Fear and Parenting in Las Vegas

I'm leaving on a jet plane. Hello, SWA? I'll take my flight with wireless please.

The last week’s been nothing short of crazy and I’m about to hit a big month of travel — 15 days on the road in September.

Check out my mouth watering reviews of two of my new favorite snack foods: PopChips and Fling chocolate candy.

Speaking of eating, there’s also a book review of Eat, Pray, Love.

You can also see who won the big Blackberry Tour/BlackBerry Diaries giveaway.

Also, you can get the skinny on the Danish block bonanza that is Legoland with a dash of Vegas flair.

I’ll be back soon with a recap on my visit with Kathy Buckworth at the Blackberry Diaries event. I gotta go pack and print a boarding pass.

This year was THE year.

No more “baby” P.E. uniforms. My five-year-old daughter, better known as Boo, is a kindergartener now. Put away the P.E. uniform she had to wear every day as a Pre-K’er. She FINALLY gets to wear the “big kids” uniform at Ye Olde Catholic School (YOCS). And that, for my girly-girl meant that she could wear skirts and dresses again.

Now, don’t ask me where her affinity for skirts and dresses comes from. She runs and plays like she’s trying out for the U.S. Women’s soccer team (a mom can dream, right?). A princess she is, but not a dainty one by any stretch. You can talk her into shorts if a reasonable explanation is given (e.g., “You’re going to a bounce house party and the sight of your princess underwear is not on the [birthday child name]‘s wish list.) But otherwise the girl will insist on a skirt or dress every day of her life.

So when midsummer rolled around, I checked the school’s website for the uniform rules and regs. Since this is Vegas, we start our school year in summer uniform mode.

Ruh roh.

Boo’s not gonna like this. No skirt or dress or jumper for that matter until October. Inflate lead balloon, please.

I broke the news to her gently. I did what every good mother would do. I laid the blame squarely on the shoulders of the uniform nazis at YOCS.

She sulked.

She pouted.

She begrudgingly let her grandma and me measure her for the four pairs of shorts, four polo shirts, and navy belt that would start her off on her Kindergarten journey.

I promised that she could wear the regulation winter uniform jumper dress the first day she was allowed to.
And I placed the order.

Two weeks and $200 later, four pairs of navy shorts and the navy belt arrived. I opened a package to check out the twill-y goodness. The tag caught my eye. “Boys size 6″.

What? Huh? Did I order wrong? I checked the packing slip.

“4 – Navy Twill Girls size 6″

Okay. Clearly an error on their part. I’m sure the plaid is flying in that warehouse this time of year. I called and the nice young lady (I think she was all of 14) apologized for the error and promised to rectify the situation once I returned the erroneous shorts. No charge on shipping either way.

Cool. We’re three weeks out from the start of school. We’ve got plenty of time, right?

One week later, four polo shirts arrived. Two blue, two maroon. Check. Have the girl try them on.

Holy heck! These things were sized for my two-year-old son, not my five-year-old daughter. I pull up the size chart on their website. Yep. Measured twice, ordered once. My numbers were right and their sizes were weird.

This time I don’t bother calling. I just pack them up and mark up the exchange form with “FREE SHIPPING” (per the 14-year old’s previous instructions) and pack them off with priority shipping the next day.

Two weeks out from the start of school. All I have is a navy belt. I’m starting to sweat. (Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I live in Las Vegas and it’s like two degrees cooler than Hell.)

I called her dad and explained. I suspected uniform people are going to be at registration, so if they were, could he be so kind as to get a pair of shorts and a polo shirt so the girl don’t have to start Kindergarten buck naked (how’s THAT for a dress code violation?). He agreed that nakedness is not the way to make a good impression at his alma mater and will help.

One week out from the start of school. Polo shirts arrived. They are the right size. They are the right color.

Hoo-Freaking-Ray! We at least have her bewbs covered. I call the uniform company and ask for the status of the shorts, since they were sent back first. Oops! They processed the exchange as a return! So sorry. We’ll get them out right away from their Vegas store.

SREEETTTCH! WHAT? VEGAS STORE? WHY AM I DEALING WITH YOU TWITS IN PORTLAND WHEN YOU HAVE A BATCH OF GOONS HERE IN SIN CITY?!?!

Breathe. In. Out. I talk myself off the ceiling. “Calm down. We’re talking shorts here, Nancy. Not gay marriage. It will be okay.”

The Portland-based customer service dude says that if they ship today (Tuesday), they should be here by Friday. School starts Monday. Besides, her dad was able to procure shorts and shirt as requested, so we’re covered for the first day and, since it’s a uniform, no one’s gonna notice that I sent her to school in the same navy shorts two days in a row, right? We’ll be fine.

Heart attack averted. Blood pressure back to normal.

I wait. Friday. No shorts. Saturday. No shorts. Monday. No shorts.

I am back to livid. I call Portland again. They call Vegas.

Uniform guy: Oh, those didn’t ship until Friday.
Me: But, when I talked to you on Tuesday, you said they’d arrive by Friday.
Uniform guy: I’m sorry, we’ve been very busy – start of school and all.
Me: Yes. I am sure you are. That’s why I put my order in A MONTH AGO!!!
Uniform guy: Well, they should be there by Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest.
Me: And what if they’re not?
Uniform guy: Uncomfortable silence.
Me: We’ll I guess we’ll burn that bridge when we get there. Grrr.

So, she made it through her first day of school. It was bright and beautiful. Since she went to pre-K there last year, the first-day anxiety mainly focused around how fast she could find her best friend. Her grandma picked her up for an afternoon of swimming. Life is good.

Until…

Boo: Mommy? Why does Kelly get to wear a skirt?!?!? I want to wear a skirt?!?!?
Me: Wha? Huh? I read the rules, Boo and the rules say the summer uniform is shorts. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s going on.
Boo: I want to wear a skirt! IT’S NOT FAIR!
Me: Hold on. I’ll check with your teacher and the school. We’ll figure it out.
Boo: I HATE SHORTS!

Sigh. I love my girly girl, but I could sure trade her in for a tomboy right about then.

Monday night. No shorts.

Tuesday. Grandma calls. The shorts have arrived!!! Hallelujah and pass the Bordeaux! Wednesday is P.E. day, so her old Pre-K stuff is fine. I can stop by tomorrow and get the package from Grandma Wednesday night.
Wednesday morning.

Boo: You’re gonna get me skirts like Kelly’s, right mom?!?
Me: I’ve gotta check the rules, Boo. We’ll see.
Boo: I HATE SHORTS!

I check online. Uniform policy says shorts, but uniform company has skorts (a skirt/short combo invented so little girls aren’t showing their goodies to naughty private school boys) listed and they are kosher for Kindergarteners.
Awww crap. Will this EVER end?

Apparently not. I am now on my way to pick up the last three size-6 skorts for YOCS in the Las Vegas Valley. She will have three skorts and two pairs of shorts. I have a feeling that:

a) Boo will never fully appreciate what I went through to get her properly attired this year.
b) The shorts will never be worn again.
c) I have inadvertently taught my daughter that pitching a huge fit will get her what she wants.
d) No matter how much I plan and try to stay ahead of the curve, stuff like this will happen.
e) My picture has been made into a dartboard hanging in a Portland warehouse.
f) My uniform orders will be f’ed up for the next 16 years (that’s when my now two-year old graduates from high school).

Now, where’s that Bordeaux?

____________________________

Come out and see me read this live on Sat., Aug. 29, 2009 at the Galleria in Henderson. I’ll be there with self-professed Brickbreaker addict, Kathy Buckworth, who’s in town promoting her book, The Blackberry Diaries. We’ll be there from 1-3 p.m.

Remember, you have until noon today (Fri., Aug. 28) to enter to win a copy of Kathy’s book or a brand-new Blackberry Tour (a $500 value). Entering is easy and your odds are way better than they should be, especially for Vegas, baby.

You’ve been through a lot this year. Health issues, a down economy, speculation about the health of your company, rumors about a shortage of black t-shirts in Cupertino. This is the last thing you need. And there’s no good way to say this, so I’m just going to get it out and be done with it. I hope you can forgive me.

I cheated.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. He just showed up on my door and I was seduced.

Big, beautiful, black, and boxy. The sight and smell as I unwrapped him made my pulse race with excitement. I think I squealed a little.

I ran my fingers over every ridge and valley, languishing over his beauty. He let me push his buttons and he came alive. Came alive with joy, I tell you.

So, for the last few weeks, I’ve been playing around with him, taking him around town, showing him to my friends. I’ve even been pimping his twin on my review blog. He’s looking for someone to love as well.

But don’t we all?

His parents put me up to it. They wanted me to take him out, play with him and tell everyone how great he is. Personally, I see no “failure to launch” issues here. He’s as sexy as Matthew McConaughey and has some very marketable assets, if you know what I mean. If you can’t, just look and see.

I know. I’m shameless. Brazen hussy.

I should be punished.

And I think I have been. I got a big piece of karma pie for breakfast this morning.

Mmmmm. Karma pie.

After loading my kids into the car, I learned my purse was the wrong place to carry my two-year-old son’s sippy cup. Day-old milk does not do a leather handbag good. Gross.

If that wasn’t bad enough, discovering that said sippy cup was the leaky one turned gross into disgusting. My red leather purse had become a yogurt factory.

Then it hit me.

My iPhone. My beautiful, fabulous pink-shell-covered iPhone. She’s less than four months old. “My baby!!” I screamed. My five year old looked around, terrified that her baby brother had somehow wiggled from his seat, opened the car door, and run into traffic.

I tried to stay calm as I frantically dumped the contents of the yogurt factory out onto the front seat of my car, desperately trying to muffle the involuntary battery of curse words that were trickling from my lips.

I found her, said a few Hail Marys and gently pried open her protective pink shell. Her naked body was exposed for the first time since I took her from her meticulously engineered package. I pushed her “belly button”, hope to see the Tweetdeck screen that connects me to the world outside my small life.

I beg and plead.

She lights up, the home screen picture of my son picking his nose bursts on the screen. I give a tentative sigh of relief, but I don’t have time to take her through her paces fully. We’re already insanely late.

Then I realize I have yet to locate my new lover.

Scanning the car, I see him on the floor. Sigh. He was taking a nap and recharging his batteries. Whew! His parents would kill me. The fear of their wrath is only second to my fear of yours, my dear Steve.

So she works. I think. Right now she’s sitting in a pouch at the security desk at my office. Hopefully drying any circuitry that has been touched by lactose-riddled fluids.

I’m a little afraid to go to lunch. I’m afraid she won’t work. I don’t know if “idiot moms with leaky sippy cups” is covered under my AppleCare warranty. I’m hoping this confession doesn’t doom me.

So, dear Steve, I have learned my lesson. I will swear on a stack of black turtlenecks and promise to have a rainbow apple tattooed on my netherregions if, when I walk out of my office, she works. If she doesn’t work, I will be throwing myself on your mercy. You’re a kind and forgiving man, I can see it in your eyes.

So, please turn a blind eye to my transgression. It was all in the name of research. I bleed Bondi Blue.

Pleadingly yours,

Nancy

P.S. If you turn me down, I will be forced to keep the Blackberry Tour as my own, which as you can tell from my preceding description, would break my heart. I may have to leave you for a group of fellow Apple traitors – U2. Hmmm. I wonder who has the best Brickbreaker score?

If you liked this post, come out and see me read it live on Sat., Aug. 29, 2009 at the Galleria in Henderson. I’ll be there with self-professed Brickbreaker addict, Kathy Buckworth, who’s in town promoting her book, The Blackberry Diaries. We’ll be there from 1-3 p.m. You can enter to win a copy of Kathy’s book or a brand-new Blackberry Tour (a $500 value). Entering is easy, you’d be crazy to pass it up, well, unless you’re doing penance to the Apple god like me.