Dumpster Diving

I have a confession to make. A dirty little secret, if you will. It is really quite embarrassing, so this is going to be difficult for me:

I am a dumpster diver. 

There, I said it! My name is Surviving Mamahood and I am a dumpster diver. I am sure you're wondering "how did this happen?" Well, let me 'esplain. First, do me a favor and put down whatever it is that you are eating.  My apologies in advance. Thank you.

It all started on a rainy Spring afternoon. My then 7 year old daughter, who is a Girl Scout, had been collecting orders for the annual Cookie Sale. For those of you not familiar, each girl gets a super long order form to track their sales. You can also track on-line but that can be a pain in the ass, so most folks use these forms to write down the names of the customers as well as the type and number of boxes ordered.

Now let me be absolutely honest with you. When I say that my daughter was selling cookies, I really mean that my husband and I were selling cookies. Warning to any adults foolish enough to get mixed up in this cookie business: you will be the one stuck pimping out cookies. Because we are naturally competitive when it comes to selling we enlisted the help of family members to sell even more cookies! We were building an unstoppable cookie empire, ya'll! Before we knew it, we had collected literally hundreds of orders - all neatly documented on the cookie order form.

On that rainy afternoon, this sacred document was left behind at the local diner. To protect the innocent (me), I am not going to talk about how this form got left behind at the diner.  Suffice it to say that mistakes were made and yada, yada, yada. No, we did not keep a copy of the form as a back-up.

Anyway, as soon as we realized that the form had been left behind, we raced to the diner hoping that they had set the form aside for us. Surely they would have realized that this precious document was not junk?! Tough luck for us. The form was no where to be found. The kind waitress explained that the trash from that meal service had already been taken out back and put in the ... DUMPSTER. My husband and I locked eyes in horror. I am sure he was thinking "Gee that sucks, oh well we tried, right?" Me, being the super psycho control freak that I am thought, "I wonder if they would let us hop in the dumpster and have a look around?"

I am going to pause here for a second. I feel like I need to explain myself. Clearly, the normal adult reaction to such a thing would be to think, you know, this really sucks, but what can you do?  I'm not gonna get in a dumpster for a lousy piece of paper?  Am I right?  Bueller? Bueller?  The truth is that I am not normal, people.  I am a fixer by nature.  I don't take no for an answer and truly believe that with a little bit of hamburger elbow grease, any problem can be solved. I also routinely suffer from Hot Mess Syndrome. My brain was telling me that we had to get in the dumpster and try to find that order form.  My nose was telling me that I was going to be very sorry if I did. I should have listened to my nose.

My husband made the first valiant attempt at my urging.  He returned home in five minutes, no form in hand, with a completely disgusted look on his face.  "I lifted the lid of the dumpster and it was nasty.  I tried pushing a few bags over, but I didn't see anything.  I'm not going back there. That form is gone, babe."

Cut to me pulling into the parking lot of the diner armed with rubber gloves, my own garbage bag, a flash light (it was dusk now) and one of those flimsy face masks.  I tiptoed to where the dumpsters were located and used an empty can to stand up on so that I could peer into the dumpster.  I am 5'1 and this dumpster was big.  I couldn't really see over the edge, so I made the fateful decision to climb on in.

This was a diner dumpster.  Therefore its contents were an amalgamation of every type of diner food and artifact that you can imagine. I was adrift in a sea of half-eaten hamburgers, cooking lard, and vegetable peelings.  I stayed in this dumpster for nearly 25 minutes rooting through the trash bags like the world's saddest and largest raccoon.  At some point during those minutes, it began to drizzle. I stared up at the moon from inside that dumpster and imagined myself a tragic hero. Wouldn't everyone be surprised when I returned home victorious!  And you know what?  I didn't find the form. I had to drive home naked, shoe-less, stinky, and empty-handed.

After my husband hosed me off on our front porch, I went to bed that night feeling rather defeated and mortified.  I had climbed in a dumpster! For a stupid form! Anyway, we were ultimately able to fairly easily re-create the list, which again, adds to my mortification, but hey, it's a pretty decent war story!

What nonsense have you had to do in the name of helping your kids?

Hot Mess Syndrome

Do you suffer from Hot Mess Syndrome (HMS)? Do you care for someone who might be suffering from HMS?  If so, this post is for you. There are distinct signs and symptoms unique to individuals suffering from HMS.  Noticing the signs and being properly diagnosed is the first step toward obtaining the right course of treatment.  Sadly, there is no cure for HMS, but sufferers have been known to experience remission from time to time.

Please take the below quiz to determine whether you may suffer from this debilitating illness:

(1) Have you ever left your home wearing one blue shoe and one black shoe? Alternatively, do you own a pair of white panty hose that you insist on matching with white pumps?

(2) Do you eat pop-tarts for breakfast?  Lunchables for lunch?

(3) Do you own a pair of pants with the word "Juicy" emblazoned on the behind, only you do not actually have a behind?  And you continue to wear them talking about some "I look good guuuurrrrl!"

(4) When you leave your home on Monday morning, are you sometimes wearing the same clothes that your neighbors, if called to testify, could confirm you were wearing all weekend?

(5) Have you allowed your eyebrow and/or mustache hair to get so out of control that small children in the mall come up to you questioning your gender?  A typical query from a small child might sound something like "Are you a boy or a girl?"

(6) Have you ever lost your keys, adamantly blamed everyone and their mama for taking them, and later found those keys in the refrigerator?

(7) Are you constantly repeating yourself?  Are you constantly repeating yourself?

(8) When you take off your shoes at the nail salon does your nail technician immediately begin chattering to her colleagues in a language you can't understand?

(9) Quick check a mirror. Is there lipstick on your teeth or under your lip? Are your penciled-in eyebrows askew? Do you have enough powder on your face to qualify as a donut? 

(10)  Do your co-workers know not to schedule meetings before 11:00 a.m., because the likelihood of you being in the office before then is about as likely as your child being REALLY sorry for whatever you sent him to time-out for.

(11) Do all your pictures on Facebook primarily feature your own face? Are you sporting massive duck face in those pictures - in a totally non-ironic way? Are you nodding your head right now? Ok, now slap yourself.

(12) Do your children have a "look" that they exchange amongst themselves in your presence to simultaneously convey confusion and pity?

If you answered "Yes" to any of these questions, you have a strong risk factor for HMS.  Note that your risk factor increases with each subsequent child.

Please call 1-800-TAKEANAPDAMMIT for more information on combating this disease. You are not alone. 

Readers, are you currently suffering from HMS?