Thursday, December 20, 2007
With a small child, I find that what I mostly carry in there is a pacifier. I can get to it quickly, don’t have to worry about pocket lint getting on it etc. Over time Gwen has discovered this phenomenon and how her beloved binky appears magically out of Mama’s chest. Recently she’s taken to checking for it herself. One of the first things she does when I come home from work is to stick her hand between my tits to see if it’s in there. Even if she has one already in her mouth she likes to check occasionally because I’m sure she’s thinking that if she can get her binky out of there, the possibilities are endless in what else she might be able to pull out – a toy, a puppy, a blanket, a bottle? It’s like the swiss army cleavage! It could conceivably hold a tool for whatever need she might have.
My favorite is when she’s got a pacifier in her mouth and discovers that there’s one in the cleavage also. Then it becomes a game of switch the binky’s. She’ll pop the one out of her mouth and pop in the one that’s freshly warmed from the cleavage, place the original one into the cleavage and then about 30 seconds later switch them again, and then again, and then again.
Recently though I feel she’s taking advantage of the seemingly vast storage area and has tried to place other items in there. One day after being hit in the face/chest about 10 times with her sippy cup full of juice, I finally realized that what she was trying to do was place it in my cleavage so that she could retrieve it later.
And then the other day when I was on the toilet and she came sauntering into the bathroom, I realized that it probably wasn’t the best idea to inadvertently train the child to stick her hands into the crevices of my body, "No dear that’s not a fuzzy cleavage you’re reaching for, and I’m fairly sure there’s no binky in there".
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
For example; the other day an automatic door didn’t open for me and I took it personally. There’s no way that sensor wasn’t tripped by my larger than average frame, so my immediate thought was that the door had somehow gained the capacity for higher thinking and had decided that if anyone needed to exert the extra effort to open a door it was me.
I mean how crazy is that thinking and yet that’s what my mind comes up with. I even contemplated on the damn door’s inner monologue; “That gal should burn some calories pushing something – something besides pushing more food in her mouth, that’s for sure.” There was even a laugh track playing after that in my head!
So now that you’re somewhat familiar with what goes on in my head, let me recount a little something that happened to me yesterday, and I have to apologize to the people who had to listen to me obsess about it then.
I’m walking down the aisle at work and walking towards me is a man. I don’t know who he is, I’ve seen him before but he doesn’t work in my department – just on the same floor. Anyway, as he’s walking towards me he reaches down and does the most obvious rearrangement of his balls that he possibly could have done. I mean there was absolutely no effort to conceal the fact that he was grabbing his package, jostling it and bringing it to rest in what was obviously a more comfortable position. I’ve seen guys be more discreet when whacking themselves off, than this guy was at adjusting his jewels.
Now he wasn’t looking me in the eye or anything as the act was taking place. This wasn’t some overt sexual harassment issue. But he had to have seen me walking towards him, sized me up and determined that he had no qualms about grabbing his genitals in my presence. The man obviously found me so unattractive that he didn’t mind grabbing himself in front of me. If Claudia Schiffer was walking down the aisle towards him I think he would have managed to postpone shifting his rocks at least until she had passed by even if his left testicle was twisted so tightly in his undies that there was a danger of it falling off. But doing it in front of me was no different than scratching his ass in front of a dog. Why conceal such disgusting behavior in front of someone he deemed as equally as disgusting and therefore didn’t care about impressing?
This was the thinking that permeated my entire day yesterday. This isn’t healthy behavior. I mean the man was probably just a pig. Maybe he grabs himself in front of everyone. Maybe he was having a herpes outbreak and needed a good scratch, maybe he’s part of a test group for athletic protective cups, maybe he has a fetish for incredibly tight underwear, who knows! But it’s taken me an entire day to convince myself that I am at least worthy of a pocket pool genital adjustment, and the next time I see him in the hallway I might just tell him that.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
We also have a 1995 Chevy Lumina which we bought used and all in all it’s been a good vehicle. It’s fairly reliable and actually has a pretty powerful engine in it. Sometimes I get a little tingly when I tromp on the gas and it responds so forcefully as I'm passing someone. It makes me feel like Danica Patrick, except I would have actually won a race by now.
The problem with the Lumina is that, well, it’s old, and as we all know way too well, not everything works exactly like it should when you get older. It’s like the automotive version of sagging tits.
The brake lights only work when you pull the turn signal lever slightly towards you, which of course, is the same lever that switches the headlights from low to bright so I’m constantly inadvertently flashing my brights at people. The windshield washer fluid doesn’t work, and the odometer has a habit of failing to function until you give it a little tap and realize that you’re going 65 in a 35 mph zone.
Buy my favorite quirk of all occurs in the winter months; the gearshift sticks. It’s an automatic and the gearshift is mounted on the floor and it’s one of those that you have to grab the handle and push in the button on the side of the lever with your thumb before shifting out of park or into reverse, etc. Well for some reason, when it gets cold out, the car’s not too keen on getting out of Park and it sticks.
So inevitably every morning I’m sitting in the driveway fiddling with the gearshift. Sometimes it likes it gentle and all you have to do is wiggle it around a little to get that button to depress. Other times it likes it rough and I literally have to put one hand on the gear shift and with the other hand punch the button with all the strength I can muster to get the thing to budge. It was so stubborn the other morning that I had to get poor Matt out of bed to get the thing out of Park. Thankfully though once you get it out of Park that first time it doesn’t stick again- well until the next time you try to start the car and it’s been sitting in the cold.
Every time it happens though I feel like one of those pathetic people in those really cliché horror flicks, you know the ones where the only thing standing between them and escape from the immortal masked serial killer is a car with a faulty starter. The only difference is that my car will actually start, it’s just that I can’t get it into gear before a two headed genetically mutated viper snatches me right out of the driver’s seat.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Do you think Jesus likes Tootsie Rolls? Nah, I'd better play it safe and go for a new toothbrush and some floss, Christ seems like someone who'd floss
My grandparents, bless them, sent this Jesus stocking to us for the kids to hang and I guess remind them "of the reason for the season". Which is a lovely sentiment really but as far as my kids know "Jesus" is the guy Momma yells at when she spills something and "Jesus Christ" is the guy she yells at when Daddy does something stupid.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Honk if you’ve got a dead person’s name on your car, or if you're horny, or would rather be fishing.
Now I’m not one to criticize the grieving/coping process of those that have lost a loved one. It’s a personal journey of grief that is different for everyone, but when it’s done with such a small amount of taste and tact, I can’t help but comment on it. What is the point of a memorial bumper sticker? I think people have lost the meaning of the phrase. It should be engraved on something of value, a memorial marker, a park bench in that person’s favorite outdoor setting, a donated seat at a local auditorium or a donated bookshelf or book collection at a local library in memory of an avid reader.
An adhesive piece of paper slapped on the bumper of the same car that your teenager makes out in the backseat of, and that you use to run errands with is not much of a memorial. Why do they have to stick something like that on their car? To prove that they’re grieving? To prove that they’ve lost someone? Everyone has lost someone buddy, that doesn’t mean you should stick their epitaph right next to your “Honk if you’re Horny” bumper sticker.
What is it about the car that is in Loving Memory of this person? Were they run over with the car? If that’s the case I need one for the front fender of mine that says in loving memory of Bambi, or maybe one for that squirrel I hit on 16th street. Is the car their final resting place? Is the body in the trunk?? Did the deceased leave them some money in the will and that’s what these people used to buy the car so they feel a need to acknowledge it?
Where do you get such a thing anyway? Do you think these people had them made up especially just for themselves? Did the family of the deceased hand them out at the funeral like politicians hand them out at parades? What do you do with the extra ones? It would be disgraceful to throw them out. Maybe they could be used as coasters. Hey why not make coasters? How about matchbooks, how about those engraved napkins to use at the wake. Maybe a shot glass or some of those decorative spoons that people collect.
The possibilities are endless. How about pens, pencils, maybe a lovely letterhead on a fancy memo pad? That grocery list or memo to the boss could certainly be in loving memory of Great Aunt Lilly. Grandpa always liked coffee, instead of a headstone let’s just have 500 coffee mugs printed up in memory of the old fart.
It boggles the mind.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Sent: Thursday, November 29, 2007 2:56 PM
I JUST LIFTED UP MY SHIRT LIKE I DO A THOUSAND TIMES A DAY TO ITCH MY TUMMY AND THERE ARE SMALL RED LINES ALL OVER IT
I ran to Erins cube in emergency situation to have her serve the lines and she thinks they coud be streatch marks. She had lotion I have used the entire tube and they are stil there. My hate for lotion is gone. I hope it is a rash
Sent: Thursday, November 29, 2007 3:01:20 PM
Ooooh! Can I come over tonight and look at them? I bet they are stretch marks! I love it.
That’s what mine looked like – I never got the huge stretch marks just tons and tons of little red lines, and then after you have the kid the redness goes away but the lines don’t and your stomach resembles the texture of cottage cheese wrapped in a fabric bag.
Sent: Thursday, November 29, 2007 3:12 PM
Just so you know your not helping.
Sent: Thursday, November 29, 2007 3:18 PM
Hey, I’m just soaking in all the exciting aspects of your pregnancy.
Just wait until you’re walking around and you keep feeling like something is on top of your butt- Like a backpack that’s riding too low and smacks on your butt every time you take a step – and then you look back there and realize that there is no backpack – it’s just that your ass is so big that you can actually feel it moving when you walk.
Turns out it was just a rash that she got from the lube they put on her belly earlier that day to check the heartbeat. How disappointing really.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Now to me it looked like her bottom tooth had punctured her lip. There was blood inside and outside the lip. I could see a gash on both the inside and outside and keep in mind here that the kid was screaming at Banshee decibal levels. Tears and blood and bodily fluids were flying everywhere and most of them belonged to Gwen.
So Matt's on his way home, I call Shawna and ask her if her Matt (Lord, why couldn't we find husbands with different names? From now on I shall refer to Shawna's husband as Freddie - seriously he looks just like Freddie Prinze Jr. except that I think Matt's eyebrows are more niceily manicured, but Matt can never keep his eyes open in a photo so Freddie's got one up on him there.)
Anyway, I ask if Matt (I mean Freddie) can come over and pick up Aaron and take him to their house while I take Gwen to the 24 hour clinic or the ER or something. My Matt is winging his way home from work and all of a sudden the kid is fine. The bleeding has stopped, she's still a little clingy but otherwise seems to be okay. I'm now able to finally get a good look at the wounds and when Freddie gets there he confirms my new theory that she in fact did not puncture her lip with her own tooth. True she does have a nice gash but the tooth did not go through the lip and I've completely over reacted.
Freddie was a complete prince - sorry, couldn't resist that pun - and ran to the store to get some baby orajel to relieve any future pain, and did a fabulous job of putting me at ease. He's going to make a fabulous Daddy, Shawna. He even brought some gummy worms back for Aaron - so sweet!
Matt came home from work, looked over the situation, put me at even more ease and then headed back to work after kissing me on the forehead and shrugging as if to say "you're such an adorable yet simple-minded wife".
So all in all I felt like an idiot, but an idiot with an excellent support system and I'm very grateful for that.
Here are some pics of the wounds. Sure they don't look like much but this is after I cleaned up the gallons of blood!
See the bloodstains on the shirt! And this photo below would be more impressive if it was in focus, but I was lucky to get it at all since the inner lip of a 11 month old is not very photogenic.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Now as a parent you learn the cries. There’s the “I’m tired but don’t really want to sleep” cry, the “My brother has just taken my toy and/or hit me in the head” cry, the “There’s really nothing wrong with me but I feel like crying” cry (my personal favorite), and then there’s the dreaded: “Something is seriously wrong and I’m freaked out and in a lot of pain” cry, and this was the one I was hearing.
Now she’s been constipated the last week or so and her stools have been pretty solid so I anticipated that perhaps she was having some difficulty – and boy was she. Picture this. We’ve got her on the living room floor. I’m stroking her forehead and cooing in an effort to calm her. Matt’s got the back end and he’s trying everything to get this massive turd out of the poor girl. He’s bicycling her legs, squeezing her butt cheeks, trying to grasp the thing (with a wet wipe on his hand of course). Several scenarios are running through my head – should we take her to the ER? No, too drastic, how about some salad tongs? – if we could just get a hold of it we could pull it out. No too dangerous, plus then I’d have to buy a new pair of salad tongs, and as I’m just deciding that the best option is to run a warm bath and have her soak in it in the hopes it would break up the poop, Matt yells, “Here it comes” and sure enough it was starting to move. I’m holding her hand saying “push, honey push” Matt’s guiding it out, wet wipe in hand and when the entire load was finally out, all three of us shared an exhale of relief and satisfaction.
It’s almost a pity that she’s too young to remember it because if she’s unfortunate enough to have inherited my narrow pelvis and birth canal, it may have been the closest experience to child birth she’ll ever have.
I won’t punish you with the details of the impossible task of picking out something for my mother, the woman who has the contents of a small shopping mall in her home. Instead I’ll try to capture something of the great toy debate. And keep in mind that it’s compounded by the fact that Aaron’s birthday is right after Thanksgiving and Gwen’s is at the beginning of December so I have birthday and Christmas gift giving to ponder.
I love my children very much and a sad consequence of having a mother with the contents of a shopping mall crammed into her house is that I’ve been taught to express love through gifts. Shopping and “new stuff” equaled happiness in my childhood home (there’s no blame there – my mother is fabulous and in the grand scheme of things she could have passed down a much worse legacy – like alcoholism or something even more dreaded like Catholicism).
Anyway, I find that most of my time is spent on trying to decide whether or not to purchase the Diego Safari Playset or the Hot Wheels speed and crash racetrack, or perhaps wouldn’t it be great if we got both for him – he’s a good kid he deserves it – and we did just refinance the house and all . . . You see what I mean here. Then at some point I stop and think that this is the kid who uses a green plastic dealer’s visor from a Texas hold’em set as a firefighter’s gas mask, and can envision the couch cushion as a mountain, a boat, a slide, a race car, and a monster truck. Does he really need the $34 Diego Safari set or wouldn’t he be just as content with a $2 Diego figurine and some cheap elephants from the dollar store? Is he going to need therapy at some point in time because he didn’t receive the officially licensed Pixar Cars set of Shake and Go racers?
Of course not, and yet I want to get these things for him – why? Shouldn’t we curb the spending and set aside some money for his future – perhaps for his college education? Sure that’s what we probably should do but we’re not going to. Why? Because of the look. You know what I mean. That look a kid gets when he gets a toy that he’s really excited about. The wide eyes, the eager hands grasping at it, the voice that shoots up an octave when he says “WOW”. We all remember that feeling from when we were kids and we just want to recreate that for our kids. Is that so bad? And is it so bad that somewhere in my psyche, seeing that look on his face is proof that he knows that I love him with all of my heart and soul? Is he going to have that same look when he’s 19 and I tell him I’ve saved up enough to pay for a semester of his college education? I don’t think so.
So, the moral of the story is that I’m going to try and find a happy medium between my “proving the depth of my love by the amount of gifts I give you” tendencies, and the cheapskate part of me who is convinced he’d be thrilled with 5 things from the Dollar Store.
Now if you’ll excuse me I have to check on the shipping status of some action figures we've purchased for the 38 inch Rescue Heroes Mountain Command Center with Voice Tech capability.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
However, I had recently determined that I'd had enough. The kid is almost one, and she's really starting to sleep well through the entire night without waking. I was convinced that if I could just get her to fall asleep in the crib that I'd be fine. My new strategy was to move the crib into Aaron's room. She loves to play in there and I thought if the crib was a visible part of that room she might become more comfortable with it. It would no longer be a cage in the corner of mommy and daddy's room.
Night one, was Sunday night. I laid her in the crib and she screamed, and screamed, and screamed. I went in, stood next to the crib and stroked her back. We turned on the white noise and she actually fell asleep for about 10 minutes before getting up and wailing again. I left the room and let her cry for quite some time before Matt had had enough. Round one - Gwen.
Monday night, I placed her in the crib when I was getting Aaron ready for bed, she screamed of course. I took her out while I was reading books to Aaron and she played on the floor for a while. Put her back in bed, and laid down next to the crib - didn't look at her or anything and she was asleep in 10-15 minutes. And she slept through the entire night. I heard her cry and stir a little around 1 a.m. but she went right back to sleep. She slept from about 11 pm to 9 am!! Round Two - Momma. And let me just say when I woke up that following morning it was like there was suddenly 2 suns - the world was so much brighter! It was fabulous. I hadn't been that happy since Prince started calling himself Prince again!
Last night I followed the same routine as Monday and she fell asleep in about 20 minutes. However, she awoke at 2 a.m. and cried for a good 5-10 minutes and Matt brought her into bed. I was too tired to argue. Round 3 - Gwen.
Now you may be wondering how Aaron's taking the whole thing and he's been great. First of all he's really cute because he sings Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to her, even though she can't hear it because she's wailing at the decibal level of a small jet plane. The other great thing is that this kid can sleep through a five alarm fire. I mean, once he falls asleep she can wail in there until her head is on the verge of exploding and he doesn't even stir. Makes me a little nervous in case there ever was a five alarm fire.
Anyway so the battle royale continues. I'll keep you posted.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
So I asked Matt what the proper term was and he said to use "vagina" and when I voiced my concerns on the accuracy of that he said, well isn't it your ulva, and I'm like no, are you thinking of the uvula? that thing that hangs down in the back of your mouth? To which of course he gave me the "I'm not an idiot" look, and rightfully so, sorry dear.
I thought I'd do a little online research to find out what term I should use, and possibly get some insights on how other parents tackle the body part discussions with their kids. My results indicated that I was correct - and urethra, anatomically speaking, is accurate however men have a urethra too and plus it's hard to say so most people use the term "vagina" oh and the Vulva is the catchall term for everything - vagina, labia etc. just in case anyone was wondering.
However, in my anatomical search I stumbled across a link for this site about how women can pee standing up using a device. I mean at first I thought it was a joke, but then lo and behold - there it was. An entire world opening up to me. A world where a woman could write her name in the snow and make use of that fabulous flap on the front of flannel pajama pants.
Now of course I had to research even further and I found several sites about this phenomen. Here are a few links.
The P mate: http://www.femalefreedom.ca/product.htm
It's basically a fancy cardboard box with a wax coating - like those chinese take-out boxes" - that acts as a funnel.
The Sweet Pee: http://www.mysweetpee.com/using/index.asp
Now this one looks absolutely terrible. I mean it's like a foot long and they recommend you use it facing away from the toilet. Must have been invented by a man - trying to keep us squatting! Plus they're too discreet to show a picture of the actual product anywhere on the site, just these illustrations. If someone's willing to use a funnel to piss in a toilet, I don't think they're going to mind seeing an actual picture of it on the screen.
The Travelmate: http://www.travelmateinfo.com/page002.html
Which is my personal favorite because they sell an optional carrycase - you can tell everyone it's a pair of sunglasses. The other reason it's my favorite is because it looks the most like an actual dick and if you're gonna use something like this then I say go all the way. It's only 6 inches long too which is both discreet and realistic.
Now as great as I think these products are, I couldn't help but notice a faint sound from within. It was my inner feminist and she was screaming, "what is this? Penis envy? How is this furthering the cause? Instructing women to don faux penises in order to "pee like a man" why can't we pee like a woman - just do it standing up!" And that's when I found this site:
which details the proper technique for a woman to pee standing up - with the use of only her hand. We can do it ladies, and here are the instructions, with some useful insights from real women who have mastered the skill.
I was a little disturbed though from some of the comments from women who said they loved that they don't have to stand in line for the ladies room anymore. They just go in to the mens and use the urinal. Now I don't know first of all that I would have the guts for that and second of all, I don't know that I'd really recommend it for anyone who's single. I mean imagine trying to get a guy to take your number when you're very first encounter was in the mens room and involved a conversation about the lack of urinal cakes.
I think it's a skill that could come in handy. I'm thinking I should work on it - though obviously I wouldn't need to do it at home, because my toilet is clean for one, and it would really confuse the kid then, but imagine the rumors that could get started at work when people start noticing that my feet are always facing towards the toilet. Oh, and think how it would come in handy when I have to pee when I have Gwen with me. I could hold her in one arm and pee with the other without having to put her down and watch her play the "how many bacteria-infested surfaces can I touch and lick" game.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
I don't want your advice, I don't want your pity, I just want you to be aware so that if this is my last post it's because I've finally taken a screwdriver to my temple in an attempt to make an escape hatch for whatever creature is trying to claw its way out of my brain.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Anyway, I'm going to put links to my 2 new sites in the links section of this blog. One is another Blogger blog that I'm dedicating to my craftier side, and the other one is a website I put together (from one of those free website places so don't be too impressed) for the Tacky Treasure Gift Competition that Shawna and I have every year. I've been having lots of fun with that one and hope you enjoy.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Since then I’ve managed to keep my excitement fairly contained simply because I know that 9 months can be a heck of a long time, especially when you’re anticipating something this much and I don’t want to get myself or her overly excited this early. However, she’s starting to show a little bit now and every time I see her and that blossoming belly, somewhere deep in my psyche, right next to my repressed sense of self worth, is a tiny little version of me jumping for joy and anticipating the arrival of a little soul that I will love just as much as I love her – and that’s quite a bit.
Monday, October 29, 2007
To me really that's the best kind of content - the questionable kind. It's probably due to the profanity that's sprinkled around here. I'm a big fan of cussing. It's an outlet for frustration really and since I have to try and curb it vocally in front of the kids, (I will really try to do better Matthew dear) I like to let it run rampant in other modes of communication.
The fun thing about the email system at work is that it blocks incoming or outgoing messages with "questionable content" so I have to be creative and use a lot of "s hit" and "a$s" and "bi tch" spelling variations.
In theory - that is - because I'm not one to send personal emails from work. That would be a misuse of company time and resources.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Gwen was playing with the phone Friday night, as she's done on many occassion. It's very cute really, how she holds it up to her ear and says "Da, DA, ya, YA". She's a genius really I think - because she grasped the concept of the telephone at the tender age of about 8 and a half months.
Anyway, I was picking up around the house - or trying at least to stem the tide of toys and I noticed she had the phone so I grabbed it and pressed the end button and put it back on the charger. 5 seconds later it rang and it was the police. Yep, the little shit had dialed 911. I was mortified. I apologized profusely, and assured them that I'd keep the phone away from the infant. I could just envision my name being put on a list of 911 prank call offenders. It was awful and two days later I'm still mortified.
I feel like I got really lucky though because just mere moments before I noticed she had the phone I'd been yelling at the dog, who'd been barking all damn afternoon (she's a beagle, enough said) and I'd just said something to the effect of "I'm going to lock your butt in the basement so long that you'll forget what daylight looks like!" So it's a miracle that the Police just called me back rather than showing up at my door with armed officers and a Department of Human Services liason. Oh and by the way, Beagles don't really respond to idle threats any more than children do.
I tell you this kid is trouble. She scales bookcases, climbs stairs, falls head first into the bathtub, and just this afternoon I caught her playing with the knobs on the stove. Well, at least if she maims herself she'll know how to call for help.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
That was the burning question Aaron posed to me this afternoon as I sat down to take a piss. He's recently become extremely puzzled as to why I sit down on the toilet when I pee, while he employs the vertical position. And he should be puzzled, sometimes I wonder if it's possible myself and dream of a world where I wouldn't have to rest my ass cheeks on a disgusting public toilet seat - I can't do the hover squat, I've tried many times in vain.
Anyway, so I chose to hit the issue head-on with the cold hard facts. I said, "because Mommy doesn't have a penis like you do." and I pointed to the general area to give him a hint of what one of his body parts I was referring to, and he gave me this exasperated look. The same look that he gives me when I refer to a whale as just a whale and not a humpback whale or when I say, "look at that pretty bird" and he says, "that's not a bird, it's a scarlet macaw" like I'm some kind of ignorant clod (Thank you Diego). Then he says "That's my belly", because pretty much in his mind anything between the nipple and the knee is his "belly".
After three failed attempts I still couldn't get him convinced that it was anything besides his belly, and he got bored with the conversation and went off to do something else. Hopefully we'll get it all straightened out at some point in time. I'd hate for him to one day say to a girl, I'll show you my belly if you show me your butt.
Monday, October 22, 2007
However, the last couple of weeks he's been calling me "Mom" and quite frankly it's breaking my heart. My first inclination was to ignore it. I wouldn't answer him when he called me Mom, I'd say, "I'm sorry, were you talking to me? My name is Momma." and he'd just giggle and continue to say Mom. I was, and still am, hoping that it's just a phase and that one day he'll start calling me Momma again.
I mean, Mom, it's so plain, so uninspired! It's like coloring inside the lines, it's like pancakes with no syrup, it's like riding on a plane and never looking out the window. The name itself is like a stale saltine on my tongue and I've got nothing to wash it down with except my tears.
Okay, maybe I'm being slightly overdramatic. I mean I call my mom, Mom and she's anything but plain. But it's just that being Momma made me feel special in its own little way and frankly I'm kind of sad about the prospect of that going away. Plus it's one of a million reminders that my little boy isn't quite so little anymore. But I'll get over it I'm sure. Maybe, . . . eventually, after years of therapy.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Me: "Do you smell that?"
Me: "It's like something rotten"
Matt: "It smells like citrus."
Me: "No, but it's definitely a fruit - is there a rotting apple core in the wastebasket?"
Matt: "No, I think it's a citrus smell."
Me: "What would be citrus in here?"
Yesterday we finally found the culprit. The fermenting remnants of an open bottle of apple juice in the back seat. Score one for me! I knew it was an apple.
Monday, October 15, 2007
The tricky part is that the pants are black, and dark brown so the only way I can tell one from the other in the dark is that the black pants have a button missing on the back pocket. So I grope them every morning to discover which pair is which. The heel on my right brown shoe is almost falling off and that's the only way I can tell them apart. The shirts are easily distinguishable by texture and sleeve length.
However, one day last week Aaron slept on the hide-a-bed in the living room. He likes to do that every once in a while. He calls it "camping out" and I indulge him occassionaly. Well when Matt got home he decided to just join him and he slept on the hide-a-bed in the living room as well. When I got up for my shower, Gwen stirred so I placed her in the living room with Matt.
So after my shower, I walked into the bedroom . . . and . . . I flipped on the light. Not just the bedside lamp - oh no! I was taking full on advantage of the situation, and as the room became bathed in the soft glow of the 40 Watts from the butt ugly ceiling fan, I just stood there for a moment and basked in it. I was like a prisoner who'd been locked in a dungeon and was experiencing his first sunrise after years of confinement and darkness. I could literally feel the tungsten produced warmth on my face! I opened the closet door and actually chose my clothing by sight! I even got a little cocky and pulled out 3 shirts and laid them out on the bed so I could choose which one would look best. I could hear birds chirping, possibly a distant harp . . . it was beautiful!
Then Matt woke up and wanted to get into bed with the kids so I was left choosing my socks by the dim light of a keychain flashlight. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
So the site's got a new look. A new header - artfully created by yours truly, and I'm going to be rotating some of my favorite funky retro pics on the side. Mostly these are magnets and cards and stuff I've seen online and thought were funny. I'm a big fan of the retro stuff, as are a lot of people right now so feel free to jump on the retro wagon with me.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
The predominant convenient store in that area of the state is Kwik Star - formerly known as Kwik Trip until they got sued by the other franchise that can't spell the work "Quick" correctly either. I was a little caught off guard when I went into the restroom and found this: A syringe disposal unit.
Now obviously, as you can see it's labeled "for the convenience of our Diabetic customers" Now that sounds all well and good. Noble perhaps however the problem was that the first town we stopped in had a population of maybe 900 people - and that was probably counted when there was a kegger and a bonfire party going on that pulled some folks over from neighboring towns.
How many diabetics could there be in town? Is it an epidemic? And let's say the town is riddled with people suffering from this disease - do they all go to the Kwik Star bathroom when they need an insulin shot? Do they keep their used needles in one of those Ziploc or Glad tupperware knockoff containers at home for a couple weeks and then run them to the Kwik Star for safe disposal? Do traveling diabetics dispose of their hypodermics in convenient store bathrooms?
I can't claim to know any diabetics and I don't want to be insensitive to their disease or claim that I know what they go through on a daily basis to manage it. But I find it unlikely that they go around nonchalantly tossing their syringes in public bathroom trashcans.
What point am I trying to make? I don't really know - just that it was strange I guess. And it kind of struck me as perhaps a thinly disguised attempt to offer someplace for all the meth addicts to drop their needles. This suspicion was strengthened when I entered the bathroom of the convenient store in the largest city we entered. They of course had a disposal box, but it didn't say a word about Diabetics.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Check out these cookies that I made for a party I had last weekend.
Okay so maybe Martha shouldn't be all that envious since it was her recipe I used. And the fact that only 3 people showed up probaby wouldn't make her feel all that inferior either.
It's a good thing I had plenty of pretty cookies left over to fill the gaping hole in my sense of self worth.
You know I had started this post to brag about my cookie decorating skills and now I've just knocked myself down a notch. Nobody does self-loathing like I do. It's a gift.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Somehow, while laughing, I managed to tell him to put his shirt down. We went up to pay and they had some Diego and Dora toys at the checkout, which of course he wanted to play with. One of them made music and my little boy, being a fan of all things bootyliscious wanted to rock out. Shawna and I look over as he says "Dance, Shawna, Dance!" and there he is, his little hips swaying to the music, his shirt lifted up and his fingers rubbing those nipples. The kid's got style!
It went a little something like this:
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
It’s so idyllic that it makes me ill. It’s probably a group of several families – perhaps all related or perhaps some are family and some are just friends and they all chip in for the rental of the jumpy thing and arrive with carloads of adorable kids and armloads of snacks to spend a lovely weekend frolicking in the atmosphere of fall and friendship.
I guess I’m jealous because I don’t know that many people. I mean I can count on one hand the number of people I know that would actually come to my house if I threw a party. And then there’s all those little kids forging fond memories of bonking heads inside that bouncy thing and my poor Aaron has pretend friends and begs us to take him 6 hours away to my brother-in-law’s house at least twice a month so he can play with his cousins.
The only thing that gets me by is that pretty soon he’ll start school and he’ll make some friends and maybe I’ll meet some moms and things will get better. Plus it’s probably not all that idyllic in reality. I mean the people who own the house are probably so ticked off by the end of the weekend that they’re ready to take an icepick to that inflatable thing and send everyone packing. They’ve had ungrateful kids trampling through the house and Uncle Mike probably gave them some lame excuse as to why he couldn’t cough up the $50 for his share of the bouncy thing, and the toilet backed up from being used by 30 people in a matter of an hour, Aunt Sherry brought her chihuaha that always pisses on the carpet, Grandpa got drunk and climbed in the bouncy thing to sleep it off and their second cousin probably showed up in a trashy mini skirt with the tattooed carney guy that runs the “Mission to Mars Massacre” ride.
Thinking of it that way makes me feel a little better.
Last year they had the Operation Freedom ride which was little camouflaged tanks that the kids got to ride around in and pretend to shoot Sadam or maybe Bin Laden. The best part was that the ride had obviously started out its life as something innocent like little cars or boats or something but then they welded the tank shell on top of the innocence and bolted an imitation AK 47 to the top.
Thankfully, this year the tanks were gone, but instead we’re taking the carnage all the way into space with what I like to call the “Mission to Mars Massacre” ride.
I mean look at these cute little ships and then they’ve bolted guns to them! I think the most disturbing thing is that the kids are aiming directly into the faces of the kids behind them. I mean seriously people! But I guess you could call me a hypocrite because I let my kid ride it.
People who know me best can call me an even bigger hypocrite because my son is fascinated and obsessed with guns. I always vowed to never have toy guns in my house and now I’ve got about 4 of them. I justify it because he loves to play cowboy (I only allow old fashioned wild west guns; nothing that looks even remotely real or like an automatic weapon) and even if he didn’t have toy guns he’d just pretend that something else was a gun. I mean look at what I’m up against! When they’re smacking simulated automatic weapons on kiddie rides there’s little I can do to shelter my kids from it.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
However, I've recently had to make an adjustment that I'm not sure I can live with. It's tearing me up, It's throwing me off and I don't know how much longer I can take it.
I've had to put the toilet paper on backwards!
Everyone knows that the toilet paper roll should be placed in such a way that the end of it comes rolling over the top. That's the natural order of things. It rolls from the top, allowing a smooth and flawless cascade of pure white softness into your awaiting hand. However, Gwen has discovered the toilet paper and the ease in which she can unroll the entire roll onto the floor and then toss it up over her head like confetti. So I've had to switch it around so that the end of the paper comes from the underneath which as we all know, makes it much harder for it to roll smoothly and therefore gives us the opportunity to catch her and stop her before the entire roll hits the floor.
It's been rough though. Everytime I reach for the TP it's like a part of me dies. You see I've always been an adamant over the topper. If I used a restroom where the TP wasn't over the top and I was able to switch the roll around - I would. So having an under the roll TP situation in my home is completely unnatural. It's really awkward too. I mean not incredibly awkward like say watching porn with your parents, but it just doesn't feel right to me.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Anyway, there’s a certain balance that must be kept. A balance between wanting to tell someone they’re a fuckin’ idiot and that the quality of their work sucks, and then knowing that you’ve got to see them and work with them 5 days a week for an undetermined amount of months or years. It complicates things even more when you are actually fond of them on a personal level, yet have qualms about their professional ability. It seems that within my particular department, one of the tools we’ve used to counter this inevitable dichotomy is the Post-It note.
Yes that lovely little piece of sticky backed yellow paper is one of our greatest assets. It allows us to 1. Avoid actual face to face confrontation. 2. Be vaguely insulting. And 3. Place blame/push work onto others. I’ll go through each of these in more detail.
1. Avoid face to face confrontation. Now the bulk of my responsibilities involve reviewing the work of my peers and therefore things can get a little awkward when you need to tell someone that their work is the largest, maggot infested, reeking pile of dung you’ve ever seen. The post-it-note is perfect. A lovely scrawled “This is not correct” or something to that effect, is much better and more professional than anything I could have said in person because I’m not the greatest actress.
2. Be vaguely insulting. People overlook a lightly veiled insult much better when it’s written rather than spoken. Plus sarcasm is so deeply embedded into my usual dulcet tone of voice that it comes through quite easily, so it’s much easier for me to write, “please re-do this entire section, paying close attention to the instructions” and it not be taken as the insult that it really is since I’m implying that they’re too stupid to follow clearly written instructions.
3. Place blame/push work onto others. The other great thing about Post-it-Notes is that they can be lost. Don’t want to do that requested change? Take off the note and throw it away. This way you can claim that you never saw it “it must have fallen off somewhere in transit – I never saw it” and if you’re lucky you’ll be too busy or headed off to a meeting, so that someone else will have to perform the odious task instead. Something was wrong? “oh well I didn’t know it was supposed to be that way – there was a post-it-note on the form that told me to do it this way – I don’t see it now though, it must have fallen off.”
So the post-it-note, I think, is one of the most useful office tools right. It's right up there with E-mail, which of course allows you to look like you're working when you're really just e-mailing everyone for advice about your undiagnosed rash.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Check out the official Talk Like a Pirate Day website for some laughs. I enjoyed the list of Pirate pick-up lines. Here are a few of my favorites:
-They don't call me Long John because my head is so big.
-That's the finest pirate booty I've ever laid eyes on.
-Come on up and see my urchins.
-How'd you like to scrape the barnacles off me rudders?
I'm surprised they didn't have one about Hoisting the Mainsail.
Friday, September 14, 2007
"Come on, show me 'angry molar', good, good, now give me 'sexy incisor' yes, work it, work it. How about a 'come-hither bicuspid', excellent! Keep it going, stay in the moment, how about a pouty face, yes very sexy, you're paying out the ass for this, now show me anger, show me emotion!"
I've never had that many X-rays in my life. I felt like I was glowing after I got out of there. I probably would have registred on a Geiger counter. Then the doc comes in and does an "oral cancer screen' which involved him pretty much touching every square inch of my mouth. He was feeling my salivary glands, running his finger over my gums and the sides of my cheeks. This guy probes an orifice in more detail than my gynecologist!
He then proceeds to tell me that he can tell by the slight enlargement of my salivary glands and the slight inflammation of my tongue that I likely either have a cold or slight allergy which has been causing me to sleep with my mouth open, which I do know to be true because I woke up with drool on my pillow all last week. It was fantastic! It was like CSI Dentist (well except for the fact that I was alive). I kept waiting for him to recite every food item I've eaten in the last month, and then say how he can tell that I use my teeth to pry that stubborn paper cap off the top of a new milk jug.
I didn't have a cavity to speak of and of course it ticked Matt off. You know I can't help it that I've got fabulous teeth and have never had a cavity in my life. I only brush once a day and we've already established the fact that I don't floss, and yet I've got Herculean teeth. I'm pretty proud of it actually but he really shouldn't be that jealous. I mean wouldn't some other genetic trait be better - like a metabolism so swift that it would allow me to eat an entire box of Twinkies and drop a pound afterward.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Hygienist: How often do you floss?
Me: At least once a year whether I need it or not, and then maybe again if I have steak or popcorn stuck in my teeth.
Hygienist: That would be the reason I have to use this jackhammer to break the plaque off your teeth.
Friday, September 7, 2007
What do you mean, “her nutritional needs aren’t being met” I let her drink the whole 2 litre. There’s like .005% fruit juice in there!
We took Gwen in for her 9 month checkup this week and they did a blood test to check for lead and to check her hemoglobin. The results indicated that her iron levels were low. Not dramatically low, but low enough that they want us to supplement her iron with a liquid iron vitamin supplement for at least a month.
Now they tell me this is normal and usually due to the fact that she’s growing so fast at this stage. However, me being the pessimistic, self berating person that I am, am convinced that it’s all my fault because I let her get away with just a few spoonfuls of pureed green beans, yet let her eat the entire jar of cherry vanilla pudding. So I’ve vowed that the kid will eat nothing but broccoli until she moves out.
No word yet on the lead test. We have to call next week and find out. It should be normal, that is unless the kid has touched anything that’s been made in China.
Onto another related subject: Gwen’s pediatrician, a very fine physician and personable gal, has “man arms” and they kind of freak me out.
They’re not hugely muscular or anything but they’ve got that vein popping thing like body builders and crack addicts have. And her arms are really tan too, like more tan than the rest of her so it reinforces the feeling that she’s surgically attached the limbs of a buff lightweight prize fighter to herself. I don’t know if it’s a genetic thing or maybe she just works out a lot and only puts her arms in the tanning bed - but they just always take me by surprise.
She comes in all feminine in her cute little lilac twin set and then goes to touch the kid and out come these GI Joe arms – veins throbbing like they’re separate entities posing in some vein popping body building competition. Freaky.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
So when Shawna and I were trying to fashion a pair of tits out of cake (a practice run for her hubby's birthday cake - don't worry Matt we abandoned the boob cake idea) it hit me that it was the perfect opportunity to weigh the girls. Boobs were forefront in our minds, I had a kitchen scale and someone to read the weight, so off went the bra and plop went the mammaries.
Now it was completely unscientific and I don't think it was real accurate. It was a difficult undertaking. It's not like I could detach the things and slap them on the scale. I had to try and let the full weight of them rest on the scale without leaning too far - therefore pushing more weight onto the scale, but then at the same time, I couldn't hold back too much therefore pulling weight off the scale.
I don't feel comfortable divulging their actual weight because for some reason I find that too personal to share, and yet I'm not finding it too personal to describe in detail how I weighed my own boobs on a kitchen scale. That's slightly odd isn't it? Oh well, I never claimed to be normal. But anyway I have to say that I was disappointed. I was expecting a wow factor. A moment of "My Lord I can't believe they're that heavy!" and well I just didn't get it. They came in at a much lighter weight than I would have expected and Shawna is convinced that they must weight more than what the scale showed but we did make several attempts and got the same result so I guess it's fairly accurate, or as accurate as you can get weighing your own body parts on a kitchen scale.
The more I thought about it though, and the more I compared the weight to other objects, the more I realized that they really are heavy. I mean imagine walking around with a newborn baby strapped to your chest at all times. That's the kind of weight we're talking here. And just think - when I had Gwen and she was attached to my boob 24/7 it was technically like I was smuggling twins under my shirt.
So to put things in perspective I gathered a bunch of household objects and weighed them to help you, the home viewer, envision what my poor defenseless bra is forced to hold up and try to make perky day after day. My boobs are as heavy as:
Looks like my bra could double as a shopping bag huh?
Monday, August 27, 2007
Techniques we’ve tried so far:
Letting her “cry it out” (we’ve found that she has a lot to “cry out” and it takes 45 minutes or longer before she’ll cry herself to sleep. The only reason we know this is because Matt has more tolerance than I because I give up at minute 30.)
Shawna came over one night last week with her friend Carrie so that we could fashion a pair of tits out of cake (that’s another story) and I soon discovered that Carrie must become more of a regular visitor to my house. Why? Because not only did she keep Aaron entertained and under control all evening but she also put Gwen to sleep, in the crib! It was like watching a magic show. Gwen was sleepy. Carrie held her, soothed her, suggested we play some static in the bedroom for “white noise”, she slowly held Gwen further away from her, laid her in the crib and offered her a stuffed animal to cuddle – done.
Now I’ve successfully laid the kid in the crib also but she usually wakes up about a half an hour later. But after Carrie put her in there that kid slept for 4 hours straight! Now I know that doesn’t sound real impressive for a 9 month old, as most normal ones are already sleeping through the night – but for Gwen that’s miraculous.
Now I will admit that when she wakes up at 2 or 3 a.m. I usually break down and bring her into bed with me. I know, shame on me, but still getting 4 hours of Gwenless sleep is fabulous. Plus with the static playing in the room she sleeps pretty soundly in the bed as well instead of tossing and turning as usual.
I must thank Carrie for her fabulous work and ask her to come over again so that she can teach me how to get her back to sleep in the crib when she wakes up. I wonder if she’d object to sleeping between Matt and I so that she’s on hand at 3 a.m. when I need her? She’s my Supernanny and her work is so fabulous that I haven’t even obsessed over the fact that I was schooled by a 20 year old in parenting. At least that is until right now, as I’m realizing it for the first time.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
I had my misgivings of course but it wasn't really crowded and we'd pumped him up for it: "GONNA RIDE THE BIG BUMPY SLIDE ALL BY MYSELF!" he'd say as if it was the coolest thing since string cheese. And that's pretty damn cool in his book because the kid lives off of string cheese and Diego yogurt - it's a wonder he ever has a bowel movement.
We buy the tickets, instruct him to walk up the steps slowly and carefully, and to wait at the top until the nice man helps him with his mat and tells him it's okay to slide down. Off he went with that burlap mat rolled under his little arm, and he didn't even look back. I had practiced my "reassuring, loving Mom smile" all afternoon, and I didn't even get to use it!
He even biffed it on the second time down and slid the last 10 feet on his face, and he still didn't need me. It was awful. Here I was at the base of the Giant Slide fighting back tears because my baby boy was growing up. I mean first it's the slide and then what? Shaving, dating . . . before you know I'll be pretending to like his wife (because, let's face it, no one will ever be good enough for him).
I got one trip down the slide on video. It's really bad because I used my digital camera that only takes like 60 second videos and is pretty poor quality. Plus I didn't really want to zoom in a whole lot because I wanted to capture the whole scene and also I had turned the camera to catch a portrait view and I don't know enough about videos or have any video editing software that will make this thing rotate the right way. So really the only reason I put it on here is because I was just really proud of figuring this much out. Just tilt your head to the side and use your imagination.
So Matt and I decided to try the Deep Fried Snickers bar on the last day of the fair. Now I've scoffed at this whole deep fried candy bar for years. "How could it possibly be good?" I'd always say. The booth sells deep fried oreos, snickers, milky way and twinkies. Now I've had a deep fried twinkie before at the farmer's market - and let me tell you it's not good. The cream filling disintegrates from the intense heat - and what's the best part about the twinkie my friends? The filling. So when that's gone - what's the point??
Out of all the choices the only thing that sounded halfway good was the Snickers and so we went for it. Now it doesn't look like much - as you can see in the picture above. Well actually it looks like a runny turd on a stick, but looks can be decieiving because it was delicious! Imagine: melted chocolate, gooey nougat, caramel and peanuts floating inside a warm coccoon of sweet deep fried batter. It was a thing of beauty, and now I've got to wait until next year to experience it again. It will be well worth the wait!
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Hi, my name is Amy Bruce.
I am 7 years old, and I have severe lung cancer . I also have a large tumor in my brain, from repeated beatings. Doctors say I will die soon if this isn't fixed, and my family can't pay the bills.
The Make A Wish Foundation, has agreed to donate 7 cents for every time this message is sent on. For those of you who send this along, I thank you so much, but for those who don't send it, what goes around comes around. Have a Heart, please send this.
Now first of all I hate forwards. Whatever miniscule humor or joy I might have found in that little joke or incredibly bad poem about friendship, or the power of love and Jesus, is instantly destroyed simply because it’s a forward. I used to open them years ago, now I just delete them but this one was from a family member and the subject was “please respond” so I thought maybe it might be something legitimate.
I think the thing that annoys me the most is when they try to guilt you into sending it on or back to who just sent it to you. For example if it’s a poem about best friends there’s usually some verbiage in there about how if I’m a true friend I’ll send it on to my other friends and I’d better send it back to the person who sent it to me to prove that they’re my friend too. What the hell? Are we in middle school again? Is this the electronic version of “if you like me circle yes and if you don’t circle no and then hand this note back to me.” I think maybe the fact that I haven’t blocked your emails and/or changed my email address without giving you my new address is evidence enough that I like you, even despite the fact that you’ve inundated my mailbox with this shit. And what’s with the “what goes around comes around” in this message? I don’t appreciate being threatened – even if it’s just with bad karma.
Secondly, this thing is crap. Poor little Amy doesn’t have lung cancer. Poor little Amy doesn’t exist and this email has been circulating for 8 years! Nobody can track forwarded emails. How could that possibly work? I know that technology is wondrous but think of the thousands of email services out there. They don’t keep track of what you forward on and then rip off a list to the Make a wish foundation. It’s not possible – I’ve researched it. Nobody can track what you forward from your email and quite frankly I think that’s a good thing.
I also found this on the Make-A-Wish site:
Each day, the Make-A-Wish Foundation and its chapters receive hundreds of inquiries about chain letters claiming to be associated with the Foundation and featuring sick children. However, we do not participate in these kinds of wishes. Some names associated with these wishes are: Jessie Anderson, Shane Bernier, Matt Dawson, Chad Briody , Amy Bruce, Jeff DeLeon, Rhyan Desquetado, Anthony Hebrank, LaNisha Jackson, Nikisha Johnson, Craig Sheldon, Craig Shelford, Craig Shelton, Craig Sheppard, Craig Shergold, Bryan Warner and Kayla Wightman.
So why the scam you ask? There’s a slight chance that they’re hoping to get some money from you. There is an email address that supposedly belongs to Amy that you can reply to and maybe they’re hoping some naïve schmuck will contact them and ask where to send the check. But mostly it’s just a gag. People get a real kick out of putting things like this together and envisioning their creations popping up in inboxes around the world. They would see that blurb on the Make a Wish site and probably cream their pants knowing that they’ve caused hundreds of people to take time out of their busy lives to check up on a useless and false email message that they’ve created. It’s the email equivalent of a fiery bag of dog shit on your front step.
I think I’ll just forward the contents of my junk mail inbox to Amy’s inbox as payback and maybe ask her if she’s the one who knocked over my son’s snowman and placed my front yard holiday reindeers into a mating position last year.
Monday, August 13, 2007
There are 4 different categories to enter and I entered a layout into each one this year. Now I was convinced, absolutely convinced that the 1 page layout I did of Gwen was going to steal the show – it was so good that it would literally shame everything around it. It would gleam like a diamond amongst the pile of dung that was everyone else’s entries!
Now I couldn’t find out the results until I actually went to the fair and I didn’t have tickets to go until Sunday, but my parents went on Saturday and then came to my house and congratulated me on my victory. I had won 1st place! I was instantly ecstatic. I jumped up and down as if somebody had just pulled into my driveway and handed me an oversized posterboard check.
Now I had assumed that my layout of Gwen was the winner and then they informed me that it was my State Fair themed page that had won, and instantly I was dejected.
Shouldn’t I have still been thrilled? Yes, I should have. However, I thought that page was mediocre at best. It was the last one I would have expected to win and the only thing going through my mind was that it must have been the only decent one in that category. There were probably only 3 other entries and they were created by 10 year olds with stickers and glitter glue.
Why do I beat myself up like this? Lack of confidence mostly. Just as I have a tendency to tear others down to protect myself from rejection; it seems that I must also tear myself down - why? I’m not quite sure. Perhaps I do need therapy to answer that one.
I went to the fair on Sunday and discovered to my delight that there were about 12 other very nice entries in the State Fair category and that I may have truly and actually won due to some small skill of my own.
I received an honorable mention on my 2 page layout about Aaron and I was very pleased with that as well. So I’ve been trying really hard to congratulate myself and feel like a winner without having to always conditionalize my victory both verbally and internally by constantly repeating: "I only won because the judge liked my journaling – the layout itself probably sucked – 12 other entries is really not that many to beat – if I thought that page was crap and it won then obviously I don’t know what’s good and what’s not, etc. etc."
It’s really pathetic being me.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
It's got an Idaho license plate. Did you know that Idaho plates actually say "Famous potatoes" on them? Not that there's anything wrong with the potato. It's a very noble tuber and feeds millions of people and Idaho should be proud of its spud production, but it just struck me as funny to have it on the license plate.
But then I saw something even funnier. They had pried off the "N" from the "Sentra" label and replaced it with an X. So yes, they were driving around in a "Famous Potato Idaho Sextra!" I loved it!
Monday, August 6, 2007
Alright so maybe there’s some truth to it.
However, those who love me are smart enough to know that I criticize others as a defense mechanism because I’m always afraid of not being liked. It’s a lot easier to deal with the fact that someone might not like you or want to be your friend if you can convince yourself that they’re white trash, or snobbish, or stupid.
Why am I telling you this? Well so that if you ever meet anyone who you feel is overly critical and judgmental of others or of you, maybe stop and think of how pathetic their self esteem is and maybe try to pity them a little. It could be a cry for help and acceptance . . . or maybe they really do think you’re an ass, it’s hard to tell.
It’s like 8th grade all over again, except for the acne and bad 80’s fashion – my low social status is sadly still the same.
These pencils have Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow on them, so there’s the nostalgia of the pencil style and the newness of the very hot pirate. I’ve been using them at work and they make me smile. It’s the little things in life!
Anyway, they were in town this weekend and stopped over at the house for a little bit. We’ve got a pet parakeet and Grandma was asking about it – if it talks, flies etc. and then Grandpa starts telling a story about how there used to be a lot of pigeons that lived in the barn at the farm where he grew up and they were always having babies etc. and I’m soaking in the story, expecting some lovely tale of how he perhaps found an abandoned egg and kept it warm and hatched it and cared for the chick; hand feeding it and letting it sleep on his pillow until it was strong enough to be released, and then he says, “Yeah, Mom used to cook ‘em up for dinner every once in a while and they were pretty tasty.” And I remembered who was telling the story.
Anyway, we’ve done some weekend traveling and then every evening last week I was desperately trying to finish some scrapbook projects that were due at the state fair on Saturday. They’re absolute crap that won’t win anything and I’ll end up feeling like a dejected loser (low self esteem and lack of self confidence – something else I don’t need a therapist to point out).
However, I’ve wanted to share the joys of my weekend travels with you. Two weekends ago we went to visit Matt’s family in Kansas, which is a 6 hour drive. It started out well. Matt was nauseated, due to illness and I was nauseated at the thought of 6 hours in the van with 2 small children, but had also not been feeling well the night before. About three hours in Aaron throws up. Now the nice thing about it is that he hadn’t really eaten much that morning, but he had been drinking this blue kool aid type concoction which made things quite colorful. Luckily we were near a rest area and got everything cleaned up with minimal fuss.
About an hour later he starts crying and says “I pooped”. Now he’s been doing fantastic with the potty training so it seemed unlikely that he would have just crapped himself on purpose. We stopped again and sure enough he had pooped and it was diarrhea and thanks once again to the blue drink – it was a lovely lime green color. I figure the kid, being new to the whole “Hershey squirts” phenomenon – probably just felt like he had to fart and let it rip and there was no stopping it. So when I changed him I put new underwear on him and figured he’d tell us next time he felt the urge. Nope. Half an hour later, same scene, different gas station. This time we put a pull-up on him just in case it happened again but thankfully it didn’t.
On the way back, Gwen was the problem. Let me just start out by saying that I love my children. Love them to death! Would throw myself in front of a bus for them, run into a burning building for them, jump into a shark tank for them, wear spandex in public for them – anything! That being said, let’s talk about little Miss High Maintenance.
My daughter is the sweetest thing, but if the first 8 months of her life are any indication of what the next 18 years are going to be like raising her, I might strongly contemplate selling her on the black market to some desperate couple who wants a child.
If this kid wants something, she’s gonna get it, and usually what she wants is to be held by me and to get it she’s got to scream, and she can scream. I know I’ve only got one other kid to compare her to, and maybe he was such an angel that I got spoiled, but this kid drives me crazy. She won’t sleep by herself, she’ll scream if you leave the room. It’s getting slightly better as she’s gaining the ability to move around on her own but it wears me down. If I have somebody over to watch the kids so I can get something accomplished I have to leave the room and if I need to speak to them I have to disguise my voice because if she knows I’m there she’ll scream till I come to get her.
Somehow she managed to be fairly calm on the way down to Kansas – I think it was the fact that she was entertained by her brother’s retching and the frequent stops. However, on the way home we just really tried to push through with minimal stopping and this did not make her very happy.
So for the majority of the trip home I held her in the back seat – yes, she was removed from her car seat, which I’m well aware is not safe, however, it is safer than if I had let her scream, therefore causing me to snap and club her over the head like a baby seal. However, she still was not happy. I think she just really wanted to be out of the vehicle and had she been 8 years instead of 8 months old, her screaming would have translated into something like: “I am like so sick of riding in here Mother. You can’t do this to me. I am so going to hold my breathe until I die unless you pull this van over right now and magically transport me home because I just like seriously cannot take it anymore! This is so totally unfair!”
This is my future people. Matt thinks it’s my fault. He thinks I’ve coddled her too much. I just think she’s naturally needy and the fact that I’ve coddled her has come out of the desperate desire for her to stop crying at all hours of the day. Doesn’t help that she’s been breastfed and is physically and emotionally attached to my boobs either. Maybe it will get better after she’s weaned. In the meantime, I’m not taking anymore road trips over 2 hours in length if I can help it.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
You should check it out because she’s very funny, a little too funny actually, maybe you shouldn’t check it out because then you won’t want to read mine anymore. That’s her whole plan right there – to steal my audience. That filthy little . . .
Just kidding. She’s always been one of my biggest supporters in everything I do and I love her like a sister. My kids know her as “Auntie Shawna” and we’ve already decided that if by any chance we should both find ourselves sans husbands we’ll just move in together and live out our lives letting the neighbors wonder whether or not we’re lesbians.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Unfortunately I didn’t really smell it before I purchased it (the whole term “unscented” kind of led me to believe it didn’t have a scent – silly me) and well – it’s hard to place but if I had to guess I’d say it smells like a bee’s ass – and now it’s smothered all over my hands. But other than that it's fabulous!
Thursday, July 26, 2007
However, it’s not wise to just quit altogether, it needs to be done gradually and my hubbie is going to try and fix the pump so that I might continue on if I want. So last night I thought I should get out the manual pump that came with my fancy electronic one and get accustomed to it so I could use it at work today.
I hooked all the parts together, and since you must have full skin contact to test the suction, I stuck it on my belly and started pumping. Here’s what the pump looks like:
Now to get it to work you move the plunger that’s on the end in and out, in and out, in and out – you get the point. It worked fine, I was ready to put it back in its bag, but of course Aaron was witnessing all this and wanted to give it a try. So here’s my 3 year old with a breast pump on his tummy and giggling uncontrollably as his belly button is sucked in and out. I couldn’t get that thing away from him, and finally just let him play with it for about 20 minutes.
So I tried using it today at work and got less than an ounce of milk. I don’t know if it’s because my mindset is already focused on the fact that I’m quitting, or if it was the nagging sensation that I was literally jerking off - my boob.
On the bright side, when Aaron gets older and asks what masturbation is, I can say “remember that pump you had so much fun with when you were 3 years old, well . . . “