Friday, August 18, 2017

Sticks and Stones

I've always had a thing for popping pimples and extracting blackheads. Sometimes I watch videos of strangers get decades-worth of godknowswhat slowly pried out of their pores online and it really gets me going. If I ever get so lucky to suffer a splinter wound and am consequently blessed with the opportunity to cleanly slide that shard of wood from my skin, I'm too euphoric to speak. It's a similar feeling, I'd imagine, as winning a lottery that had been building up for weeks and being the sole jackpot recipient. Or I'd bet it feels a lot like walking into the kitchen and finding all the dishes had been extracted from the sink, leaving a pristine hole where there was once a blockage of plates and macaroni-crusted utensils. I don't know what that feels like to come upon a gift such as that, but I'd bet the relief is unmatched. For now, I'll pin down my screaming, writhing daughter if I find any sort of semblance of a clogged pore upon her sweet lil cheek or patiently await for that frantic, "MOM!!!!!!! Splinter!!!!!!" and gladly take off running towards my next fix. 

But we'll get back to that. School started Monday and I just didn't feel it. Maybe it was because we are coming off a year-round school schedule and were only leaving behind three weeks of a summer break, but I really felt not much of anything. No tears, no outstretched, longing hand desperately reaching towards my precious babies as they bravely march out of my sight and into the care of not-me's. It was weird. Usually the sight of them wobbling towards the school's gate struggling to keep their little bodies upright as the new year's school supplies lend to a body composition made up of 90% backpack makes me lose it. It's so cute and sweet and sad and tragic and adorable and heart breaking/warming. But yeah, nope. Not this year. It sorta felt like any other school day. 

And maybe it's because of the we-were-just-here feeling due to the summer unbreak but also maybe it's because Landon has been so damn difficult. Maybe its because my first grader has spent the last few weeks treating me like a whisk treats an egg when it's time for breakfast. He's been mean, irritable, impatient, so fucking inconveniently and constantly hungry for everything other than vegetables. He screeeeams at me, mocks me when I try to discipline him, and says words he shouldn't use. He's going through a phase. I refuse to believe that the precious angel-baby that use to tell me he woke up each  morning simply because "he missed me too much" isn't hiding underneath the terror of a child that's living in my home right now. I know he'll get through this- but it does make my breaks from him seem a bit less like losing a limb and more like gaining some sanity. 

It came shrieking from the other room yesterday, "MOM!!!!!!!! SPLINTER!!!!!!!!" and I uttered a "fuck yeah." under my breath and took off running to find the recipient. There he was, on top of our rustic wooden coffee table, upon which he  wasn't supposed to be, clutching his rear end. "My butt!!!," Landon cries, "Mom!!! There's a huge splinter in my butt!!!" 

So I snatch him up and lie him down on his stomach in the front room on top of a half wall room divider where I would have the most light. I feel like a world class surgeon, prepping my most important patient yet. This is the moment the medical world has been waiting for. I'm going to perform the surgery ofa goddamn lifetime and people are gonna talk about it. This will be the epitome of my foreign-object removing career.

I pull his gym shorts halfway down his backside and there it is. Right in the center of his right butt cheek. About a half centimeter of wood formerly attached to my coffee table delightfully peering out, giving me the perfect micro-handle to make this my most successful removal yet. After a moment of consideration, I decide to use my most effective and trustworthy tool, the pointer finger and thumb of my unwashed right hand. This is it. I'm going in. I pinch my fingers around the top of the splinter and pull. Lan absolutely loses his shit and starts to panic so I call in my highly trained assistant to hold him down. Troy pins him by his shoulders and I go for it again. I tug at the splinter. Nothing. Another yank. Nothing. Landon is freaking out so I give it one last massive pull and out it finally came. 

Now listen carefully. I've been known to exaggerate. I embellish stories when recounting them to friends sometimes. I'm aware of this. But when I tell you this splinter was four fucking inches long, I'm telling the truth. And to someone like me- to someone with this absolutely maniacal relationship with splinter pulling- gets to relieve someone  of a four inch wooden invader- the experience is indescribable. I felt like King Arthur releasing Excalibur from the stone. I'm almost positive I heard crowds of village people cheering. I'm certain the splinter made a "SCHHHING!" sound as it slid out of his tushy. I'm not convinced I didn't immediately stomp one foot upon poor Landon's back as I reached my arm toward the sky and presented the splinter to the gods to remind of them my unearthly power and to thank them for choosing me. 

Anyway. My only regret is that I didn't keep the stick sword and make a necklace out of it. It most likely had some sort of magical powers. And I can use all the help I can get lately. 

And, as far as Landon goes. I guess I will just continue to stay patient and wait for things to get easier. But at least it's pretty apparent now. He definitely has a stick up his butt. 


Wednesday, August 9, 2017

What rhymes with "frog"? Blog!

Hi. I just read that there's a type of frog in South America called the Horned Marsupial Frog. In this species, the mom froggy carries her young not only on top of her, but her babies actually live underneath the top layer of her back and she is apparently expected to live her life like this until the tadpoles grow up and move on.

 And that's pretty much what the last week before school starts feels like. I can think of no better visual than this, honestly. After the last couple weeks of being breathed on incessantly, and so creepily stared at by my newly over-curious eight-year-old daughter while I shower (she may as well be peering through my window from a tree through a pair of binoculars) , and spending a combined thirty-seven hours marinating in kid car-farts, I feel a bit like my beloved children are actually nestled under the third or fourth layer of my epidermis. Wherever I go, they're there. Whatever water I drink, they can't live another second without putting their mouths on. If string cheese is being eaten, they're chewing it one centimeter from my ear. They're both actually staring at me right now as I type this, I mean it.

We had a whirlwind of a day- as I was getting ready to take my all-natural Xanax (yoga class) I get a text from my insanely cranky husband that someone is coming to look at the house. He's been especially difficult this week. Like a mixture of Veruca Salt and the other impatient one that turns into a giant blueberry … but also actually mostly the sassy little guy that watches too much TV. Oh and, yes, our house is on the market, I'll explain later.

Well. Wait. Lemme rewind. As I was getting ready to take my liquid Xanax (coffee) first thing in the morning, Landon walked downstairs, hair disheveled, with the most genuine, adorable smile on his face. He looked so sweet. Like a sleepy little angel boy. I thought he was preparing to tell me he dreamt about how pretty I was all night long and couldn't wait one more second to see my beautiful face. But, nope, he just rubbed his fist into his eye as he morning voiced, "mom, I peed the bed." To which I responded, "...then why the hell do you look so happy about it?!" And he genuinely didn't know. The emotion was so eerily mismatched to the situation, honestly I think he might be a sociopath, idk. Anyway, that's when I got the text about showing the house. And that's when my apparent Spidey sense kicked in and I could then clearly see every speck of dust as it wafted by. Needless to say fifteen minutes later I was sweating and laundering and scrubbing a fucking mattress and shoving piles of new school supplies into closets.

So I had to miss my class. Then it was time to disappear with the kids as soon as everything was tidied because Landon is a rapper in a music video and his Legos are hundred dollar bills, and he loves to constantly make it rain. So off we went to a play gym that they'd been begging to go to for months. Rest assured, it's the absolute worst… but I had to prep my classes for the night so I obliged. We arrive, pay too much, and within five minutes Avery gets hurt. I'm coddling and doing the mom thing. Then another five minutes go by and Landon gets a fat, bloody lip because HE KNEED HIMSELF IN THE FACE. More mom things. He appears twelve more times to drink water/stare into my soul, and another few minutes later Avery comes and plops down next to me and tells me she's "bored" to which I respond she'd better march right back into that colorful wall-padded booger asylum before I make her sleep outside for a week. She stormed off and, get this, promptly went down the slide with theeee most aggressive frown I've ever seen. Have you ever seen someone frown while going down a slide? Lemme tell ya, it's the most ridiculous thing you've ever seen. She even had her arms crossed. What a fool.

Anyway, all they really want to do is zip me open and wear me as their own personal mom suit. I mean, I guess it's endearing, but good lawd sometimes I need space to think about how I'm going to articulate to a room full of adults that they can't depend on anyone for happiness, fulfillment, or to bring their dirty plates to the sink for them, ya know?  

After a few hours of dealing with all-a-dat I got the okay to return home. By the time we get back, I have approximately negative thirteen seconds to rest before leaving to teach back-to-back yoga classes, but I'm frankly looking forward to the seven minute quiet drive to the gym. And on my way out, I walk past the kids who are sitting quietly. I'm a bit jarred to see them sitting on the floor looking so peaceful, so I am compelled to ask, "What are you guys doing?," and my angelface daughter says, "Oh, we were playing 'family'. But now we're taking a break... Sometimes we just need breaks when we play 'family'."

Oh, honey. Yes. Sometimes we do. Sometimes we really, really do.

In conclusion, to all the weighed down South American frog-moms out there in the rainforest or whatever- hang in there. Your kids aren't the only ones getting under your skin. And to all the North American soccer moms waiting patiently for school to begin, there's always Summer Break Xanax (actual Xanax).

Monday, August 7, 2017

oh. hey.

It's been some time since my last post, but don't worry! I've continued to excel in being a painfully stereotypical suburban mom. So much so, in fact, that my stereotypicalities seem to be on steroids (stereo-oids?) -that's right, not only do I still have a thriving collection of yoga pants as obvi expected, now I FUCKING TEACH IT. 

Yes, me, the one who lies about her age, drinks enough wine to offend a Lannister, and occasionally tells her precious children "YOU'RE SUFFOCATING MEEEE" is now coming up on her one year anniversary of quoting the god damn Buddha to a room full of entirely mentally capable adults. It should be illegal.

But I love it. Holy shit, spending eight (plus) years of having an identity solely linked to tiny narcissistic diaper-fillers is often maddening. And before I lose some of you, let it be known that I am grateful to have been a stay at home mom for as long as I have. I get it, I really do- while my husband was onslaught with endlessly frustrating work calls, I got to go braless most of the day. Granted, he did too- but you get the point. I got to experience every first word, step, and milestone and to imply that that's been anything other than magical would be a lie, I mean it. But! There's a lot of time that passes between all the Hallmark moments too. And its not always some dramatic bodily function-themed catastrophe that interrupts the stardust and rainbows. Sometimes it’s just straight up mundane and lonely. Sometimes it felt like my creativity and personality were bit by bit being folded up into the laundry or being obliterated into the garbage disposal alongside untouched dinners. So, now, to be able to balance all of that with something challenging and wonderfully terrifying has made me a better mother and I certainly don't feel so smothered. Not to mention the practice of yoga itself is basically ancient natural Xanax so… that. Oh and I actually have an arsenal of real live adult friends too. It's the best.

In other news, my kids have since lengthened in limb and sass alike and are currently producing more laugh-with-you than laugh-at-you moments which causes me so much joy it borders upon making me violent. My daughter especially. I just have no idea where she got such a charmingly self-deprecating sense of humor. There's literally no one I know that is immediately related to her who is a female and who's name starts with an 'S' and ends with an "ofia" that she reminds me of. I'll be forever stumped.

 Aaaanyway, I've apparently been convinced to start blogging again so stay tuned! Bye!

Monday, June 1, 2015


Children are challenging little fuckers. This is true. However, anyone who owns more than one kid (yes, I OWN them) will tell you, there is always one child who stands out as the most difficult of the two or three or however many there are- ask the Duggars, they'd agree that, yes, one of the pack stands out as more of a problem than the rest. Too soon?

Anyway, Avery was always the impossible one. I had just banked on her explosive sensitivity to seal her fate as the hardest.  Not to mention the kid didn't sleep till she was five. She was exhausting on so many levels. Adorable, sure- lovable, absolutely- but at times she would frustrate me so far into oblivion that my right eye would twitch for hours. I always felt as though I was one meltdown away from my head shooting off my body and into outer space where it would eventually find a new planet to orbit for eternity. 

Landon, on the other hand, only partook in two activities until he was three. He just smiled and napped.  He was like a personified hug for thirty-six months; warm, cuddly, and squishy forever.

Or so I thought.

One day, at right about the time she started Kindergarten, my daughter and all her tantrums and insomnia folded into a cocoon, and when she emerged, all of that buzzing tension bloomed into insane brilliance and sweetness and helpfulness. Like, I can't even explain. She definitely has her emotional moments- I mean she IS my daughter and maybe she recently cried at dinner out with my in-laws because her lettuce wraps weren't properly sauced in a timely manner, but other than that, she's more of a personal assistant than a six-year-old. It's not uncommon for her to have my coffee ready for me in the morning. She's like four months away from me legitimately hiring her to babysit Landon. She fetches my phone charger when I leave it upstairs and couldn't pahhhhsibly get it myself. She gives her little brother impromptu math lessons. She eats like a yoga instructor. She's thoughtful and loving and pretty much perfectly behaved. It's an unreal turn of events and I'm thrilled about it. 

And just when I thought that ever-present feeling of being thisclose to jumping off a cliff was gone, Landon decided to go through his Terrible Twos. At four-years-old. He name-calls. He looks me in the eyes while he touches the thing I just told him not to touch. He hits. He whines and screams and won't eat his vegetables. It's, somehow, more frustrating than my first go-round with Avery because I was so blind-sighted.

He also gets super frustrated with me now. He will ask me the most ridiculous questions that can't be answered by an adult with a human brain then be pissed when I can't come up with a satisfying response. He asks things like, "How many things is in the whole world?," and when I try to explain that there's no concrete, solid number to his not-even-real question he gets annoyed and tries to rephrase and shout-whines, "No. Mommy. Tell me HOW MANY STUFF IS IN THE WHOLE WORLD. HOW. MANY. STUFFS. JUST TELL ME!!"

And to this, what I want to say is, "Landon. You are projecting your insecurities about not knowing all the things adults do onto me and it is causing you to become aggravated." But- he's four, so I just say, "Ok, seventy stuffs," and we move on with our lives.

But he will get over it. I'm confident it's just a phase. He's still struggling to communicate and his little mind is on overload.  I get it.  His innate sweetness peeks through every so often and I'm reminded of his unworldly adorableness.  He asked me yesterday, "Mommy?  What are you doing? Do you want to lay down with me and hear my heartbeep?" and then my brain and insides explode and I die everywhere. 

That said, that edgy keep-the-kitchen-knives-away-from-Mommy feeling is still quite active. 

The kids and I were killing time before having to go to one of Avery's schoolmate's birthday parties yesterday, and due to having to skip Landon's nap to make it to the party on time, he was tired and bored and doing absolutely whatever he could to be destructive and make his misery known. He was picking fights with the Christ child and coloring on the table and knocking over the bag that contained the birthday present repeatedly. I was so overcome with frustration and so close to running away, that I had to clench my fists and look up at the ceiling to keep from crying. I faked a call to Grandma. To the police. To Santa. It was constant and there was no reasoning with him.

Meanwhile, Avery is putting the finishing touches on her darling home-made birthday card (show-off) and folds it up and seals it's envelope. She hands it to me, and I thoughtfully place it in the gift bag so that the top of the card is peeking out so all the parents at the party can see how cute my kid's card is. I walk away, and Landon jumps on his opportunity to be a dick, and shoves the envelope far, far into the bag to destroy the aesthetics of the gift.

And at this, Reverend Avery, who is always down for an opportunity to tattle, says, -wait for it-...

"Moommmmm. Landon's pushing the envelope! I mean it! MOMMY! HE'S REALLY REALLY PUSHING THE ENVELOPE!!!!"

And to that wonderfully unintentional pun, I said, "Yes, honey, he certainly is."

Monday, May 18, 2015


One doesn't ever really acknowledge the warp speed of passing time until he or she becomes a parent.

It's the truth.

For whatever reason, with each child I pop out, the quicker the months elapse. And my increasing age compounds it too. It's like theeee most fucked up life equation ever. I've worked it out to 
1 day + 1 kid (x2) + I'm almost 30 = actually 5 days because how is it Monday wasn't it just Monday two days ago. 

How do I slow it down?  Going on a diet usually helps. That'll drag out your week. Or, I've discovered, when I try to abstain from drinking- that's a really good way to make two nights feel like a year. But for the most part, the months are zipping by like they've been shot from a cannon, leaving only a settling cloud of vague, mashed-together recollections of taco Tuesdays and Kindergarten homework and soccer practices. Where did the time go? The school year is almost over, you say? No way. No WAY. 

In fact, I was sitting outside with my sister-in-law yesterday. She inquired about a relatively large pot with a rather pathetic green sprout of a seemingly wimpy plant peeking above the soil. I was explaining to her that Troy planted a seed from a lemon I had used months ago while making dinner and we were expecting a fruitful lemon harvest in about 734 years by the looks of it. 
But that's not what I said to her. That's what I meant, but not what spilled out of my mouth. What I actually said out loud was, "yeah by the time we get a lemon out of that sad, sad little plant I'll be THIRTY."
Then I stopped.
Took a sip of my margarita.
Took another sip of my margarita.
Took another sip of my margarita for good measure, and realized:

I'm going to be thirty in four weeks. Four WEEKS. My brain, apparently, didn't hop the Delorean and travel to the future like the rest of my body and life and family clearly has and was utterly convinced that by the time I am at the ripe old age of thirty, this struggling, woefully puny excuse for a seedling will have had ample time to die (I mean, we all saw it coming), turn into soil, be ingested by a worm to only then be gulped up by a bird that has enough time to be captured by aliens, withstand a millennia of years of travel through space to their host planet where everything is turned into lemons upon their arrival home. Because, let's be honest, that's the only way that plant is going to produce anything remotely lemon-like. And that's how far away I really, honestly, feel, to embarking upon my third decade of life. 
Sad but true.

But I mean it when I say that it feels like it was just a moment ago that my little Landon was a baby. 

And what a baby he was. The easiest. The smiliest. The quietest. He spent the first three years of his life propped up in a corner of a room with a wholly content shit-eating grin slapped on his face, only breaking squishy character when he would occasionally grunt and extend a chubby finger pointed in the direction of the fridge when he fancied some milk. Other than that, can't really remember him crying. He slept like a bear in hibernation. 
And I was certain he would never speak.

But as luck would have it, he began to dabble in words. He would try one out occasionally. He would say "car," then he would say, "blue car," ...and I just didn't see the signs. If I knew then what I know now, I would have taken precaution. Things got out of control and he became a full blown noise addict. At four and a half years old, he won't shut up. On long car rides, he talks and talks and talks until he runs out of things to say, then he just starts making random sounds as a filler. It makes me feel like a fly has trekked into my ear canal and just lives there and is now buzzing happily ever after.

We were in the car to Avery's dentist appointment today, I had music on to try to drown out the ever-jabbering little boy in the seat behind me when I decided to knowingly put all of our lives in danger by simultaneously driving and writing down the absolute nut-show that is my son.  In one breath, the following: 

"Mommy! Are ghost-es made out of clouds and cotton? Because you KNOW they can go RIGHT through your tummy. And skeletons are made out of ONLY white but everyone already knows that. Maybe when we get home you can draw me a skeleton with a line through it. Or whatevah. This song says the word, 'too' in it but I really think it says, 'toot.' I want it to say that. Mommy mommy mommy mommy... are there more homeless persons than every other persons in the world? How come I never see a pile of dirt in the road then we crash into it and then a bomb hits our car? Wait MOMMY. Can girls be teenagers?"

I feel like somehow Landon's brain has been swapped with Woodstock in '69. I just picture, his cute little face and tousled boy hair, but beneath the skull, where one would presume would be a normal-looking preschooler brain is actually a massive field filled with a sea of leather-fringed hippies dancing around and doing LSD. I mean, that's my theory anyway. I'll keep my eye on him. 

But I'm sitting here falling asleep because, surprise!, this day has gone by in a flash. It feels like just yesterday I updated my blog but it seems that is not the case. Either way and more importantly, I'm off carbs again. I tore my hamstring trying to be supercool in yoga and now have to counter my inability to work out with anorexia. Because... summer. Ugh. 

So quickly bikini season came. So quickly. And I gotta be honest, I'm pulling for that miserable little citrus sprout, because vodka has no carbs and neither does a squeeze of lemon :) 

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

a new floss-ify on life

I cried today.
Happy tears. Real, genuine, uninhibited ugly-cry happy tears.
The fucking pumpkin patches are going up around town. It was the greatest day of my life, I thought, as I drove Landon to his dentist appointment.
My mind began to swirl with thoughts of sweaters and boots and holiday parties and scarves and Santa and Christmas morning in our jammies- even though I was simultaneously sweating my balls off in the car. Yeah, it's still 100 degrees out, no I don't really have balls, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel. There's a reason to live.  I might be so hot my knuckles are perspiring, but we're gonna make it, guys.
Summer in Vegas is kinda like that one mom at your kid's friend's birthday party who makes you have a conversation with her, and you really want to make it stop, and to top it off, she's a close-talker. It's like, hey, this has gone on too long, I'm really uncomfortable, and I actually didn't want to be here in the first place. And in her defense, before you were engaged in conversation with her, she seemed like she might be alright, but after she pinned you down you realized she's just an aggressive soccer mom with hot breath. That's summer in Las Vegas. Go away. No one likes you. You're just too much.
We get to the dentist.
Landon, as usual, is the most disturbingly adorable human being to ever walk the earth. He's sitting in the chair smiling and waving at me and repeatedly telling me I'm "so cute" and he loves me "so much". He's perfectly complying with everything the dental assistant asks of him and my heart is bursting with joy.
"You know what," I think, "I'm such a great mom. Look at my darling child. I did that. I'm awesome."
After the assistant adorably brushes Landon's adorable little teeth, ("that tickles my teeth!" the Squishmonster says) the dentist comes in and shakes my hand. I'm beaming so hard with pride and I'm so excited to hand over my darling son for someone new to fawn over, I feel like tiny hearts might be shooting from my eyeballs like little creepy son-obsessed love lasers. Freaking Lan. This kid. Gets me every time.
So I back away from the Christ-child to let the dentist do his thing. He looks up and inquires about the regularity of Landon's teeth brushing, to which I respond, "yes of cooourrrssse we thoroughly brush twice a day"... because I'm the greatest Mom who ever lived, remember? Look at this kid! He's perfection! I'm like the freaking Oprah of motherhood. I'm the best.
"Well, he has five cavities."
Ok, maybe "Oprah" was a bit exaggerated.
Hold on, it gets worse.
As we are doing the kid-equivalent of the "walk of shame" through the office, while Landon is sorting through his dental goody bag, he picks up the floss, holds it straight up in the air just in case the people in the back couldn't see, and shouts a very concerned,
It's FLOSS, Landon! Ughhhh. The dentist is all but shaking his head with disgust at me. I'm the Wendy Williams of motherhood. I'm the worst. Why does this always happen.
Anyway, his teeth are all getting fixed later this month, for all of you who are on hold with CPS. Put down the phone. AND the floss was in a weird circular container and it wasn't totally a floss-like floss so that's where his confusion stemmed from. Not like we floss every day anyway, but I feel like that needed to be noted.
On the defeated drive home, I started to really feel bad for myself. Why is it, that whenever I obtain a glimmer of confidence in myself am I pummeled with embarrassment? It doesn't seem fair.
Then I see a woman dressed in white jeans and a white top on the side of the road bawling. Her car is totaled. She has just crashed into a city bus. SHE has it rough today, not me.
I've gotta stop declaring an entire day as "bad". It's not fair. Because I know within that particular "bad day," I was woken up in the morning by my kids' kisses. They made me laugh at times. They made me very proud at times. Avery held Landon's hand all the way to the car after school and told him how much she missed him. I made productive decisions. Maybe I made someone laugh or made my own mother proud. And all that for nothing because my insanely darling son has a few magnifying-glass-level holes in his teeth?! C'mon.

It's all good. It's ALWAYS all good. It's liberating to be able to define your day/week/life based on what you choose. The good things. No more bad days! It's awesome. Today will not go down in history as the "cavity day" it will go down in history as the "Landon was an absolute angel at the dentist and omg pumpkins!" day.
 I totally had an epiphany today at the expense of that poor woman with the questionable fashion sense. So thanks for that. And as much as I want to point out to that woman, that she doesn't have to define today by it's calamities, I mean, seriously...  the "car is totaled worst day ever" day is fitting. She freaking hit a city bus....
Off to get Avery from school. Feeling autumn-y. Maybe I'll pick up a pumpkin spice latte on the way... sub water for chocolate milk for Lan, and I'll take my coffee iced please, thanks.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

..But is it convenient?

"...but is it convenient?"
I ask myself this a lot. It's kinda a requirement to constantly consider this while making any decision when you are endlessly dealing with little people who want absolutely nothing to do with helping you successfully complete your daily and/or life goals. I love my kids more than Christmas (that's serious for me), but 'convenient', they are not.
I've gotten my car washed at the same gas station for years. Not my first choice of car washes, but it's right near my house, and in the same parking lot as my gym, so you know, convenience, because waiting in a candy and slushee-filled waiting area with a five- and a three-year- old at any other car wash is the worst thing that's ever happened in my entire life, and dropping off my car, bringing the hooligans to the gym's day care so I can work out, and coming back doesn't suck quite as bad.  
That said, they're not that great at their job. And I'm certain the combined IQ of all seven of the car-washing employees is 37, but I can drop it off, go work out, and come back to a sort-of cleaner vehicle and not deal with candy-tantrums. Cantrums? I love making up words SO MUCH. 
Anyway, on one particular day a few years back, I reluctantly handed over my car keys to a Quasimodo-esque human, and when he pulled my car through the automatic carwash, both windshield wipers snapped clean off my car because he didn't remember to put them back down after he wiped the windshield. So cute.
I happened to watch it happen, and demanded they replace the wipers, which I had to go pick up from an auto parts store, and I wasted a good part of my day, and they paid for them. And they suck. And whatever.
But, believe it or not, I STILL use that carwash. So, again, convenience wins.
On a side note... the topic of 'convenience' popped into my head again yesterday as I searched Amazon in hopes of finding a gender specific car seat for Landon so my kids would stop fighting over their designated unisex seats. I thought, "it would certainly be convenient to have a boy-themed seat and a girl-themed seat..."
Then I found this.
"...but is it convenient?" NO. You know what? I'm sorry, but that right there is a rapist pedophile turtle. 1% off (was it really necessary to do the whole "slashed-price" thing...) in exchange for a lifetime of horrific nightmares? What are his hands intending to hold?! Why does he look like he wants to eat my fingernails?! What is that dangling flaccid strap situation all about?! Apparently at least 30 people, according to the number of reviews, own this little-boy-tushy-bait, and I'm willing to bet those 30 seats are strapped into unmarked white vans being driven by greasy men wearing nothing but long raincoats all across the nation.
So watch out for that.
Anyway, as you may know, this new school year has afforded me two half-days to myself thanks to my kids now being in preschool and Kindergarten. Today was my first half-day of the week-- three hours to skip through Target or go to the gym without a childcare appointment or take a nap or go grocery shopping. I did every afore-mentioned thing today besides take a nap, which was the only thing I really wanted to do, and decided to drop my car at my uber-convenient car wash while I took a spin class.
After my class I picked up my car which they kindly parked for me and one of the employees even reminded me to hold onto my receipt because "it might rain tomorrow" and they'd be happy to clean the car for me again, it's their policy.
Boy, that was nice of him. I'm such an asshole. Whyyyy do I judge everyone? Yeah, he looks like a moron, but he's a thoughtful moron. Get it together, Sofia.
My three hours are up and it's time to pick up my son from preschool. I consider what a lovely, productive, easygoing morning I've had and feel my ever-pulsating anxiety begin to subside bit by bit while I drive down the street. Then I hear a rattling sound. Is it in the glove compartment?! No. The cupholder?? No. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SOUND?!
I'm punching the dashboard and shaking my steering wheel, then go to flick my windshield wipers, in hopes that I might loosen whatever it is that is causing my present craziness, and I notice that MY WINDSHIELD WIPERS ARE GONE.
Just two, sad, mechanical stubs swoosh back at forth, as if literally waving "bye bye" to my sanity.
I picked up Landon, drive right back to my favorite car wash, ask to speak to the manager, and he comes out of the building with my wipers in hand.
I am livid, demanding an explanation as to why a part of my car is in his hand and not attached to my vehicle. Swear to god, his response was a shoulder shrug. I ask him if this happens all the time or if they just hate me specifically.
What. I hate you so much.
So, the iiiiidiottttt re-attached my wipers, they work fine, but now I gotta find a new car wash.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I need a nap. And a glass of wine.
Which conveeeeniently I do have...