Friday, December 16, 2011

An Open Letter to 2012

Dear 2012,

     This past year has really flown by!  2011 brought me a lot of great things, like my daughter, that bitchin' deal on a front loading washer/dryer combo, and my addiction to sweet potato fries.  I even drummed up the courage to start a small business that no one is interested in! 
     It's been so incredibly unbelievable this year.  So, 2012, with your impending arrival so near us, I thought I would take a chance and ask a small favor of your coming months--Could you, perhaps, spare me some drama?

     I understand it's a big moment for you, 2012.  The populous is speculating that the Mayan's were onto something when they only projected THOUSANDS of years into the future and then suddenly stopped when their hands started cramping.  I really don't want to step on your chance to shine as our last 12 months of existence, but, if the apocalypse does come...I don't want to spend the end of time being sucked into this vortex of egocentricity I usually find myself in every few months. 
     All I ask, 2012, is that people keep things in perspective this year.  I don't want to hear about how the meteor that destroyed most civilization threw off someone's groove and now it's somehow my job to get them back to a strict yoga routine.  Also, no, nobody should take it personally that the zombies are always trying to eat THEM.  They crave brains, so perhaps the less developed ones are more tasty, but it's really not worth pitching a fit over.  Let's just all grab shotguns and shoot them in the balls for fun.

     With that all said, 2012, it would be great if the world didn't end.  However, I understand your dilemma. So when it all comes down to things, I think I'll just find a nice, dead guy's house to squat in and ride it out.  If I can just ignore all of humanity, that would be fantastic.  And, even if the end of the Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican long calendar turns out to be nothing more than a case of Carpal Tunnel, could I still just ignore all of humanity until the end of time? 
      I really appreciate this, 2012.  I just need some time to turn my luck around and stop feeling like the whole universe is screaming at me like that drunk homeless woman did when I stepped too close to her shopping cart that one time.  


Saturday, November 5, 2011

Yo, she-bitch! Let's go!

I've been in a bit of a slump lately.  Maybe slump isn't the right term.  Maybe I'm just on the verge of a nervous breakdown and am one more late bedtime and tantrum away from hurling all my dishes out the kitchen window and running down the street, nude, singing the theme to Bubble Guppies.  

Terminology aside, I've actually been trying to improve my mood and stress level.  I came up with this amazing plan--to consciously do something that makes me happy every day.  I'd tried it out a few times, here and there.  But today I decided to start logging it.  I had a brilliant epiphany to use the blog to account for all my success, starting with today's episode in optimism:  Dress like I don't have children.  More importantly, dress as if I don't let my children's antics push my buttons to the point that I don't care if I look like a homeless party clown.

I was asked to have lunch with a friend at the mall.  Perfect!  I could wear my cute floral mini dress with some black leggings, rock star boots, and cardigan.  I even had beautifully crafted waves in my hair and my hot, peacock earrings....And then the universe pissed all over me like a cat with a UTI.

While at the mall, Michael decided to run off in JC Penney.  And since my rock star boots had heels attached to old lady ankles, pushing a double stroller, I couldn't catch him.  People along the way were pointing what direction he dodged last, until finally an employee was calling for a Code Adam on the walkie-talkies.  I was sobbing as he came lobbing around the corner to tell me that he was done sprinting.  And if I had to pick a favorite memory from the trip, that would be it.

At least I still felt some fondness for the booger at that point.  Because soon after, he was crawling into display beds, screaming down the hallways, and demanding that he get to play on the rides at the food court before eating his chicken nuggets.  I had to literally carry and drag him down the corridor to the exit with him screaming "I don't want to go home!" at a pitch and volume that could have shattered plexiglass.

I didn't even take a picture of my outfit.  I just came home, stripped into pajamas, and wiped away the raccoon eyes that my smeared mascara had left.  It's now 15 til 10 and the little beast is still awake, looking over my shoulder as I type this.  Not sure what demon possessed my sweet child, but let's get a priest, slayer, and a Super Nanny up in here to hit up a Necronomicon for some answers. 

Today's subject line quote is from Army of Darkness (1992).

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

I want to eat your brains, but only if they're organic and grass-fed.

Ugh.  I just ate a tuna salad bed at 9:30 p.m.  I'm disgusting.  It wasn't even a good tuna salad sandwich!  It was made with the lite, fall-apart, "smart" white crap that you can't use with peanut butter because it will shred as soon as the knife hits it.  Plus, I used reduced fat mayo and way too little pickle relish.  But did that stop me from finishing it?  Of course not.  I choked down the whole thing, even with too big of bites that it gave me that heartburn feeling where it feels like the entire sandwich is lodged in your chest somewhere and it would have to be surgically removed later.

But aside from my horrific recipe, I still ate a freaking tuna sandwich IN BED at 9:30 at night!  What's wrong with me?  I kicked my own ass to the gym last night and tortured myself for an hour long cross-training session with an instructor who insisted on listening (and singing along) to Nickelback.  Seriously?  Nickelback?!  That's the worst band in the history of music--all of music, even in the animal kingdoms.  I'd rather listen to howler monkeys or a cat in heat.  Or a choir of howler monkeys and horny cats in an ensemble.  I wanted to cry, from the pain in my legs and my ears.

That's all.  I just had to share how nasty I've become since my husband went to Asia.

Today's subject line quote is from How I Met Your Mother (2005 TV Series)
Episode: Sorry, Bro (2009)

Monday, October 17, 2011

Oh, loneliness and cheeseburgers are a dangerous mix.

I'm alone again.  Dom left last Thursday for a 5 week cruise around the Pacific, and I realized that I haven't spoken to another adult since Friday.  I'm so popular, you know.  Anyway, that's a whole lot of children time this weekend.  In fact, Michael hasn't slept in his own bed since Thursday night. 

The first night, he snuck in sometime after midnight, claiming to have had a bad dream.  The following evenings, I just gave up after a few hours of battling.  Last night I set up a pop tent on my floor.  It was kind of like having privacy, only with more snoring.  It doesn't so much matter because I'm laying awake at night anyway.

I've been wondering about some crazy what-ifs.  If I had an aneurism/heart attack while my husband is away--which it's likely, because all of this stress will probably kill me someday soon--I don't think anyone would realize for a good week or two.  Wouldn't bother me any; I'm dead in these scenarios.  But what about my kids?  I don't want my almost 4 year old having to survive off of the granola bars I keep on the counter top while my 9 month old fashions a rope to climb out of her dirty diaper and a blanket just to climb out of her crib.  The only supervision they will have is my retarded Labrador and his manipulative Beagle cohort (who is completely driven by the desire to eat, by the way).  My children will be raised by dogs, only to be eaten by them!

So I stare at the ceiling, trying to escape my inevitable doom of dying in my sleep and end up too tired to take care of my children properly anyhow.   What a world.

Today's subject line quote is from The Simpsons.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Look at this! It's like an advert for weight watchers! Before... and way before!

Since my family is on "vacation" right now (we tagged along on one of Dom's work trips and am visiting his sister in my down time), I've been eating things that should probably void my weight watcher's every meal.  And since I have no desire to return to slidouche 50 lbs heavier than I left, I promised myself that I would eat better today.

It's 4:30 and I'm eating a piece of ice cream cake for dinner. 

Seriously, I was all weepy in the shower thinking that maybe I could just cry away all the pounds I probably put on in the last week.  I had a great conversation in my head that involved some sort of pact about only eating Subway for the next 3 days and that I hate cheese on my sandwiches. 

I don't hate cheese.  In fact, I had McAlister's for lunch today and ate a giant bowl of cheese dip and a bowl of potato and cheddar soup.  At this rate, I will continue teetering on the edge of fat until I finally just lunge headfirst into my first heart attack.  I've lost about 20 lbs. since having the baby, but I've been stuck in the 150's for months now.  And with my whopping height of 5'3....okay...5'2 and 3/4, it puts me VERY close to a healthy BMI.   

Close.  But it still makes me self conscious any time I have a lapse in food judgement.  Or say, if I never drink water and end up bloating up like a week old dead guy in a river.  Then I get mopey and eat cake for dinner.  It's a vicious cycle.  That's why I'm licking the last bits of chocolate, melty goo off my fork while trying not to flood my sister-in-law's dining room with my tears.

Today's subject line quote is from The Sopranos , "University" (2001).

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

I write... Erotic novels, for children.

     Oh great.  I'm a writer, blogging at Starbuck's.  Quick, somebody get me a beret and a cigarette!  Lately, I'll take what I can get.  Though I've worked it out with Dom to go "work" for 2 hours, twice a week.  We're in our second week, and it's going phenomenally average. 

     It takes a while to get back into the swing of things, they say.  See?  I'm using cliches!  I don't do that.  But my brain is so mushified from the last few months' abuse that I just have to suffer with the rest of you readers.  I'm almost sorry that you chose to read this.  Almost.  I also love attention...and comments. 
     Well, my writing time is established and I have happily chosen to blog tonight.  Mostly because my head has been on the verge of a hearty explosion with all the whatnot crammed inside of it.  If I don't get this all out in writing soon, all Slidouchebags within a 100 meter range might get slimed with grey matter and whatever stress looks like manifested and exploded out of my brain. 

     So let's see, what have I done lately?  Let's give a brief recap of 2011.  Had a baby--check.  A baby who didn't understand that breathing wasn't quite like a Nascar race and collapsed her own lung and had to spend her first two weeks in the NICU.  Then a follow up visit to the pediatric unit three months later for a virus.  And I topped things off with her by dropping her on her tiny, infant skull at the movie theater and had to rush her to the E.R. yet again, only to be dismissed as a clumsy, idiot, mother. 

     She's doing well now.  Trying to learn crawling.

     I also made a metric ass ton of plans and prepped for our upcoming move to Maryland.  Make that Virginia?  No wait, wait!  Nowhere.  Yup.  I spent about 6 months and 200 some odd dollars trying to get childcare arrangements made for Michael so he could attend preschool next fall.  But we're stuck in the swamp until May, possibly next fall.  It's a decision that Dom and I felt was the best, though the thought of spending another summer here in this hell-hole (literally, it's about 4,193,289,834 degrees here) is making that grey matter pulse a bit.  It's better that we're not there in the midst of all that earthquake chaos; I heard a lawn chair fell over in Virginia.

     Now my lady parts are malfunctioning and I have to beg for a referral from my primary doctor in the morning and hope she cooperates before 2:30 tomorrow.  Otherwise, I might have to actually pay for somebody to go spelunking for cancer up in my cooch. 

     And I'll leave you with that, I suppose.  You're welcome.  Stay classy, like me.

Today's subject line quote is Friends: "The One with the Girl from Poughkeepsie"(1997).

Saturday, July 16, 2011

It's a good tub. I slept there for my 30th birthday.

     It's 7 a.m. on my birthday and I'm awake and everyone else is sleeping?  After sampling 20 beers last night at the tasting, I should be in some kind of hangover coma.  You know?  I don't even enjoy beer.  But I tried every last one at the Wine Market, took notes, and promptly collapsed to the floor in the back room.

     It was Dom's idea to go, but that was before we realized that our babysitter, backup babysitter, and the family that have coming into town this weekend would all be unavailable on Friday night.  So the plans we had made for my birthday extravaganza were modified to have me go drink, basically, over a dozen shots of beers from around the world.  By the last table, I was a bit tipsy and certainly cleansing the palette with huge chunks of bread because all of table 3 tasted like nut flavored vinegar.   

     Meanwhile, my husband is babysitting our adorably sick daughter.  And by "adorably," I mean she kept me up all night screaming her face off until I numbed her throat with Baby Orajel.  She has the hand, foot, mouth virus--which leaves ulcers in the back of your throat and can eventually spread to your feet, hands, and torso.  I had it about a year ago.  I was pathetic!  Couldn't even open the front door because my hands were so sore.  I also looked like a leper. 

     My point is that exhaustion and alcohol don't mix.  I had finished sampling and was chatting with my friends around the snack table and suddenly I was on the floor.  Blame it on the drinks or the hooker heels I was wearing, but for all I know and remember...I could have been abducted by aliens in the time it took me to hit the ground.  Now my right hand and hip and opposite thigh are all bruised up from hitting the table and then trying to break my fall (though not succeeding, apparently). 

   The rest of the night went more smoothly.  We had a great time at dinner, even if they locked us back in the meeting room and we ate our burgers on desk chairs.  And there was a great variance of conversational topics from the left side of the table to the right.  The left end was discussing finances over their wine glasses while the right side was making jokes about bestiality and discussing how masturbation on airplanes is frowned upon.  Since I was in the middle, I like to think that I had one foot in both worlds.

     Now that I've made myself out to sound like a drunken whore, Happy Birthday to me.  I want to be a lady when I grow up!  Maybe for my 28th birthday someone will get me some dignity. 

Today's subject line quote is from Bridesmaids (2011).


Saturday, July 2, 2011

We have two giant hamsters running in a massive wheel in our secret underground lair.

     Are you kidding me, Universe?  Two days after getting our car "fixed" at Sears, Dom had to get a jump while out running some errands!  And today he tried to take it back in, but because he left the invoice here at the house they absolutely, could NOT help him.  Apparently the woman that worked with my husband also received the "how to be a tool in the service industry."  It must be standard orientation for Sears Automotive.

     And on his way home from the mall, work called.  Apparently they screwed up his duty timing.  He had agreed to work overnight tonight, but he was written in as 8 a.m. instead.  So all of our daytime plans were kablooey, and I'm now scouring the house looking for a missing hamster that happens to be the same color as all the giant, dust-covered furballs that are blowing around in the corners and under the couches. 

     Did I mention that I spilled paint on our carpet?  Twice.  Two separate colors.  I'm such a walking catastrophe.  I have no idea how I function every day.

Today's subject line quote is from Lost (2004)  The Man from Tallahassee.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

I promised sears I would tell this story on stage every night until the lawsuit settled...

     The chaos has returned and it brought it's friends, turmoil and misfortune.  Today was supposed to be a fun day at the mall.  My playgroup was meeting for lunch and a short walk around the shops and I was very much looking forward to a good romp with the mommies.  Shut up, that did not come off as sexual. Nearly 5 hours, 2 tires, an alignment, an obscure battery-related part, and 2 overly tired children later,  I wasn't singing the "Fun Times with Cassidy" theme song or doing the matching, jaunty jig.

     My first disappointment today was when my favorite mommy friend made the decision that hermitage better fits her lifestyle and has recently become rather reclusive.  It's not her fault, she has a lot on her plate.  However, much of my excitement for the morning meetup was to catch up with her. 
     So my first thought was Oh!  I can skip it, put the kids in extended care at the gym and go get my hair cut.  But then I started to feel a twinge of guilt because Michael loves going to the mall and seeing his buddies.  Plus, I do have other friends that I enjoy spending time with that would be going.  What I should have done, was stay home and eat chips in my pajamas.

     When I stopped to get gas across the street from the mall, I not only got the slowest pump on the planet but ended up calling my friend Kristine to come give me a jump start.  And since I hadn't had to jump a car since Driver's Ed. in 11th grade, we pulled her boss over from the Vitamin Shoppe to come connect the cables. It's embarrassingly simple, and if it hadn't been 10 1/2 years, 2 kids, and a massive hemorrhage of brain cells since I've had to use that knowledge...then I could have done it myself.  But since Bossman declared "Just so you all know, these ladies needed a man over here!" as soon as he hit the parking lot, I clearly didn't have the assets to complete the task.  How could I have left my frank and beans behind on a day like this?

   My next mistake was dropping the car off at my friendly Sears Automotive Center, where the assnugget named George clearly didn't want to be working today...or possibly ever.  I was waiting in the car with Complainypants McWhinerson Michael and a screaming baby while he did some kind of 9283748237498 point inspection on the car in front of me.  Then when I told him my problem, he directed me to move into the spot next to me AFTER the delivery truck vacated it at an indeterminable time.  After about 15 minutes, I actually got out of the car and asked the delivery guy if he was leaving in the next century. 
     Assnugget George then helped 4 teenagers deliberate over cheap tire for another 10 minutes before acknowledging my presence.  Why?  Well, it's a scientific fact that assnuggets lack the glands necessary to multitask, but often have an excess of sweat glands.  He then lectured me on the baldness of my tires and bullied me into buying 2 new ones, rotating the existing ones, and probably giving him some kind of commission for hassling me and smelling like cologne and B.O.  Then he wrapped it up with the infamous words, "It will be ready in about 2 hours."

     He did call me about 2 hours later and inform me that my back, passenger side tire had a nail in it.  We had already had a stellar dialogue going back and forth on how I really didn't want to do much of this before talking to my husband.  "Don't do any more to the tires, I want to talk it over with my husband first before--"  Then I was cut off with, "Well you still want us to do the front tires, right?  You agreed to that already!"  He was almost panicked at this point, and I reassured him that was the deal.  "But you want me to keep the nail in it and send you home on a leaking tire?"
      Well, no.  But I did want to consider getting two more tires and the thought of spending more dough to get that one fixed didn't make much sense to me--especially since it had been a slow leak for a good year now and no Michael Bay caliber explosions on the highway had occured.  But the thought of having to come back there, or even somewhere else where I would have to deal with such douchebaggery just made me agree to the damn patch job. When I asked him how much the repair would cost, he said this...and I'm not paraphrasing..."You mean the amount I told you this morning and printed on your invoice?  $19.95." 

     I headed back over to Sears since Assnugget George informed me that my car would "be ready very soon."  And perhaps truthful to some degree, since the Sears Automotive Center is some kind of vacuous time suck where laws of physics don't apply.  I left the mall at 3:30, after arriving at 10:45.  And the whole way home all I could think of was Ron White's comedy bit about the Sears mechanic and hoping it wasn't going to be true in my case.  "Apparently he was sick on lugnut day, but they still let him work on my van!"  

Today's subject line quote is from Ron White,  They Call me "Tater Salad".


Saturday, June 25, 2011

I was thinkin' "Hey, Saturday. Maybe a slow day for once". No rest for the wicked.

     I'd like to start today's post by informing everyone that it is sponsored by Barnes and Noble's free WiFi and not the internet at the gym.  Not that I haven't been whipping my buns into a firm and extraordinary shape.  Because I have been going, just using the facilities for working out instead of exploiting the daycare center for typing time. But Barnes and Noble?  That requires driving north on a long strip of nothing for about 30 minutes until reaching the giant chunk of land where all civilization is located.  So long Slidouche, it's my morning off!

     Do you know how long it's been since I've had a Saturday free, much less to myself?  We're in the middle of birthday season.   Almost every child I know was born between between the months of April and June; therefore, all of my weekends are full of various venues full of kids running laps, hyped up on cake that I can't eat.  Okay, shouldn't eat. 
     But since I know what anxiety is spawned by spending hours planning a party that will astound your child, entertain the guests, and not have to apply for a loan in order to pay for it, only to have 2 of the 30 some odd RSVPs actually show--I genuinely want to go to these things.  What's a few hours for some kids' happiness right?  Even if 3 hours magically turns into you include packing a diaper bag, travel time, and having to physically lift the 35 lb. preschooler up over your shoulder and run him out to the car even though he'll LOVE it when he gets there, but refuses to do anything but sit in his pajamas eating cereal for 4 hours every morning.
     So I guess my point is actually simple: 

Parents and Parent Wannabes, STOP HAVING SEX IN LATE SUMMER. 

     I'm not factoring in the "surprises," so maybe that will even out the amount of Springtime babies.  It won't do anything for the kids Michael's age that eff up my weekends, but perhaps Ivy's friends will have the decency to spread themselves along the calender.  Seriously, I have chores to do and I don't want to pay a teenager 10 bucks an hour on a Tuesday morning so that I can do them.

Today's subject line quote is from Fringe (2008):  Over There: Part I.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

You're messing with my Zen thing, man!

     I just spent the last half hour literally laughing my ass off.  I took my first Pilates class at the MegaGym and it was challenging.  Maybe not so much from the workout, but from trying not to fart while silently giggling in the corner.  That and not stretching.  I assumed that we would do a little pre-stetching ritual, maybe work into the difficult moves.  But it was apparently my job to do that before we started ripping the muscles from their rightful places and throwing them across the room for 30 reps.

     That wasn't the funny part.  The hilarity of the situation was that I was in a room full of old ladies, one of whom was Hispanic and decided to let out an "Aye!" or Spanish inflected "Oh!" every time she flexed.  Have you ever tried breathing correctly with one leg behind you and the other in front of your face, above your head AND silently convulsing so nobody realizes just how humorous you think an old woman's pain is?  It's not easy.  But the good news, is that I definitely engaged my core!  It's involuntary to tense up the entire abdomen when suppressing laughter.

      Now I'm having some quiet time in the lobby with my netbook.  I still have 45 minutes before they make me haul the munchkins home or make me pay them extra to keep them alive.  I probably look ridiculous sitting here, but I love it.  I can sit here and type til my heart's content and nobody will yell, "Mommy!  Be the bad guy!  Now run from the dragon before it eats you!"  At least I hope not...but that would be an altogether different experience, wouldn't it? 

     And after cleaning up the spilled contents of a hamster cage, getting baby diarrhea sprayed onto me, and listening to 2 exceptionally needy children for all those hours yesterday--I might take my chances with any weirdos I might encounter here in the lobby.  I might leave with them.

Today's subject line quote is from TRON:  Legacy  (2010).

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

He's not going to quit bouncing, I'll tell you that.

     Excuse my absence.  Again.  I feel like 80% of my blogs start with some kind of apology these days. Sorry for that, too.  My family has been mega busy the last few weeks.  We've joined the gym, ended the school year, had a trip to the E.R. after dropping the baby on her head.  You know, the usual.  Don't worry, I'll elaborate that last one for you.

     Our theater has a summer program where they run old children's movies on the big screen for $3.  Michael loves it because he can go to the movies every week.  I love it because it basically costs pocket change and it includes popcorn and a drink.  This kid is a movie junkie.  We've seen almost every children's flick in the theater since the second Chipmunks came out in 2009.  Movies aren't cheap any more, never really were.  But now, even matinee showings are $7 a ticket.  For 3 tickets, it's 21 smackers!  If you factor in enough snacks and drinks for all of us, we're looking at having to sell organs on the black market.  Once Ivy is old enough that we have to pay for hers too, we might as well just give them Dom's nuts because we won't be affording any more children.
     That is, if Ivy lives past a year.  With my divine parenting skills and all, I mean.  I've got some mean baby dropping moves, let me tell you!  Moral of the story: "Don't try to pee with your infant in a baby sling."  I leaned too far forward and she popped right out of the front of it, smacking her head on the bathroom floor.  So not only did I have to worry about a concussion, her brain hemorrhaging, and cognitive delay, I also exposed her whatever the hell was growing on the floor of the public toilet.
     We made it in and out of the emergency room pretty quickly.  She wasn't showing any signs of trauma and after answering all the questions about the fall, the doctor gave me a why are you even here? look. But Michael reminds me any time that I use the carrier that "If Ivy falls out, we'll have to take her back to the hospital.  So be careful!"

     But when I'm not throwing my children on the ground, I've been spending my free time preparing for my sister-in-law's upcoming destination wedding.  We're headed to Denver on Friday and I'm extremely excited to be going out there.  DiMaggio weddings are inexplicably fun.  It's a banquet hall full of loud Italians with Dom's quirky sense of humor.  What's not fun about that?
     Finding an outfit for the wedding, was not so enjoyable.  I went to seven stores over three days before I found something that fit well enough.  I could have given up earlier, but most of the ensembles looked like a strapless trashbag was draped around me. That's because my body is an asymmetric blob consisting of about 3 different dress sizes throughout. 
     My top was somewhere between a 12 and 14, my ass was a 10, and my gut a 12.  Seriously, did you know that when you have large breasts and then have two kids, they get even BIGGER?  I got fitted by a specialist and these ladies are a 34 FF.   The Victoria's Secret "bra wench" tried to stuff me in a 36 DD the day before that.  Ha!
     I was able to find a decent pick.  It's a simple, yet elegant, blue dress that I'm spicing up with a belt and strappy shoes.  Know what the final size was?  An 8. 

     I  should just change my name so that my initials are WTF.  Those would make a nice monogram for a set of towels, don't you think?

Today's subject line quote is from Kung Fu Panda  (2008).


Thursday, May 19, 2011

Here. It's all right here in my noodle. The rest is just scribbling. Scribbling and bibbling, bibbling and scribbling.

     It's been almost a week since my day at the spa and I still really, really want to write a post about my experience.  Unfortunately, I've had a unusual week packed with tons of other bloggable material and have no idea when I'll get to share any of it at length.
   Such as today.  I waited 15 minute for the handicap fitting room at Ross to open up so I could fit my big-ass stroller inside the stall and not have to get dressed half in the hallway so nobody would steal my baby.  After the eternity passed, I expected to see an old lady open the door or even another mom whom I could exchange the "yeah, I know" head nod and cram my travel system through the door.  Not even close!  It was a perfectly bipedal adult, the size of my middle finger...of which I wanted to show off to her so badly.
     There were 7 empty dressing rooms of an appropriate size, but Miss Petite Thing had brought in probably 20 items and, I guess, wanted it to feel like a walk-in closet.  Who knows?  She could have taken a nap in there for the amount of time I was stuck waiting, shoved into the mirror corner.   And then I got stuck in 1 of my 2 dresses I wanted to try on!  Because, apparently, I have a size 10 ass and size 18 boobs.

     There's also been late nights with both kids, followed by a vomiting preschooler who, later in the same day, could have finished a marathon before the end of a Robot Chicken sketch.  Obviously I have a lot of lovely stories that I am excited to share, but such stories keep me from posting.  Vicious cycle, folks.
     In the midst of such, I've actually gotten some sincere suggestions that I write a book based on all my chaotic happenings.  I have to confess that the idea has landed on my brain a few times, but this pattern of disarray makes it pretty unlikely unless I find some serious time to myself--which is partly why I have decided to rejoin the ranks of the Naked Grannies and rejoin Megagym.
     Though the most appealing aspect of rejoining is probably just being able to shower and throw some makeup on in a quiet environment, even if the old ladies like to walk around in le buff.  I know that's totally not real French.  But "le nu" probably wouldn't make sense if you didn't already know real French, so...le suck it.  Also not real French.  Regardless, I'm hoping to spend some time post workout working on more entries and maybe even compiling a stack of crap to photocopy and send to you guys as a "book."  Or send to a publisher, whatever.  Oh, and I created a facebook page.  "Like" me, would ya?
     But my dinner is burning and this has already taken me about 4 hours long to write this than I had hoped.  So I'm going to go salvage my pasta. 

Today's subject line quote is from Amadeus (1984).

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Dozens of people spontaneously combust each year. It's just not really widely reported.

     Summer is quickly approaching. Here in Slidouche that means a number of unpleasantries that will inevitably lead to my hermitage, i.e. back sweat from just walking to the mailbox, fear of their imminent death by putting my children in the car, having to put deodorant on under my boobs, etc. 
     Somehow the Earth's rotation defies physics and allows the sun to shine directly on me and I will either catch fire or spend the next three months with a perpetual, blistering burn.  All while the native Slidouchebags (no offense to those of you I know personally), have developed a tolerance for this heat and walk around looking fabulously tan.  Did you guys get your sweat glands removed or something?  Seriously, why am I the only one spraying people in the eyes with my armpit juice?
     As you may remember from a previous post, I have been preparing myself for these days through the art of self mutilation--commonly referred to as "shaving."  I even risked getting the cancer and sat outside yesterday, trying to get some color.  And yet, these post-baby hormones have foiled my plan again!

     Now I have skin that is simultaneously oily and dry, leaving a layer of grease over my splotches of flaking face.  I also have a curling iron burn on my forehead, mountainous zit on my chin, and an unidentifiable, hot pink spot on my left cheek that form perfect 90 degree angles.  Combined with my razor burned and slightly off-white legs, I appear to have some sort of necrosis.  I expect my feet to turn black and fall off any day now.  Which is one of many reasons I'm looking forward to my spa day on Friday; I desperately need a qualified stranger to take a cheese grater to my hooves.

     I will try to remember and shave before then, since my first pedicure was when I was 9 months pregnant and couldn't see my lower body much less reach it.  Poor guy probably felt like he was rubbing down Bigfoot's gams for all the lotion matting up my leg hair.  I just had to remind myself that pregnancy justifies such actions, and that Lady Gaga would surely pull off a Yeti look at the next Grammy's. 

Today's subject line quote is from This is Spinal Tap (1984).

Thursday, May 5, 2011

They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn.

With all of the anti-bullying campaigns that Dom and I have run across lately, we've had some interesting conversations this week regarding our own childhood experiences.  Neither of us divulged many details, per se, but in the near decade we've been together it's been easy to piece together a decent picture of what each other have been through.  I'll spare you a verbose explanation and just say this--being bullied from elementary school and even up into high school had a majorly negative impact on both of us. 

Goes without saying, right?  Then why is there still bullying and the need for such dramatic efforts to stop it?  There is an exercise for coping with the intense feelings that has recently come to my attention--an open letter to all past bullies.  I've decided to publish mine, here on the blog, in an attempt that is twofold.  First, that anyone who has ever shared these feelings or is currently being bullied might find solace in my sharing such personal thoughts, and even find courage to stand up and make a difference for themselves and others.  And secondly, that persons reading this post will understand just how serious bullying should be taken and help provide a zero tolerance atmosphere.

Dear Bullies,

I spent 6 years of my childhood and adolescence praying for cancer because I was too scared to take my own life.  Perhaps it was worth the consequences--physical pain, an eternity in hell, or worst yet...the repercussions if I survived a suicide attempt.  It could be misinterpreted as a "cry for help," labeling me weak and cowardly, and surely dozens of other terms to go alongside a few I already had:  weird, ugly, pale, poor, fat, etc.  A childhood friend of mine succeeded at taking her own life when we were teenagers, but the brief time she spent in the hospital, struggling in her last moments, were enough to turn the rumor mill...and I heard how truly awful my peers could be.

But it most certainly would not have been the truth.  I just wanted relief.  And at the time, it felt like death was my best option.  I wanted to die, and it was 95% your fault.  Yes, depression runs in my family.  But I'll never know if I would have felt the same crushing feelings if they hadn't been provoked by my environment.  

Now, I'm old enough to realize that most of what you bullies did was out of ignorance.  Many of you didn't understand how to process social behavior and have since gone on to become upstanding citizens.  Others of you, I believe might have just been sociopaths and have since grown up to become serial killers.  I know some of you let jealousy convince you that I was a threat to your friendships.  Some couldn't make friends easily and used manipulation as the only accessible tool.  But most of you just didn't accept that, for many reasons, I was different. 

No matter the reason or intention, I grew up believing what you told me about myself was true.  As a result, I had low self-esteem, little confidence, and a poor understanding of social relationships.  It's only now, 9 years out of high school, that I feel like I've gotten a grip on my own life.  You may read this one day and still perceive me as strange, and it might still be true.  I am different, and sometimes differences make the difference. 

Bullies,  I am still angry.  I believe you stole part of me that never got a chance to grow with my body.  Sometimes I still daydream of a parallel universe where those things were never said, and I got to be the person I should have been.  And sometimes I'm grateful for these experiences, for molding my personality into what it is now.  For letting me bond with husband over common events, and for allowing us to know the right way to raise our children.  We will never forget you.  And by some inexplicable need, I forgive you.  But please, please, do what is in your power to NEVER let this happen to another child again.  



Today's subject line quote is from The Dark Knight (2008).

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Is it crazy, or just weird? Weird I can deal with, but crazy...

I feel like I should apologize for my last entry.  Obviously, I shouldn't have watched My Sister's Keeper so soon after having a sick child.  I must have set the blog load on heavy wash because it was soaking in the melodrama.  Honestly?  I think I've been secretly craving a bit of crazy. Without all the absurd chaos that somehow shapes itself into my life, the blog is boring.  And by boring, I mean that the new post tab sits open, holding two poorly edited sentences for three months. 

How can I have gone so long without at least a smidge of weird making it's way in somewhere?  Weird usually finds me.  Like how some people always step in gum?  I used to step in weird every day.  Perhaps I've just been so preoccupied with keeping my children alive that I just haven't been seeing the usual blog-worthy tidbits.  Cee-Lo Green could walk up next to me in his Elton John-turkey-guise from the Grammy's, and I wouldn't notice because I'm busy wiping baby spit off my shirt and telling my preschooler that the Winn-Dixie is not the place to yell "penis" and proceed to whip it out.

So I guess there's always that.  But seriously, I'm ready for the WTF level to raise back to chronic so I can remain dazzling you guys with my like, words.  And stuff.

Today's subject line quote is from Bones--The Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (2009).

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

They gave me medication. So I feel how I imagine people of average intelligence feel, all the time.

"Bet you never thought you'd be covered in baby blood, huh?"  It's true, I never pictured myself with my infant daughter's blood all over my pink Tinkerbell tee, but as my husband said it--everything became less surreal.  It snapped me back into the green-walled room of the pediatric ward where I began to process what had happened in the last several hours--that our 3 month old hadn't eaten and become so dehydrated that two nurses and a phlebotomist pricked her limbs so badly, she bled all over the emergency room linens and my clothes.  The storms had also knocked out power to most of the area until after midnight (and therefore the elevators), so I carefully carried her up four flights of stairs as to not detach her from the precious saline hep-lock it had taken nearly 2 hours to get right.

How did it get to this?  Weren't we just fighting to get out of the hospital from Ivy's birth?  She's 12 weeks old and has spent approximately one quarter of her life in a hospital.  The NICU staff assured me that she wouldn't be chronically ill after winning the battle with her lungs--she was a normal baby, healthy.  So two and a half months later, we land ourselves back in?

It does seem to be happenstance, coincidence, or what-have-you.  It was an innocent virus that caused her to lose appetite and become dehydrated.  There was never any real threat of impending death, but hearing doctor's throw out terms like meningitis, spinal tap, and kidney ultrasound didn't help my already trembling body and belabored mind.   I want a healthy child! Not having to choose which child I get to see per day.  Happenstance or not, I'm tired of being recognized by the hospital nursing staff. 

We are on the mend, and this is what I have to say:

My declaration to the universe--I'm done with dumb luck.  In the last 3 months we have had medical crisis, the presage of evicting the tenants from our rental, our estimated moving date changed 3 times (causing major planning problems for preschool applications and finding a rental), and the threat of a delayed paycheck--all while coping with personal emotional issues for both my husband and self and keeping up with a cranky, incontinent dog.  I need some honestly good, no strings attached, stress-free news.  Also some time to do our taxes.

Today's subject line quote is from "Bones" Harbingers in a Fountain (2009).

Monday, March 21, 2011

What they gotta do is build their frontal lobe with exercise. That comes from doing the wrong thing.

Those skinny moms of multiple children who get up at 6 a.m. to do yoga used to make me want to barf.  I thought it was fadish and somewhat egotistical for someone to be that worried about a saggy ass.  But here I am, on my second large cup of coffee and droopy-eyed because I got up early to worry about my flabby bottom.

 Dom and I bought a Wii Fit yesterday and I had already spent over an hour on it by dinner time.  Today I set up a custom workout routine and set to it before the kids woke up.  Now, I'm happy to report that my arms arms feel like mush and my legs no longer work.  I did yoga, strength training, hula hooping, and skateboarding--all before 8 this morning. 

Did you know I used to be lazy?  Waking before 10 was damn near blasphemy (well, you know for a girl that was too lazy for church and decided couch worship was more suitable).  I also only worked 10 hours a week and took naps between classes in college. 

Mostly it was depression.  Even when things were going well for me, I just didn't have the energy or motivation for most things.  Then I had to start paying rent and bills and I was just exhausted, depressed, and broke.  So I was only home long enough to bank some z's before hitting the daily grind.  I was working 6 days a week at Taco Bell and still not making enough moolah to not have to eat the messed up orders instead of buying groceries that I was never home to cook.

So here I am, plus and minus a combination of over 100 pounds, trying to tone all of those lumps, bumps, and flaps that have somehow become my body over the last decade.  I was a size 4 and roughly 120 big ones when I started my freshman year of college.  Poor Dom.  He thought he was getting a blonde hottie, but I soon skyrocketed to the 160's by our wedding, and another 10 pounds trying to conceive Michael in the following years. Then the all-you-can-eat buffet logic set in and I weighed in at a hefty 240 by the end of my first pregnancy. 

Now after 2 kids and a 7 year marriage full of binge eating during Dom's deployments, I've gone up and down quite a bit and my body in WTF mode about what's supposed to be up and down.  So yeah, perhaps I fit a demographic that I didn't understand before.  And yes, it's purely ego driven of me to get up that early and force my limbs into such unnatural positions for the pure purpose of a tiny waist and better curves.  But why not?

What's wrong with wanting to finally have a better body after 10 years of abuse?  I was naive about diet and exercise as a young adult, and it's time for me to fix my mistakes.   It makes me happy and excited to be so motivated and to accomplish something I've never been able to do before.  So tomorrow I will also get up in pre-baby hours and let that creepy, animated balance board talk me into doing 6 more reps of jacknives.

Today's subject line quote is from Bones, "The Beaver in the Otter" (2009).

Friday, March 11, 2011

All this talk of blood and slaying has put me off my tea.

It has been 00:00:14:25 since my last shaving incident.

I like to kick of the warmer weather in style, like with an arterial bleed.  With all the hype around vampire media, blood is the new black right?  But shaving is not the biggest of my springtime worries.  Well, if my ankle doesn't stop gushing soon it might become a priority issue.  I mean that tissue isn't doing the trick and I can't find the bandaids!  What kind of mother doesn't know where the bandaids are in her own house? The kind that bleeds to death, that's what.

Really my concern lies with coloring.  Springtime in Louisiana is more like summer near the equator.  It gets spicier than flamin' hot cheetos and long pants are not an option unless you fancy yourself having a heatstroke by 9 a.m.  Unfortunately, my complexion is a half-tint above ghostly.

And before you get judgey and assume I'm just any other white-girl of Irish decent and lack the gene necessary for tanning, let me tell you that I could probably go outside for 15 minutes and come back a nice, roasty, goldenness.  But like all things in my life, karma is ready to kick me square in me Irish arse and my downfalls are two-fold:

1)  My tan will only last a matter of hours.  Seriously, a magic marker would stay on longer.  Unless I'm planning on standing outside all day in my skivvies, a long-lasting option it ain't.

2)  I had a scare with the big C regarding my skin about 2 years ago. It wasn't a major issue, but I do have a nasty scar on my back from where my dermatologist removed a chunk out of my back that was the size of a marble.  Even if I did keep a tan, it wouldn't be worth going through that again.

Bring on the SPF 1,000,000!  I don't really mind being a little pasty in exchange for not dying of cancer.  However, people tend to get a little unnerved when they can see the veins and inner workings of  my overly transparent legs.  Nobody wants to see skin reminiscent of a jellyfish.  Now I'm left with self tanners that make me break out or leave streaks and spots where the epidermis is too dry.

Case and point?  Back before I was so conscious about skin health, I was planning on tanning the crap out of my body for my wedding.  Unfortunately, I was also too ditzy and completely forgot until the week OF my big day to address the issue and had to resort to a Majestic Spray Tan.  Worst. Idea. Ever.

I woke up the next day looking a cheetah.  There were spots all over my arms!  And when I called the salon for a refund, solution, or even advice, the manager tartly stated that I must not have followed the directions (of which I was terrified of not following for utter fear of exactly what happened to me) and that "Well, you're not going to look like the girl in the video."  How about not looking like something off a Discovery Channel special?  I think we could manage that, right? 

Luckily some lemon juice, my mom's Clinique self-tanning lotion, and a few showers got it all sorted out in time to walk down the aisle. 

Moral of my story?  Wear sunglasses in the next few months when you see me because I will freakin' blind you.

Today's subject line quote is Alice in Wonderland (2010)

Friday, February 11, 2011

I love babies. Babies rule. Pudgy arms and stuff. But, uh, they make you old.

Ever have one of those mornings...

When you do everything in your ability to look fashionable and not be fashionably late to fancy playdate at the McDonald's Playland, but 5 minutes into it you have baby poop smeared all over your skinny jeans and you're begging friends for cash for a Happy Meal?  I do.  All the time.

Nothing happens the way I assume it will, so I've just started assuming everything will go to hell and I'm no longer surprised.  It's only 10 til 2 and I'm already back in my jammies as I compose this half-conscious and still coasting on my dark roast, caffeine high.  I do at least 3 loads of laundry a day in order to not have clothes saturated with breast milk, regurgitated breast milk, and toddler boogers.  Just today I've managed to ruin 2 robes, the sheets I just washed yesterday, and the jeans I had planned to wear on our pseudo date tonight because they hold up my ever-sagging ass to acceptable social standards. 

Take Ivy's whole birth experience for example.  It was a scheduled, repeat c-section that should have taken all of 30 minutes in surgery, a few hours recovery time, and they'd hand me a screaming bundle of joy.  Instead, my OB was late because she was on the phone with Fisher-Price tech support and then my baby had to be in intensive care for 10 days because she forgot how to breathe.  It took over a week before I was able to hold her, and I got to be a visitor instead of her mother. 

The genetics were there; she has my nose and stubby legs.  But as a caregiver, I was useless for a week and a half.  So I got up every 2 hours to pump and deliver a few ounces of breast milk to the NICU freezer.  It was all I could do as a parent.  And it may be selfish, but even though my baby was the one hooked up to IVs and tubes out the wazoo,  I wanted to feel needed.  I needed to feel needed.  I had just spent the last 9 months incubating and growing my daughter, and suddenly my services were obsolete?

Now she's a perfectly healthy baby, with colic and all.  It's still hard to process.  At one point after her lung collapsed, we asked the neonatalogist if we had to worry about Ivy being in stable condition.  She answered, "If you're asking me if the baby will die?  I don't know." 

How do you go from that to complaining about leaky diapers and extended bedtimes?  Aren't I supposed to be grateful for every frustrating minute I have with my kids?  I suppose I just have to do what I can , when I can--whether sucking the juice out of my boobs at 3 a.m. or a load of onesies and pants covered in poo.

Todays' subject line quote is from How I Met Your Mother (2005).


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