(If you’re stopping by to enter the 5 Berries pattern giveaway . . . we’ve postponed until next week—sorry for the inconvenience! Check back Monday, March 19th for the giveaway!)
These past two weeks have sure been a doozy. (Or, since it was multiple weeks, am I supposed to pluralize and call them doozies? That just doesn’t sound right. Doozies? Doozy? I give up.) We took a whirlwind trip to Pennsylvania to visit Jeff’s family, then came home and started house-hunting (yikes). I played single mom for a few exhausting days while Jeff pulled 12-ish-hour workdays, all while I was crocheting like a madwoman to stock up for the Queen Bee Market next month.
My fingers hurt. My brain hurts. My ears hurt, because of course Forrest is teething (constantly) and misses his dad and is not shy about expressing his anger. My hat is off to actual single mothers. And last night, I woke up to my sleep-talking husband sitting up in bed in the middle of the night, demanding to know who I was and what I had done with Forrest. (Yes, I’m a kidnapper. I took your child and then climbed into bed with you and fell asleep. That’s what we kidnappers do, didn’t you know?)
Anyway. I’m sure what you REALLY wanted to hear today was a crazy story about a naturopathic nutso calling me fat, right? Isn’t that what you scour blogs for? That’s the reason I’m a blog reader, really . . . I just keep waiting for wild fat stories. Well, today I. CAN. DELIVER! This should be a nice Monday pick-me-up for you . . .
The reason Jeff was having such long days at work was to man his office’s booth at the Salt Lake Tribune Home and Garden Show. He got me a few free tickets, so my sister, sister-in-law, Forrest, and I headed up Saturday afternoon to check it out. We were standing by the Vitamix booth, scoring ourselves some free smoothies and doing our best to avoid eye contact with any salespeople. I’m a master of the awkward mumble-and-sidestep move to get around booth pitchmen. I feel like wearing a sign to these sorts of things—“I have no money. I seriously cannot buy your stuff. But I will gladly accept your free samples.”
I feel a tap on my shoulder as someone says, “Ma’am, is that your baby?” In a moment of panic, I spin around, expecting to see Forrest has escaped from his stroller and is being carried off by a stranger (the sort of person who will later fall asleep in our bed after kidnapping our child, I’m sure), and see a middle-aged man pointing at Forrest (who is just sitting in his stroller). I say yes, and he immediately launches into an extremely confusing sales pitch . . . after a brief intro of himself as a wildly famous and successful naturopath (which I somehow doubt), he starts talking about his wife, who was able to have a vaginal birth against all odds, and don’t we all dream of a vaginal birth, and wouldn’t you like to have a vaginal birth, and so on. I’m not sure if you’ve ever been in the position of having a male stranger accost you in a crowded room and preach to you about the excitement and wonder of a vaginal birth, but I’ll tell you this: it’s kind of awkward. I didn’t particularly want to hear about his wife’s vaginal birth. I got really tired of hearing him say the words “vaginal birth.” You’re probably getting tired of it, too. And all this time, I still had no idea what he was trying to sell me . . . a vaginal birth? Do they sell those these days?
He finally hands me this little card, pictured below, and says to me with great intensity, staring me down in a sort of sisterly, compassionate, I-feel-your-pain kind of way, “I know how hard it can be for moms to lose weight.”
OH NO HE DIDN’T! Tell me that a stranger, a middle-aged man, did NOT just approach me, ask if I was a mother, and tell me he gets it. He can finally help me lose all this baby weight I’m dragging around. Really, sir? This is your sales pitch? To find women carting children around, approach them in the middle of a huge group where they can’t possibly escape from you and your uncomfortable vaginal-birth-ridden sales pitch, and tell them, “I can help you lose that disgusting chub clinging to every inch of your body!”?
While I’m puzzling through all of this, wondering if this is real life or maybe there’s a hidden camera somewhere and this will be airing on TV later, he’s pointing at the woman on the card and telling me that if she did it, I can, too! With his help and his magical herbs, I can lose the stomach pooch (that’s a quote! he seriously said “stomach pooch!”) that plagues us mothers! I think he started to realize how awful this was sounding (and maybe noticing the looks of complete bewilderment and simmering rage on my face), so he tried to backtrack with a less-than-tactful, “And I, uhhhh, I’m only offering this to you because you look, uhhh, fit and slender! I don’t even try to talk overweight people into this program because they just don’t care about their health!”
GOOD SAVE, DOC. First I was a chubby, poochy, pathetic and unmotivated mom who needed your rescuing, but now you’ve changed your mind and decided that I am actually slender and that is why I need to lose weight with your assistance? Not to mention that you think being overweight means you just don’t give a crap about your health? I would have to disagree with that statement . . .
He finally bowed out not too gracefully by letting me know that I could email him with any questions and he’d just looooove to work with me. I bet. I do have a few questions, come to think of it. Mostly about the nature of his sales pitch and the questionable wisdom in calling potential customers fat. I’d also love to learn a little more about his wife’s vaginal birth, because I certainly didn’t hear enough about that.
(By the way, this is SO not a request for compliments and reassurance about my figure. I feel just dandy about my appearance and my health, no thanks to Mr. Nutty Naturopath up there. It was just one of those “is this real life?” moments that simply cannot be kept off the internet. And if you are interested in his products or want to get his email address . . . I am definitely not passing it along to you. A salesman of his caliber needs to go out of business, pronto.)