Fortunately, Nick has nothing to worry about here

Have you ever awoken from a dream about an ex-boyfriend or girlfriend with a terrible sense of guilt? You've cheated on your partner, and now you have to deal with the consequences?

Sometimes the line between dreams and reality is blurred and gentle and happy. And other times you startle awake. Especially if it's somewhere around 3:00 am.

It's an irrational hour. Your world is all dark and quiet and every problem seems dire and also like it needs to be solved by you before your alarm clock goes off.

I found myself in precisely this position several mornings ago.

Suddenly awake, thinking, "I can't believe I did that. God. I'm so glad Nick doesn't know."

I dreamt that I let myself into my old boyfriend's apartment and unloaded his dishwasher.

This is not a euphemism.

What would you do?

If you regularly saw someone behaving unfairly and unkindly, what would you do?

For a long time, I was terrified of confrontation. I would do just about anything to avoid it.

My dad was manipulative and my mom was and is passive, and these were my role models. I mean, they were many more things than that - plenty of positives. But our family was not direct, and there were lots of things we weren't allowed to talk about.

I mean, my dad could talk about anything he wanted. But for the rest of us, there were parameters. Voicing dissent or negative feelings? Not OK. My brother and I were taught early that we were fine. I'm fine, he's fine, she's fine. We're all fine. Fine, fine, always fine. Everything is fine.

One of my dad's phrases was, "End of discussion." He could say this at any time to shut down a conversation.

Makes you want to respond with a big, "Fuck you," doesn't it? Which of course none of us ever did.

And thus I may have this unrealistic need for fairness. I realize the world is not fair. But I do my best to make it so when I can.

So.

It took me an inordinately long time and a lot of work to learn how to be direct.

Actually, let me back up. I didn't even know I wasn't. It took me a very long time to learn how to recognize my feelings. And then to learn how to voice them to myself. And then to get the confidence to realize that they were valid and that I could express them to others.

I mean, I've always blurted out inappropriate, awkward things. But that's different.

So at this point, I think of myself as a fairly self-aware individual. I have the ability to put together a reasonable argument, and to hold my own in a discussion. When I know I'm right, I don't back down just because someone pushes.

I don't go looking for fights, but I don't shy away from them.

All of this leads me to needing some advice.

India goes to this day care that we love. Jordan was there before her. We adore the woman who runs it, and the staff is terrific. Very kind and caring and attentive. I totally trust them.

There is, however, a kid there with a dad who is a giant asshole. And this is where I need some help.

He is so rude to the staff. They are all women, and all Latina. They all speak English, but to varying degrees. There is a power differential. He's essentially their client.

And he's just a dick. I've never seen him not be rude. He walks in and bosses them around. He snaps at these very nice, competent women.

One night he was there when I was picking up India. We were there minutes before it closed, and so most of the staff had left. The ones still there with the very last of the kids couldn't find the little paper you get at the end of the day that tells you what your kid ate and how long they slept and that they enjoyed swinging and sliding at the playground.

He stomped around and complained and glared and huffed and puffed.

I wanted to say, "Seriously? Here - take mine. They had cheerios and bananas for breakfast. Quinoa and carrots and peas for lunch. Crackers and pears for snack. They slept from 1-3. They enjoyed singing songs at circle time. It doesn't vary that fucking much from day to day."

It doesn't. They'll call you if your kid is sick. They tell you if he got a scratch on the playground. They tell you anything of note.

Anyway. They apologized and he stomped.

But he's always a jerk. And I don't say anything. But I want to the next time. But here's the problem.

If he were doing it to me, I could say, "Please don't speak to me like that. There's no reason to be so rude."

He's not talking to me, though. And I know they won't say anything. They'll just keep being polite and he'll keep being a douche. It's not fair, and it makes me so angry.

I don't, however, know what to say.

What would you do?

Corporeal punishment. (Or: Spanx me!)

I don't know about you, but I have a much lower tolerance for discomfort than I used to.

Also, those aren't real pockets. I mean, they are, but mostly they're part of the 60s design, which you can see if you you embiggen the photo. I guess you might be able to keep a piece of gum or a small gecko in them, but not much more than that or they would bulge.

But the discomfort business. I can't figure out if this is a result of age or the toll of post-pregnancy or being a mother and needing to find practical things like Danskos attractive.

That said, I loved my neon green Relax tank top to death in the 80s, and of course there was the wretched Disco 69 T-shirt, so my taste has probably always been questionable.

But really. Some of the heels I used to mince around in are unimaginable to me now. My toes are less cooperative about being squinched. And my hip bones are less forgiving of the waistband of certain jeans. The pokey-forwardy hips are a direct result of pregnancy, I think.

Like, my stomach got less flat, but my hips decided to poke forward more. One more kid and they'll be able to see Russia from our porch.

Anyway, now we don't likes my old jeans. Wicked, tricksy, false! Now we likes spandex in our jeans, my precioussss. We also like yoga pants, even though we don't do yoga. But we can't go to work in them.

So, let's talk about my Spanx issue.

I got this dress in Paris and then was too pregnant to wear it. And then I couldn't wear it to work because of the pumping, because who wants to sit in the lactation room practically naked? Not I. But now I can wear dresses and it's wool and Dear Lord please let winter end but in the meantime I'm going to wear my wool as much as I can.

Right. OK.

Let's just be honest here: This is a first-world problem, but sometimes, for some non-yoga pantsy outfits, I need a few things squozen.

I just got this desperately needed black pair, because my beige pair has bitey seams on the inner thigh and also, I wear a lot of black and let's just say the beige pair is not invisible with black tights.

Which brings me to Spanx. These are the first actual Spanx squeezer-inners I've actually purchased. And they work! Oh, they do!

My Spanx are currently killing me providing a smooth silhouette and discreetly helping me squeeze the shit out of my thighs  into rock one of my favorite dresses. I bought them for the thigh business, but as an added bonus, they also cut off my stomach circulation slim my tummy.

It's really only when I sit down, though. I feel great when standing or walking.

So far, I'm a fan.

Big mother

I know this sounds terrible but I'd kind of like to get my mom microchipped. While I'm at it, I might have them do it to my kids as well. Particularly for future peace of mind.

Because that India is going to be a hellion in her teens. I'm sure of it.

The truth is, I so badly wanted to do this to my dad for the next time he disappeared. But he'd have known and gotten rid of it. I mean, even if we were able to do it without his knowledge. Which is just very sci-fi and also maybe probably illegal?

I dunno. I mean, is it like wiretapping to microchip someone without their consent?

Anyway. Now that I'm really thinking about it, I wouldn't mind knowing where my husband is whenever I'm curious.

Not because I think he'd be having an affair. More like I could give him a call and be all, "So, you're at Fogo de Chao, huh?" Or, "I see you're halfway home. Could you stop and get some milk?"

No, I'm kidding. I wouldn't do that. Because actually, we now get our milk delivered from South Mountain Creamery and they are wonderful.

But anyway.

The alarm company called this afternoon because the alarm was going off and our living room glass break sensor had set it off and then the back door and nobody answered at home and would I like them to call the police?

Absolutely.

Our tenant texted and said the alarm was going off, and so she investigated the front and nothing seems broken. And now the alarm is off.

So I have been calling Betty incessantly, to no avail, either on the home phone or her cell phone. My assumption is that she's picking Jordan up and set the alarm and then headed out the back door but stopped to get a glass of water or put on some lipstick or maybe make some toast or something on her way out.

Microchipping, I feel, is the answer.

Or maybe just strapping her phone to her. With a charger.

Or both. Yes. Both. Microchips for all! That's not at all creepy, huh?

Dear various people of the metropolitan DC area

Dear Woman in Target:

I promise I didn't walk over just to fart next to you and then leave.

I know it must have seemed that way, as I sidled up next to you, dropped a wee stench bomb, and then casually but quickly fled. Honestly, I would've stayed and browsed the products, but, well, see previous sentence.

I owe you a huge apology. 

Sincerely (and I mean that),

Stealth Target Fartknocker

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Dear Driver Sort of Next to Me in Rock Creek:

It probably seemed like I was racing to get in front of you before the lanes merged like one of those doucherockets who always has to be in front in the merge. And that is really annoying, I know.

The thing is, I was just trying to not run into the cement wall thingy.

See, it looked like there were two lanes for longer than there actually were, and then suddenly and inexplicably (or, OK, perhaps explicably, but still) my lane, which still had, you know, lane lines, was about to stop being a lane and started being a wall. It was only because the nose of my car was ahead of yours.

I mean, let's be honest. Nobody who drives an old Civic has any illusions of outrunning a BMW.

All the best,

Driver Who Needs Lanes and Has an Aversion to Cement Walls

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Dear Man in the Gym Who Scurried to Get to the Machine I Was Using:

So, I was torn between starting another set and going to get water before doing so, and water won out.

It's a small gym, so you knew what I was doing. You wouldn't have scurried otherwise. I know this because while giving you the intermittent stinkeye for a sustained period of time, I observed that you sauntered to your other machines.

But back to the pull-down machine. My towel was on the fucking seat. Because my ass was going to sit itself on the towel within 30 seconds. You moved my towel, and put yours down. For a moment I thought about saying something, but then thought, really? I can just do another machine and come back to this one. Which is what I did.

I did, however, stinkeye you as I picked up my towel. You didn't look my direction at all.

Unfortunately, I was unable to conjure one of the broccoli farts that had been brewing since lunch. I do so wish I could fart on command. I got pretty close, and you may have wondered what I was up to.

I'll succeed one of these times. I may not retain facts for more than 15 seconds, but my emotional memory is spectacular. And I eat a lot of fiber.

Good luck with your manners,

Woman From the Gym Who Harbors Stinky Grudges

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Dear Man in the Elevator:

When I said I was following you, I wasn't really. I mean, I don't even know you.

The thing is, sometimes when the elevator stops, I just get out. It's because I'm not paying attention, so the doors open and I'm all, a floor! Must be mine!

So when I realized and then said, "I'm following you! Clearly I'll get out anywhere!" I was just joking.

There was no need to look horrified. Didn't you notice that I immediately pushed the button to call another elevator?

That said, watch your nose. You never know when I might have some butter handy.

Hahahahahahaha!

Woman Who Should Take the Stairs