Find your own funny quote, I'm too lazy.

I halfheartedly apologize for neglecting this site for the past few months.  With the joy of a little one on the way, I have become an Olympic caliber athlete in the categories of toilet hugging and bitching.

But since the first trimester is coming to a close, I find myself slowly moving out of the worst of the pregnancy.  Now instead of doing the technicolor yawn every forty-five minutes, I've simply joined the ranks of the walking comatose.  Seems I'm unable to function by 2 p.m. these days.  I have to hope I sitting down by mid afternoon and not falling asleep during my 78th trip to the bathroom.

There are women who adore being knocked up; they're the ones who never get morning sickness, back aches, and sneeze out their kids in a 4 hour, natural labor.  I never got my invitation to the super-awesome-at-being-pregnant club!  I have to slave and toil, from the ralph-o-rama to 46 hours of labor.  Even then the kid had to be surgically removed from my uterus because I utterly fail at being a preggo.

So to all of you who had it easy and think I should embrace the "miracle of life", kiss my ever-growing ass.  My babies are smarter than yours.

Will you please shut up. You're grossing out my baby.

As a mommy blogger, I really do try hard not to dominate this site with kidisms. Even if they are REALLY funny, nobody wants to be bombarded with stories ending in my 2 1/2 year old yelling "penis" or the adventures in poop. Except today--today you literally get a shitty blog.

Michael is potty training. That loosely translates to "Michael often takes a dump wherever he feels like it while not wearing a diaper." He's been making tremendous success lately with the number ones; but I'd seriously take mopping up a pee spot any day over the fecal fest I had to clean up yesterday.

Basically, he was sitting in the office desk chair and decided that he was too engrossed in sesamestreet.com to be bothered with NOT taking a crap where he was sitting. So I scramble to get him scraped off and disinfect the office while still managing not to catch anything on fire while cooking a new meatball recipe. Then he crapped his underwear approximately 45 minutes later.

And all I could manage to think was, I'm going to have ANOTHER potential Diarrhea Monster?

Yep. That's the real content of this post. I found out last Friday and I wanted to keep it on the DL, family only. But thanks to Facebook and my relative's inability to be discreet about pretty much anything, I'm fending off congrats from obscure-non-blood-connections all over my wall. I might as well get some satisfaction in telling people myself. Spoiled secrets aside, we're thrilled!

So, I've pretty much got 8 more months to figure out where I'm going to put the thing. Really it boils down to which I want more...an office or a baby. Right now I have part of each.

Today's subject line quote is Quinn "Glee" (2010) {The Power of Madonna}.

Bees or monkeys, yes. Sociopaths, no.

Did I ever tell you about the time I got squirted in the face with crab-leg saliva at the Golden China Buffet? I never really thought of it as a mind-blowing story that I could spend a whole blog on, but it was an awkward Cassidy moment at it's finest.

We're sitting in a booth at the local Chinese buffet down the street from our house and Michael's being a holy terror. Imagine a monkey, like a small Capuchin or another species that is small and agile enough to leap across a six foot gap from tree to tree, jumping on the seat and climbing up Dom's shoulders to sit on his head. That's what we had, only we had a blonde monkey-child who also has two volumes of mute and earbleedingly loud. Guess which one he busted out for this occasion?

That's when the nostalgic, middle-aged, empty nester decided to come over and do us the favor of sitting behind our table and "entertaining" Michael. Zoos have cages for a reason, lady. They don't ask random onlookers to come and play ball with the apes every time one starts to throw poop and fondle it's junk...I think I can handle my own child at the buffet. And, of course, he just gets more rowdy from all the extra attention.

So in the rare moments when I was actually eating and not running to the potty for an emergency toddler poop break, I found myself in a bit of a cross mood. That's when I noticeably started wiping my forehead and looking around rather perturbed to see why the ceiling was dripping on me.

That's when I made eye contact with the man at the booth next to us who was about the same shade of red as the pair of crab legs he was digging into. He was nearly crying out of embarrassment and I'm trying to redeem myself from making it a "big deal" from my exaggerated facial expressions and hand gestures I had done not 30 seconds previously.

The worst part is that this couple had been really quiet and not making a big whoop over our son being released into the wild. They were minding their own business and just pretending he wasn't there. The least I could do is let him shoot me in the eye with crab-juice spit, right?

Today's subject line quote is "House, M.D." (2007) {Act your Age}.

Two small paragraphs where I whine about not having a real post

I know it's Thursday and I haven't posted yet this week. I've got plenty to say, but I just don't have the ability to do a full post right now. I promise I'll get you something good soon...

But seeing as I'm on prescription meds that make me feel more messed up than a drunk hobo on meth and just ordered Jehovah's Witnesses to chase after my escapee Beagle, I believe I need some time to get myself together enough to even write about how my life is ruled by chaos.

Fantastic! Look at you. Powerless. The great space dust bin! How does it feel?

My junior year of high school, my drama class did a section on costuming and makeup. My coach wanted to do a quick demonstration, and I volunteered to get my face drawn on in hopes that I would look like Cleopatra. Turns out that the former Miss Arkansas runner up wasn't very good at doing an elegant, Egyptian look and decided to make me a troll instead.

Drama was my first period class. Now I got to start my day looking hideous and, undoubtedly, like a total sociotard. But did I wash it off? Nope. I hadn't brought any regular makeup with me and I was terrified of being seen bare-faced. I told everyone that it was stage makeup and didn't remove easily without a cleanser--which was mostly true.

But the real truth? I was so afraid of being seen without any makeup, that I was willing to endure any teasing or gawking. If I was going to be ugly, it was on my own terms. I had given myself the illusion that I was in control.

Recently, I can't pinpoint the exact moment I felt like I had lost all control over my life; but I'm pretty sure the minute I decided that I wanted it back was when I was in the bathroom. I was taking care of my business when my son walked in demanding that I change his poopy underwear. At that precise second, Mother Nature decided I need that monthly gift and I was left trying to clean up after both of us.

It's hard being the nurturer of a whole family. There are always moments like that where my needs are an afterthought. With Dom being in the navy, my schedule, career (if I so choose to ever have one), and plans for the future are all subject to the needs of the military. And over the past 2 months, I had even let bacteria take over my lungs and overall health.

My life felt like total chaos and I needed to take control. My readers have been blogless the last week or so because I've been devoted to taking back my power. It's not been easy either. Not like I could break out the metaphorical rape whistle any time I felt like my life was ripping me a new one.

Some measures have been taken and I am feeling less like my world is going to spin off and out of the universe now. I've found my missing doctor's office and am now on the mend from bronchitis and sinusitis. I'm on the road to taking back my body, but getting my mind back in order is considerably more difficult.

I actually cut my own hair (to give myself bangs) in an effort to not feel completely impaired. But even then I ended up with with a nice feathered look occasionally. After many negotiations, we agreed that I would not continuously pin them up if they behaved during the day and could be as unruly as they wanted after 8 p.m. until I showered the next morning.

Since this blog is already three times the size I intended, I won't divulge all the details of getting my shit together. But I will say that I've learned to say "no" more (especially to my toddler), reclaimed my house from the wreckage of last week, and talked a salesman down a little over $1,000 off Dominic's new motorcycle.

Not too shabby for someone for someone who feels like a recluse and extreme introvert 90% of the time.

Today's subject line quote is "Doctor Who" (2005) {"Dalek"}.

He's also a good snorer with amazing long-range reverberations.

This post is to tell everyone lucky enough to read this amazing blog that my husband is the shiznitt. Bomb diggity? Are these terms even viable anymore? Somebody needs a trip to urban dictionary! (It's me.)

Okay, just spent the last 15 minutes on that website and still have nothing to describe awesomeness of the hubs in terms that teenagers will understand. I'm hitting the big 2-6 this year, does that mean I have to watch programs on the CW or something to up my colloquial vocabulary?

By now you've probably gotten my meaning, but here's the missing 'how come?' Saturday morning I woke up to this on my laptop screen:

Dear Cassidy, I have taken your son. Do not attempt to contact me. Just follow the instructions below. Good Luck!

1. "Frankie Goes to Hollywood" and you should do what he says.
2. Thirty minutes before the sun reaches it's zenith, mother and child will reunite at the place of the third clue.
3. + -


First off, kudos for being so adorably Dom about this whole "morning off" thing. I didn't know what to do with myself. But eventually I celebrated by taking a shower with the door closed and going shopping at the mall. It was great to try things on without chasing after anyone or constantly removing goods from tiny hands before setting of any alarms.

Dom ended up taking Mikey to work with him because he had oodles of work to do and didn't to impose any of it on me. He also had to work overnight Sunday, but instead of coming home and sleeping on Monday, he took us to Gulfport to run errands and stop by the outlet mall! He ended up being up from about 8:30 a.m. Sunday morning until 10 p.m. on Monday. Never complained.

So, bomb-diggity-shizznit right?

Today's subject line quote is Darrin Stephens, "Bewitched" (1964) {Illegal Separation (#1.32)}.

I love riding in a car full of hamburgers and french fries. I had a dream I did it once and I woke up really happy.

One of the recent posts for a blog I follow was a simple listing of four things that make the creators happy. Blog only knows, I've been pretty down lately. So I thought perhaps I should rip off that idea and list a few things that cheer me up and see if it helps get me ditch my case of the gloomies.

When people do the right thing I could just burst, blowing big wads of happy all over the onlookers. It's true, and such a simple concept too. I mean, it doesn't even have to be a turn yourself in for murder kind of thing. Yesterday, there was a woman in the Winn-Dixie parking lot parked right next to the cart return. And she still went around my car to place her empty cart in the parking space next to me instead of going the same distance to put the cart where it belongs. If she would have put it away, I probably would have hugged her. It's just another gesture that proves that most people just don't care about doing things right any more.

Don't people like having that feeling of accomplishment at doing something worth being proud of? I mean, I thrive for that. And again, I'm a simple gal and don't have much going on in the accomplishment department. But when I hold strong and make my toddler actually take a nap? Oh, or manage to pick up all the toys and vacuum before they get thrown back on the floor? That's a good feeling.

But I also like to be bought. Getting gifts is easily in my top fav things. Flowers, cards, candy, even comments on this blog, anything! I'm definitely one of those people that needs somewhat tangible love. Tell me that you think I'm awesome and then bake me some cookies. You might get some of that explody happy junk on you because attention is easily an addiction for me. If they had rehab for it, well it wouldn't help unless it was solitary confinement mixed with counselors ignoring me. And who in their right mind would pay for that?

I also like that feeling when I turn on the radio to the exact song I've been obsessing to hear. Dom and I joke that everyone has a super power and that happens to be mine. I think when I finally decide to fight crime with it, I'll go by "Musicious." I could save the masses from the insanity of wanting to hear a particular song when they can't find it! Oh wait, Apple already did that by introducing the iPod.

Whatever, I still might be Musicious for Halloween...

Today's subject line quote is Ruthie, "7th Heaven" (1996) {It Happened One Night (#3.15)}.