Groupthink, a.k.a. Life's Too Short

I lied. I do have something to say today.

I just ordered new contact lenses. Four boxes. Less than two months after my last four boxes arrived.

Three months ago, I had my eyes examined and was fit with new contacts. This was the first time I'd seen this eye doctor--we'd never had vision insurance before and the list of in-network doctors was pretty darned small (God bless and keep managed care). After waiting an eternity to be seen despite being the first appointment of the day and after the exam and after being blown off by the dude behind the counter for awhile despite being one of two customers in the store, I finally grew a set, asked for my prescription in writing, and stormed out. Came home, got online, ordered the lenses in the script, faxed the miserable paper to the company, and got my boxes a few days later.

The lenses she prescribed were Acuvue Oasis. Everybody loves them. The latest and greatest thing. Comfy! Light! Permeable! Fanfriggintastic!

I tried. I swear. I tried to love them. I tried all the way through a whole box of the blasted things. But they feel like sandpaper on my eyeball and it's all I can do to get to 7 p.m., which is when I allow myself to claw them out of my eyes, drown them in their cases, and put on my ugly-but-functional glasses. I've tried every solution on the market. I've tried rubbing them, despite the no-rub guarantee on said solutions. I've tried soaking them, not soaking them, using drops of SupraClens, rubbing my eyes, putting them in backwards.

This past weekend, we saw some friends whose son is serving in Iraq. His dad recently asked him what the climate was like there. His response was, "Get out Mom's hairdryer, put it on the highest, hottest setting, hold it three inches from your face, and every few seconds throw a handful of sand in there just for the heck of it."

That's how my eyes feel. I'm not comparing uncomfortable contacts with Iraq. But that hot, dry, sandy ick is what my eyes feel like, and the scratchiness continues until I fall asleep, even when the horrible lenses have been out for awhile.

So today, I finally went back online to see if I could return the unopened boxes. I can't--it's been more than 30 days. So much for trying to fit in with the cool people who loooooooove these Oasis things. So much for stubbornitis.

Know what? Life's too short. I ordered four trusty boxes of Acuvue 2s, faxed my prescription again, and vowed to donate these horrible sand-lenses to whatever charity wants them. Maybe their beneficiaries have cooler eyes than me. But life's too short to be this uncomfortable all the time.

And no, I don't want Lasik. Thanks. Just my old Acuvue 2s. I'm just not that cool.

Drowning

*gack*

I have so. much. work to do this week. My posterior is glued to my desk chair, I swear. Stupid, stupid holidays. Can't think of anything to blog.

While I'm digging out check out these sites:

China-Free Christmas

Consumerist

More soon...

The Diet Waits Another Day

Peppermint frappacinos are back.

:)

Sad Commentary

November 2: I go to the mall to run a few errands.

The North Pole has relocated.

It's Christmas already. November 2. Santa's photo studio is set up in the middle. Macy's is decked out in red and green. Hallmark is playing Christmas carols already. Fa la la la la la plbththth!

I try to buy a Thanksgiving decoration. No go. Nobody has 'em. Halloween was two stinkin' days ago, lady, and we're all about the elf and your credit cards. Have a nice day.

This is me, drumming my fingers on my steering wheel in the parking garage, pondering thankfulness and gratitude and sharing, and the two little people in my back seat whose heads are filled with visions of Power Rangers and Barbies under the tree. And who are already mourning the gifts they won't get. Who live in a pretty affluent neighborhood, go to private schools, are surrounded by family and friends, and who already know what they don't have, poor babies. On November 2.

Fine. You want to play it that way? Let's go.

Michael's. Michael's will save me.

We go. Wander the aisles. Christmas, Christmas, Hannukah. Clearance on Halloween!

I ask. "Pardon me. Could you please tell me where I might find a Thanksgiving craft for my kids to work on?

She blinks. "Thanksgiving?"

Um. "Yeah. In three weeks? Maybe a turkey they can put feathers on? Or pilgrims? Or something about giving thanks--a cornucopia, perhaps?"

Shakes her head. "No. We don't really have Thanksgiving things this year. We have Christmas."


*pop*


(that was my head exploding)

Spurred By Recent Events...

Dear Grandparents:

I know you mean well. And I know you love your grandchildren. But if we are all going to enjoy a happy, peaceful co-existence, we're going to have to abide by some basic ground rules. And 21 hours of labor entitles me to set the rules, at least where my kid is concerned.

First rule: Don't undermine me. If I've taken something away from the child, forbidden the child to have something, punished the child in some way, or otherwise offended your delicate sensibilities about the child, please don't give them whatever it was under the table or behind my back, roll your eyes at me in the kid's presence, mutter under your breath, or otherwise steal my parental thunder. You're not helping anyone. My rules are my rules. If you have a problem with them, please set aside some time to talk with me when the kid isn't present. Or butt out. That's probably even better.

Second rule: Before you accuse me of being too harsh with the child, too loud with the child, or too anything else, I want you to think really really hard about raising me. You yelled. You took things away. You slammed doors. You whispered in that terrifying way. And you got to spank. Without social frowning or Social Services. Our generation doesn't get the spank, so we make a lot more use of our voices. Your "better way" doesn't work--I've tried it. Spare me the lecture, remember what it was like to parent, and unless you think there's actual abuse happening, have a nice tall glass of Mind Your Own Business.

Third rule: Sugar is not a food group. And it really isn't funny to get my children all hyped up on the stuff and then leave me to be the bad guy and clean it all up. An occasional treat is fine; an entire box of Froot Loops in one sitting is not. So help me, I'm passing on the dental bills to you.

Fourth rule: Santa Claus makes his appearance one day a year. You do not need to shower the little angels with gifts every single time you see them. I'd like them to love you for you, not for your credit card. And this deal where they expect stuff all the time? Not attractive. Please stop it. Give them kisses and hugs and time instead. You'll all be better off.

Fifth rule: I'm sure school is much too challenging these days and my children's' teachers know nothing. Ditto for their pediatricians. But please keep those opinions out of earshot of the little guys. Undermining those people is about as helpful as undermining me. I didn't pick them randomly out of a phone book. Please don't insult me by assuming you know more than they do.

Sixth rule: Ixnay on the outingpay. Remember how you'd flip when I pouted? It's not working so well on your end these days. They're my kids and I'm going to make decisions I feel are best for them, even if those decisions hurt your feelings, offend your intelligence, or otherwise go against your personal grain. I'm the parent and it's my prerogative. Deal with it in an adult manner.

We love you. Grandparents rock. But lately, the helping isn't so helpful. It's my job to set rules and boundaries and enforce them. I'm trying to let these little cuties grow up into decent, responsible, healthy adults. I'm not trying to insult you or hurt your feelings; in fact, most of it has nothing at all to do with you.

I'm just asking you to work with me. Be part of my team. See where I'm coming from, try to remember when you were in my shoes, and if all else fails, pipe down and let it go. For all of our happiness.

Love,

Your Daughter, the mom

Lump of Coal Indeed

If you haven't yet seen this, take a minute (OK, four of them) and watch it. It's real--I spent some time yesterday validating it after a co-w0rker of DH's sent it to us.

Somebody says at the end, "I didn't expect that." Me neither. But I'm glad I saw it.

(And yes, he's well on his way to everything he deserves. Sometimes, things really do work out.)

Eight Weeks...

We survived another Halloween. Costumes were a hit, enough chocolate for a small country was collected, I didn't get egged for handing out pretzels (take note, all ye naysayers...lots of parents thanked me!), and the girl and I hit up Target this morning for bargains galore. She scored a Hello Kitty ball gown and he got a Home Depot Nascar racing suit for $7 each. Definitely worth getting up for this morning.

But the thing about that was that it's Christmas in Target. Magically. On every floor and in every department. Decorations galore, lights, even music. Deck the halls, October's over. Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Poor old Thanksgiving. Gets sandwiched in between the "Gimme" holidays. Besides the turkey and football, it's become a non-holiday. Too bad--the concept is a good one.

My shopping has begun. The kids' big presents are already up in DH's closet, along with some smaller gifts. I'm done with DH, done with neices and nephews. If I can finish the ritual sacrificing of the credit cards before the Day Off Formerly Known as Thanksgiving, I can then spend the next four weeks decorating, baking, and planning the menu for Santa Day itself. That would make me happy.

So I guess we're officially in That Time of Year. Stock up on the blood pressure medication and Bloody Mary mix, folks. It's all downhill from here...