Today's a new day not filled with frustration. I'm starting fresh and leaving my horrible week behind me. That is, right after I bitch about one more thing from last week. Then optimism abound--promise!
In an attempt to cheer myself up this week, I went to Victoria's Secret to splurge on a new bra. Seeing as my last purchase there was now hanging off of me from the weight loss. After being sized and then handed one of every style to go try on, I spent about an hour there deciding what to get. Then realizing that they didn't have the one I wanted in any cute colors or prints I settled for the boring nude and put down the last one I had tried on top of the shelf it came from.
I get home, put it on to check it out, and get asked to come help get Michael ready for bed. I threw my t-shirt back on and got him ready for bed. As I'm putting him down in his crib, he vomits all over my shoulder. The new bra is removed and washed.
The next day I put it on, not remembering it being quite this cut. It was a little uncomfortable and the one I had picked out was the deluxe comfort model. Then the look of frustration and realization sweeps over my face. I had put back the wrong one.
If I was going to get the Ipex, I could have gotten a cute one! Now I'm stuck with this crap. I can't lie very well, and I'd be completely guilt-ridden if I waltzed in to return a puked on garment.
That was a few days ago, so it's starting to grow on me. Not literally, I can still remove it. But I'm getting used to it and I'm over my temper tantum that I originally threw once I noticed the label said Ipex--which is latin for You have bad luck, Cassidy. Not true, I made that up.
Anyway, today is shot day. Michael and I are packing up to go get the motherload of vaccinations pumped into him this morning. I really love shot day. A combination of the vaccines and tylenol make him drowsy. So he's either really easy going, or just sleeps all day. It's like a day off! But since he's getting the flu shot this time around, we'll see just how off my day ends up.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
You're playing Betty Crocker and cut up like a god damn Virginia ham.
And now for What the FUCK?! Weekend Blog #2: All Aboard the Crazy Train
For those of you newer readers, I don't take people coming into my house very easily. So when I found out that my in-laws were coming for the party that I was already freaking out about hosting, somebody hit the crazy button in my brain. That's not to be confused with the Easy Button, that's Staples. No, I bring out the hardcore nutball that doesn't think anything is good enough, or for the love of Blog, clean enough.
And it's not just the day or two preceding guests entering my home--it's a month long obsess-a-thon. No denial here, it's stupid and it's me being incredibly insecure. However, I've had enough therapy for this lifetime so let me just blog it out.
So now I'm waging war inside my brain trying to keep the Molly Maid on steroids part of me at bay long enough to not be an ungracious hostess. Really, I just wanted to curl up and die on the couch for a while because I was still not 100% from the flu. And I did take an unbelievably long break while waiting for laundry to finish because I wasn't expecting Dom's dad and brother to show up until after dinner.
For those of you newer readers, I don't take people coming into my house very easily. So when I found out that my in-laws were coming for the party that I was already freaking out about hosting, somebody hit the crazy button in my brain. That's not to be confused with the Easy Button, that's Staples. No, I bring out the hardcore nutball that doesn't think anything is good enough, or for the love of Blog, clean enough.
And it's not just the day or two preceding guests entering my home--it's a month long obsess-a-thon. No denial here, it's stupid and it's me being incredibly insecure. However, I've had enough therapy for this lifetime so let me just blog it out.
So now I'm waging war inside my brain trying to keep the Molly Maid on steroids part of me at bay long enough to not be an ungracious hostess. Really, I just wanted to curl up and die on the couch for a while because I was still not 100% from the flu. And I did take an unbelievably long break while waiting for laundry to finish because I wasn't expecting Dom's dad and brother to show up until after dinner.
They must have left at the ass crack of dawn because I got a phone call at 1:00 saying they would be there in an hour. I still hadn't showered, vacuumed the furniture, or put away the laundry. The look on my face was probably something like this:
I was also planning on making meatloaf for dinner and hadn't done any prep for that either. I didn't want to look like a recipe novice, you know. We ended up eating out anyway because everyone wanted seafood. I've still got pounds of hamburger in my freezer if anyone's interested in a giant pan of cow.
Anyway, it just really threw me for a loop because I was expecting the weekend to be my prep time for the party. I mean I wanted to go all out making cupcakes, decorating, and feeding everyone--because if I don't, you know that's a sign of my inability to exist as a woman and a mother, right? I know it's not, but that's the way 'Roid Rage Suzy Homemaker sees it.
I had finally convinced myself that I didn't need to buy the cupcake kit and try to fashion a puppy dog out of various icings to tie the whole theme together. At least I had the sugar cookies to decorate, right? Not so much. The icing had gotten refrigerated so it was really hard to manage, even after sitting out. And I realized as I was opening the package, that I hadn't bought a decorative tip either. Dom fashioned a sandwich bag squeezy tube for me, but I was still praying that the dog bones didn't turn out looking like penises.
But you'll get the whole account of the party in the next blog. This one was just about me bringing the crazy.
Anyway, it just really threw me for a loop because I was expecting the weekend to be my prep time for the party. I mean I wanted to go all out making cupcakes, decorating, and feeding everyone--because if I don't, you know that's a sign of my inability to exist as a woman and a mother, right? I know it's not, but that's the way 'Roid Rage Suzy Homemaker sees it.
I had finally convinced myself that I didn't need to buy the cupcake kit and try to fashion a puppy dog out of various icings to tie the whole theme together. At least I had the sugar cookies to decorate, right? Not so much. The icing had gotten refrigerated so it was really hard to manage, even after sitting out. And I realized as I was opening the package, that I hadn't bought a decorative tip either. Dom fashioned a sandwich bag squeezy tube for me, but I was still praying that the dog bones didn't turn out looking like penises.
But you'll get the whole account of the party in the next blog. This one was just about me bringing the crazy.
Frankie, remember that pinata I promised you for your birthday?
Now for What the FUCK?! Weekend Blog #3: Crappy Barfday.
Michael turned 1 year old on Sunday. Yes, we celebrated the day he was surgically removed from his cushy uterine home November 2nd. I have been so excited for this to come! Planning parties and buying presents, the whole lot! I've even been stingy up to this point so that I could splurge and get awesome toys for both his b-day and Christmas.
So 5:00 a.m. rolls around and Big Mike's screaming his birthday face off because he's hungry. He didn't finish eating before bed, so now he's starving. He had been temporarily moved to our bedroom while guests were staying in the nursery and office. So we opted for Pedialyte because he had still been having the runs first thing in the morning and we're trying to beat that into submission with a fruit flavored electrolyte magic drink. Unfortunately, he sucked it down so fast he puked all over the pack n play. Great.
Routine clean up, redress, lay back down. The magic Pedialyte had obviously not worked because five minutes later we're changing his poopy jammies. Off to a solid start, right? And yeah, he was tired and cranky all day up until the party.
I opted for a puppy party, because the little man is obsessed with dogs. He chases Vega and Miles into hiding just trying to get kisses from them. His first steps were actually to give our Beagle's ass a hug. The kids had a great time; I think it went really well.
So well, that we decided to pile in the car and go see a friend in New Orleans. She was one of Dom's friends from high school and was in town for the weekend. Sounded like an opportunity to see the town and get some local food. It would have if we had gotten there before 8 p.m.
We left my driveway at 5:00. We were stuck in traffic, 4 miles away from our exit to the hotel we were going to, for over an hour. They closed part of the highway--the part we needed! So we had our GPS take us through the ghetto detour, which took another 45 minutes. Meanwhile, Michael's getting increasingly cranky.
Now we've got to find a parking place that won't break the bank. As we're getting pulled into the lot 1/2 mile away from our destination, my son barfs all over his carseat and my jeans' leg. We just paid 10 bucks for parking and spent hours in the car to get here, we're gonna go see Dom's friend!
You know, I always thought that if my first experience walking down Bourbon Street involved me being covered in vomit that it wouldn't be my 1 year-old's. And there we were, shuffling through crowds with a stroller. At least the smell of cigarettes and urine made me my yakky pants fit right in.
Fast forward past the 10 minute visit we had with Candace and her boyfriend, walking back through drunken crowds terrified, and get us strapped back into the carseat (mopped up with papertowels and wipes). We turn the corner just out of the lot and he spews party food once again.
Again and again...
And again and again when we get home and wipe him off in the bathtub. He fell asleep in my lap doubled over and naked. I had to wake him up to get his diaper back on. Best birthday ever! What's even worse? I infected all of the party guests. All of the parents now have puking kids and husbands and Dom's family even got some of this mess as soon as they got home.
As Geraldine said, we gave "the gift that keeps on regurgitating." I might leave that out of the baby book.
Michael turned 1 year old on Sunday. Yes, we celebrated the day he was surgically removed from his cushy uterine home November 2nd. I have been so excited for this to come! Planning parties and buying presents, the whole lot! I've even been stingy up to this point so that I could splurge and get awesome toys for both his b-day and Christmas.
So 5:00 a.m. rolls around and Big Mike's screaming his birthday face off because he's hungry. He didn't finish eating before bed, so now he's starving. He had been temporarily moved to our bedroom while guests were staying in the nursery and office. So we opted for Pedialyte because he had still been having the runs first thing in the morning and we're trying to beat that into submission with a fruit flavored electrolyte magic drink. Unfortunately, he sucked it down so fast he puked all over the pack n play. Great.
Routine clean up, redress, lay back down. The magic Pedialyte had obviously not worked because five minutes later we're changing his poopy jammies. Off to a solid start, right? And yeah, he was tired and cranky all day up until the party.
I opted for a puppy party, because the little man is obsessed with dogs. He chases Vega and Miles into hiding just trying to get kisses from them. His first steps were actually to give our Beagle's ass a hug. The kids had a great time; I think it went really well.
So well, that we decided to pile in the car and go see a friend in New Orleans. She was one of Dom's friends from high school and was in town for the weekend. Sounded like an opportunity to see the town and get some local food. It would have if we had gotten there before 8 p.m.
We left my driveway at 5:00. We were stuck in traffic, 4 miles away from our exit to the hotel we were going to, for over an hour. They closed part of the highway--the part we needed! So we had our GPS take us through the ghetto detour, which took another 45 minutes. Meanwhile, Michael's getting increasingly cranky.
Now we've got to find a parking place that won't break the bank. As we're getting pulled into the lot 1/2 mile away from our destination, my son barfs all over his carseat and my jeans' leg. We just paid 10 bucks for parking and spent hours in the car to get here, we're gonna go see Dom's friend!
You know, I always thought that if my first experience walking down Bourbon Street involved me being covered in vomit that it wouldn't be my 1 year-old's. And there we were, shuffling through crowds with a stroller. At least the smell of cigarettes and urine made me my yakky pants fit right in.
Fast forward past the 10 minute visit we had with Candace and her boyfriend, walking back through drunken crowds terrified, and get us strapped back into the carseat (mopped up with papertowels and wipes). We turn the corner just out of the lot and he spews party food once again.
Again and again...
And again and again when we get home and wipe him off in the bathtub. He fell asleep in my lap doubled over and naked. I had to wake him up to get his diaper back on. Best birthday ever! What's even worse? I infected all of the party guests. All of the parents now have puking kids and husbands and Dom's family even got some of this mess as soon as they got home.
As Geraldine said, we gave "the gift that keeps on regurgitating." I might leave that out of the baby book.
Come on, I can't stand watching my delusional friend waste another precious Halloween! Ted, the slutty pumpkin is not coming!
Good morning, readers. Have you missed me? Because I love your little noggins too much to overload them with this weekend's tests and triumphs, I've decided to break up my posts. You know, be kind--rewind? Now let's take a journey all they way back to Friday, October 31.
HALLOWEEN
I was already up to my neck chores and motherly duties by Thursday when I contracted the virus that Michael was so kind to share with me. As you might remember, the dogs tore apart the favor bags while I was gone and made a royal mess of my afternoon. Luckily, I have a fabulous husband who sent me to bed. While I was dreaming in a feverish sweat, he remade the bags, took care of dinner, and entertained Michael.
Let me preface these many posts with this, I had many goals and expectations for this busy weekend. Unfortunately, I had not finished my costume by now and away flew Goal #1: finish making costumes early in the week so that I didn't rush and end up sewing my fingers to a dress that I wear to the emergency room.
I didn't sew any appendages to the dress, but I did stick my index finger a bunch with a hand held needle. I also left a raw hem and the back of the dress looked like I attached the zipper playing a game of pin the tail on the donkey. I didn't even try the dress on until Friday night. And there I stabbed my next expectation right in the heart. Goal #2: Don't look like a douchebag on Halloween.
Apparently I thought I was going as Fat Dorothy because the top was about 2 sizes too big.
I'm actually sinching it up with my other hand in the back in this picture. Whatever, I just looked like an asshat trick-or-treating. Which that was going to happen anyway, because I'm taking a one year old who can't eat any of the candy.
And that brings me to Goal #3: Let Michael have a blast trick-or-treating. Nope. He was super cranky as we were getting ready to go out the door. Once we had him in the stroller, the walk calmed him down but since his mom was going as Fat Dorothy, he wanted to be Catatonic Toto.
Dom's costume was right on, even down to the straw for brains. He kept forgetting to hold out the pumpkin to collect candy.
Of all said and done this Halloween, I did make a few goals this year. Goal #4: Carve a kickass pumpkin without a pattern. I didn't do it until 3 p.m. on the 31st, but damnit I did it!
Mine was the witch, Dom did the cool face.
And lastly, Goal #5: Eat my son's trick-or-treat candy. What? I gave him a piece. He didn't like it.
Oh well, Goal #6: Have a blogworthy Halloween.
HALLOWEEN
I was already up to my neck chores and motherly duties by Thursday when I contracted the virus that Michael was so kind to share with me. As you might remember, the dogs tore apart the favor bags while I was gone and made a royal mess of my afternoon. Luckily, I have a fabulous husband who sent me to bed. While I was dreaming in a feverish sweat, he remade the bags, took care of dinner, and entertained Michael.
Let me preface these many posts with this, I had many goals and expectations for this busy weekend. Unfortunately, I had not finished my costume by now and away flew Goal #1: finish making costumes early in the week so that I didn't rush and end up sewing my fingers to a dress that I wear to the emergency room.
I didn't sew any appendages to the dress, but I did stick my index finger a bunch with a hand held needle. I also left a raw hem and the back of the dress looked like I attached the zipper playing a game of pin the tail on the donkey. I didn't even try the dress on until Friday night. And there I stabbed my next expectation right in the heart. Goal #2: Don't look like a douchebag on Halloween.
Apparently I thought I was going as Fat Dorothy because the top was about 2 sizes too big.
I'm actually sinching it up with my other hand in the back in this picture. Whatever, I just looked like an asshat trick-or-treating. Which that was going to happen anyway, because I'm taking a one year old who can't eat any of the candy.And that brings me to Goal #3: Let Michael have a blast trick-or-treating. Nope. He was super cranky as we were getting ready to go out the door. Once we had him in the stroller, the walk calmed him down but since his mom was going as Fat Dorothy, he wanted to be Catatonic Toto.
Dom's costume was right on, even down to the straw for brains. He kept forgetting to hold out the pumpkin to collect candy.
Of all said and done this Halloween, I did make a few goals this year. Goal #4: Carve a kickass pumpkin without a pattern. I didn't do it until 3 p.m. on the 31st, but damnit I did it!
Mine was the witch, Dom did the cool face.And lastly, Goal #5: Eat my son's trick-or-treat candy. What? I gave him a piece. He didn't like it.
Oh well, Goal #6: Have a blogworthy Halloween.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.
Yesterday was not a bad day.
In fact, someone signed the lease on our house and put down the deposit. We have a renter for the next 12 months, guaranteed. Had coffee with Geraldine while Michael was still in childcare. I even finished making the favor bags for Sunday's birthday bash--little brown bags with puppy faces.
Dom and I decided some celebrating was in order. We hopped in the car down to Chili's for some good eats. After all that hard work of prepping for the party and costume sewing, I was ready for big ole plate of honey BBQ flavored chicken crispers. So crispy and tastey, that therein lies the first of many unfortunate happenings.
As I'm taking a gigantic bite, the crispness of the chicken's outer layer shot a teaspoon of honey barbeque burn right into my eye. I don't know how many of you have tried to eat sauce through your eye before, but the horrible stinging and shock of what the fuck just happened renders your speech uncomprehendable. While making stiff sweeps across the table like a rusty robot, I found a napkin and garbled, "Eye. It's sauce. Ah."
Today was a bad day.
I woke up with the ick that Michael's been spreading all over the house with his germy little hands. And I was going to inquire about the flu shot on Monday. I still managed to drag my body, which feels like it's rotting from the inside out, all over the house to get ready for Yoga class because I was supposed to meet Geraldine at 9. Too bad I didn't check the email that said she wasn't going before I left. I figured she was just running late, so I waited for about 15 minutes past before giving up and taking a shower. I had even shown up 15 minutes early because I had to stop and get more pedialyte for Michael Poopypants.
Now at home, I spend about an hour on the phone with my insurance provider trying to get Michael's card mailed out to us and change my doctor...blah, blah, blaaaahhh. I finally lay down for a glorious nap while Michael's still sleeping....only he's no longer sleeping. Fuck me.
I get him to the doctor's office and filled out my clipboard of family diseases while chasing him out of the bathroom and off of people's laps. It was a great time for all of us. *gag*
Ready for the shittiest part of my shitty, shitty, shit-filled day? I walk in to the living room and see the massacred remains of my cute, puppy favor bags lying mutilated on the floor. Blog damnit.
In fact, someone signed the lease on our house and put down the deposit. We have a renter for the next 12 months, guaranteed. Had coffee with Geraldine while Michael was still in childcare. I even finished making the favor bags for Sunday's birthday bash--little brown bags with puppy faces.
Dom and I decided some celebrating was in order. We hopped in the car down to Chili's for some good eats. After all that hard work of prepping for the party and costume sewing, I was ready for big ole plate of honey BBQ flavored chicken crispers. So crispy and tastey, that therein lies the first of many unfortunate happenings.
As I'm taking a gigantic bite, the crispness of the chicken's outer layer shot a teaspoon of honey barbeque burn right into my eye. I don't know how many of you have tried to eat sauce through your eye before, but the horrible stinging and shock of what the fuck just happened renders your speech uncomprehendable. While making stiff sweeps across the table like a rusty robot, I found a napkin and garbled, "Eye. It's sauce. Ah."
Today was a bad day.
I woke up with the ick that Michael's been spreading all over the house with his germy little hands. And I was going to inquire about the flu shot on Monday. I still managed to drag my body, which feels like it's rotting from the inside out, all over the house to get ready for Yoga class because I was supposed to meet Geraldine at 9. Too bad I didn't check the email that said she wasn't going before I left. I figured she was just running late, so I waited for about 15 minutes past before giving up and taking a shower. I had even shown up 15 minutes early because I had to stop and get more pedialyte for Michael Poopypants.
Now at home, I spend about an hour on the phone with my insurance provider trying to get Michael's card mailed out to us and change my doctor...blah, blah, blaaaahhh. I finally lay down for a glorious nap while Michael's still sleeping....only he's no longer sleeping. Fuck me.
I get him to the doctor's office and filled out my clipboard of family diseases while chasing him out of the bathroom and off of people's laps. It was a great time for all of us. *gag*
Ready for the shittiest part of my shitty, shitty, shit-filled day? I walk in to the living room and see the massacred remains of my cute, puppy favor bags lying mutilated on the floor. Blog damnit.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Hey, Dick, why is it that you see nude people in museums but they never show them on TV?
Remember how I said that before noon on a weekday the gym becomes a geriatric petri dish? Oh my Blog, it got worse today.
I'm taking the usual 15 minutes - 2 hours to blowdry my hair, because it has some sort of anti-drying charm on it that makes my locks perpetually wet and therefore takes an unbloggly amount of vigorous hairdryer waving to make any progress, and I see it via mirror standing behind me--naked grandma.
Diverting my gaze was absolutely top priority. I don't want to see any boobies in the locker room and here I am staring at Grandma Moses's exposed ta-tas. But with there being so many mirrors, it was nearly impossible. I had naked grandma in IMAX 3-D with Dolby Digital surround sound. I just started reading a sign sitting atop the counter over and over again. Ironically, it said this:
I'm taking the usual 15 minutes - 2 hours to blowdry my hair, because it has some sort of anti-drying charm on it that makes my locks perpetually wet and therefore takes an unbloggly amount of vigorous hairdryer waving to make any progress, and I see it via mirror standing behind me--naked grandma.
Diverting my gaze was absolutely top priority. I don't want to see any boobies in the locker room and here I am staring at Grandma Moses's exposed ta-tas. But with there being so many mirrors, it was nearly impossible. I had naked grandma in IMAX 3-D with Dolby Digital surround sound. I just started reading a sign sitting atop the counter over and over again. Ironically, it said this:
We hope you're enjoying your new locker rooms. For the consideration of other locker room patrons we ask that everyone remain covered in the common areas.
I never truly appreciated that sign before today. It's not just the age of the nakedness (though it does play a role). It's just awkward to turn around and be staring into someone's bare ass. Maybe it's me and my overly self-conscious attempts to stay fully clothed in the common areas that makes me think that everyone should at least wear the towel dress. Granted, I take the crazy cake and come out of the shower sporting my jeans and all. But as I heard a different elderly worker-outer once say, "Could you bring me my robe? I'm not ready to be Miss America."
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Well hello there handsome. Coffee tea or me?
There are some things you just don't want to start your day off with and some without. The whole internet knows that I'm a dark roast lovin' java junkie--so when I don't have my caffeine infused miracle drink first thing I'm a little strung out. I certainly don't want to wake up and strip my son of poopy pajamas and wash his sheets. He is currently watching Curious George and eating handfuls of Captain Crunch.
And no matter how much I love my husband, having a conversation standing over me (still wrapped into my blankets and pressing one ear hard into the pillow) isn't going to be very two sided. All I can hear is the adult-figure voice from Charlie Brown. That works great for normal weekday circumstances of "I'm leaving for work. I love you. I'll call you this afternoon." But important news? You'd better sit me up and hand me some hazelnut flavored joe.
I'm pretty sure he was telling me that our realtor emailed him about an interested buyer. The guy's military but can't afford a down payment right away, so he want's to lease for 6 months. A sort of rent to own option. He hasn't been to look at the house yet, but the pictures got him seriously interested. As long as the carpet doesn't frighten him away (since we ARE offering a carpeting allowance) we may be golden. Also, we have a couple interested in renting the house (if we recarpet). Finally, competing bids on my house!
I'd rather sell it. For the love of Blog, let's hope this guy takes the recarpeting allowance and does it his damn self. I'm so sick of relying on unreliable "professional" people in the housing market not getting me a fucking estimate. It's not like I can hop a flight down there with my trusty tape measure and do it. Well, I could but then I couldn't afford the carpet. But seriously, how hard is it to walk into Home Depot and talk to a dude with a lumbar support strap?
And no matter how much I love my husband, having a conversation standing over me (still wrapped into my blankets and pressing one ear hard into the pillow) isn't going to be very two sided. All I can hear is the adult-figure voice from Charlie Brown. That works great for normal weekday circumstances of "I'm leaving for work. I love you. I'll call you this afternoon." But important news? You'd better sit me up and hand me some hazelnut flavored joe.
I'm pretty sure he was telling me that our realtor emailed him about an interested buyer. The guy's military but can't afford a down payment right away, so he want's to lease for 6 months. A sort of rent to own option. He hasn't been to look at the house yet, but the pictures got him seriously interested. As long as the carpet doesn't frighten him away (since we ARE offering a carpeting allowance) we may be golden. Also, we have a couple interested in renting the house (if we recarpet). Finally, competing bids on my house!
I'd rather sell it. For the love of Blog, let's hope this guy takes the recarpeting allowance and does it his damn self. I'm so sick of relying on unreliable "professional" people in the housing market not getting me a fucking estimate. It's not like I can hop a flight down there with my trusty tape measure and do it. Well, I could but then I couldn't afford the carpet. But seriously, how hard is it to walk into Home Depot and talk to a dude with a lumbar support strap?
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