my head became more exaggerated, as I pictured myself running full speed at the man, jumping in front of Xander, and high-fiving him midair.

None of which happened, of course. But it might as well have. Because, oh my goodness.

Based on the look on his face, this was obviously a first. What in the world. It’s a good thing the school year is almost over, because I don’t think I will ever be able to make eye contact with that man again.

Most awkward mom ever!