on toast, LOL?
Jkjkjk...
http://www.angryalien.com/
LMAO...
d
Saturday, August 06, 2005
OH FOR THE LOVE OF SMUSHY MONITORS!
Won't somebody please help the girl, LOL?
If not, my pretty smushy computer monitor may end up on my lawn with a damn hammer through the screen!
I've been screwing around, trying to add pictures to this damn blog, and cannot noodle it through.
Yes.
I fully realize how pathetic, and computer illiterate I am.
I downloaded that stupid "Hello, you're a dumbass" Picasso, or Hello, whatever it's called, and now, it prompts me to sign in when I boot up, and then tells me how basically idiotic I am when it won't load...I've re-downloaded it twice now...
ARUGHH!
Help me out, and I'll post a dirty pic.
Like, of my dog's poo in the backyard, after she's eaten a few crayons.
Colorful ain't the word, LOL...
and I want full credit for the lack of profanity in this post.
If not, my pretty smushy computer monitor may end up on my lawn with a damn hammer through the screen!
I've been screwing around, trying to add pictures to this damn blog, and cannot noodle it through.
Yes.
I fully realize how pathetic, and computer illiterate I am.
I downloaded that stupid "Hello, you're a dumbass" Picasso, or Hello, whatever it's called, and now, it prompts me to sign in when I boot up, and then tells me how basically idiotic I am when it won't load...I've re-downloaded it twice now...
ARUGHH!
Help me out, and I'll post a dirty pic.
Like, of my dog's poo in the backyard, after she's eaten a few crayons.
Colorful ain't the word, LOL...
and I want full credit for the lack of profanity in this post.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Would you please pass the hooch?
Why is it, that mothers feel compelled to get around other mothers and talk shop ALL THE FUCKING TIME?
I was recently invited out, by my mother's best friend's daughter (got that?). She is a perfectly nice girl, she really is. She has three children, though hers are a little younger than my own, and is just...nice.
She has been asking me for a few months, to attend a meeting of MOPS, or MNO, some organization with an "M" in the acryonym, with her. Now, I am sure that MOPS, or whatever, is a lovely group of women, with lovely children, and lovely...hair. However, not really my cuppa tea, you catch?
I sidestepped the issue for a few, well, months (procrastination? Me?), and was finally cornered on the issue. All of the the "Uh, I think I'm having my tonsils removed that day" excuses had already been used, I was out of disposable body parts. So, finally, I had to explain that I just didn't want to go.
She proceeded to share with me how a "meeting" goes. First of all, not to iterrupt, but I don't want to attend ANYTHING with the word "meeting" in it. This is why I am self-employed. Apparently, they have a speaker, who speaks on a child/parent related topic, then they break up into groups, depending on zip code, and discuss the previous speaker.
"Sometimes we discuss disipline, how to handle temper tantrums, crafts to do with them, and sometimes we just share cute stories about our children".
Well goodie. That is exactly what I want to do, when I have two hours without my children. Sit around and talk about them.
And, by the way? Those "cute" stories we mothers like to tell about our kids? Other people don't think they're cute. They're either waiting their turn to tell what their kid did that was REALLY cute, thinking "OH MY GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH THEIR CHILD???", or "Why the fuck wont she/he SHUT UP about their fucking kid already?"
When did it become wrong, for a mother, especially a SAHM, to not want to be mommy 24/7? Why is it perfectly acceptable, in fact, expected, from mothers who work outside the home, to have other interests, hobbies, other topics of discussion than motherhood? I stay home with my kids, because it was important to Doug and I that one of us be home, and be with the littles when they get home from school, when they're sick, etc., and we've finanically, been able to make it work. Not because there was nothing else I could do with all that time.
Being a SAH, does not mean that I lost my ability to think about things not involving how to get little Timmy to shit on the potty, and not eat his boogers (for the record, NONE of my children are booger-eaters). I love my kids. I love staying home with them all the time. I really do. However, this does not mean that I have to immerse myself in them to the point of drowning the gal who I am, OUTSIDE of being da'momma. If I have a few child-free hours, I want to spend it celebrating who I am, outside of parenting, I want to use explicit profanity, have a screaming debate over world politics or religon, while smoking excessively over shots of bourbon.
You should have SEEN the silence on the other end of the phone when I told her that. I think she was a little shocked, but at the same time, I think it made her pause and think.
It's OKAY for us to not spend all of our time parenting. It's OKAY to need adult conversation that doesn't involve the words "potty", "binky", or "wooby". This isn't an excuse to get drunk at noon while they're eating their PB&J for lunch. Needing some time to be YOU, doesn't make you a bad mother. It might just make you a better one.
Hey, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
The kids are gone for the day, so pass the hooch, would ya?
I was recently invited out, by my mother's best friend's daughter (got that?). She is a perfectly nice girl, she really is. She has three children, though hers are a little younger than my own, and is just...nice.
She has been asking me for a few months, to attend a meeting of MOPS, or MNO, some organization with an "M" in the acryonym, with her. Now, I am sure that MOPS, or whatever, is a lovely group of women, with lovely children, and lovely...hair. However, not really my cuppa tea, you catch?
I sidestepped the issue for a few, well, months (procrastination? Me?), and was finally cornered on the issue. All of the the "Uh, I think I'm having my tonsils removed that day" excuses had already been used, I was out of disposable body parts. So, finally, I had to explain that I just didn't want to go.
She proceeded to share with me how a "meeting" goes. First of all, not to iterrupt, but I don't want to attend ANYTHING with the word "meeting" in it. This is why I am self-employed. Apparently, they have a speaker, who speaks on a child/parent related topic, then they break up into groups, depending on zip code, and discuss the previous speaker.
"Sometimes we discuss disipline, how to handle temper tantrums, crafts to do with them, and sometimes we just share cute stories about our children".
Well goodie. That is exactly what I want to do, when I have two hours without my children. Sit around and talk about them.
And, by the way? Those "cute" stories we mothers like to tell about our kids? Other people don't think they're cute. They're either waiting their turn to tell what their kid did that was REALLY cute, thinking "OH MY GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH THEIR CHILD???", or "Why the fuck wont she/he SHUT UP about their fucking kid already?"
When did it become wrong, for a mother, especially a SAHM, to not want to be mommy 24/7? Why is it perfectly acceptable, in fact, expected, from mothers who work outside the home, to have other interests, hobbies, other topics of discussion than motherhood? I stay home with my kids, because it was important to Doug and I that one of us be home, and be with the littles when they get home from school, when they're sick, etc., and we've finanically, been able to make it work. Not because there was nothing else I could do with all that time.
Being a SAH, does not mean that I lost my ability to think about things not involving how to get little Timmy to shit on the potty, and not eat his boogers (for the record, NONE of my children are booger-eaters). I love my kids. I love staying home with them all the time. I really do. However, this does not mean that I have to immerse myself in them to the point of drowning the gal who I am, OUTSIDE of being da'momma. If I have a few child-free hours, I want to spend it celebrating who I am, outside of parenting, I want to use explicit profanity, have a screaming debate over world politics or religon, while smoking excessively over shots of bourbon.
You should have SEEN the silence on the other end of the phone when I told her that. I think she was a little shocked, but at the same time, I think it made her pause and think.
It's OKAY for us to not spend all of our time parenting. It's OKAY to need adult conversation that doesn't involve the words "potty", "binky", or "wooby". This isn't an excuse to get drunk at noon while they're eating their PB&J for lunch. Needing some time to be YOU, doesn't make you a bad mother. It might just make you a better one.
Hey, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
The kids are gone for the day, so pass the hooch, would ya?
Friday, July 29, 2005
a tisket a tasket
shove that fucking basket right up your...
I'm in a funk.
Which is much different that feeling funky, let me tell you.
I do this a few times a year, feel blecky and hibernate. I'm firmly convinced that if more people wallowed a bit more frequently, they might not drive me apeshit.
I'm watching a person, whom I've always viewed as being just a hair above a functioning village idiot, achieve success in a field that has frustrated me for years.
One, I might add, for honesty's sake, I desperately desire to, if not succeed in, to at least be viewed as competent and mildly entertaining.
Goes to show how much I know, LOL.
I do not begrudge others success, at least, I don't think I do.
As long as it's not something I want that I can't have.
Not really all that gracious of an outlook, eh?
I made the mistake of, while not complaining (seriously, I take a break every now and again), discussing, if you will, my life with some friends of my mothers. They asked me about the boyos, which, in turn, lead to Lucien starting pre-K this year, I'll have more free time, and I mentioned that I was planning on going back to college.
They looked *shocked*
I guess when you get knocked up at 19, people's expectations of your life tend to fall off the chart a bit. I don't need a degree. I WANT a degree. Ask me what I'll do with it, the answer is a bit more hazy.
Everything I've accomplished so far, has been a combination of dumb luck, and biology. I've made three kick ass children. Biology. Doug has a great job, we have a great marriage. Hard work on his end, and dumb luck.
It was pointed out to me that I should be thankful for my children, rather indignantly, I might add. Well of course I'm thankful for them! What a stupid ass statement to make. However, not to be a wet blanket, but eventually, they will leave home. Hopefully before they are 30. I'll only be 43 when my youngest turns 18. There's alotta living' after 43 (or, so I'm hoping).
My children's needs determine what I do, and when I do it.
NOW.
Not always.
A gal has to plan.
For some reason, I guess I always assumed that when I was ready, the mantle would simply fall about my shoulders, and I would take my rightful place in the world.
Turns out that mantle is a poopy diaper.
I'm not handling it all that well.
The stupidest part is that I know that it means nothing. I know that her success is a good thing. It may mean that I'll get that $2000 she owes me back.
I'm just plain old jealous.
Green is my color, being a redhead and all.
Having to admit that you are jealous, sucks ass, just for the record. It's such an ugly emotion. I'm not jealous of girls that are prettier than me, or smarter, or have more money....
maybe it's that I just don't care about that stuff. Maybe that is what jealousy is all about. I suppose it doesn't really count when people have something you don't want. Not that I wouldn't mind having more money, or more brain cells.
So, anyway, in summation, there is no summation. There is nothing to be done for it, but to accept it, congratulate her, and keep on pluggin' away.
And maybe wallow. Just for a day or two.
I'm in a funk.
Which is much different that feeling funky, let me tell you.
I do this a few times a year, feel blecky and hibernate. I'm firmly convinced that if more people wallowed a bit more frequently, they might not drive me apeshit.
I'm watching a person, whom I've always viewed as being just a hair above a functioning village idiot, achieve success in a field that has frustrated me for years.
One, I might add, for honesty's sake, I desperately desire to, if not succeed in, to at least be viewed as competent and mildly entertaining.
Goes to show how much I know, LOL.
I do not begrudge others success, at least, I don't think I do.
As long as it's not something I want that I can't have.
Not really all that gracious of an outlook, eh?
I made the mistake of, while not complaining (seriously, I take a break every now and again), discussing, if you will, my life with some friends of my mothers. They asked me about the boyos, which, in turn, lead to Lucien starting pre-K this year, I'll have more free time, and I mentioned that I was planning on going back to college.
They looked *shocked*
I guess when you get knocked up at 19, people's expectations of your life tend to fall off the chart a bit. I don't need a degree. I WANT a degree. Ask me what I'll do with it, the answer is a bit more hazy.
Everything I've accomplished so far, has been a combination of dumb luck, and biology. I've made three kick ass children. Biology. Doug has a great job, we have a great marriage. Hard work on his end, and dumb luck.
It was pointed out to me that I should be thankful for my children, rather indignantly, I might add. Well of course I'm thankful for them! What a stupid ass statement to make. However, not to be a wet blanket, but eventually, they will leave home. Hopefully before they are 30. I'll only be 43 when my youngest turns 18. There's alotta living' after 43 (or, so I'm hoping).
My children's needs determine what I do, and when I do it.
NOW.
Not always.
A gal has to plan.
For some reason, I guess I always assumed that when I was ready, the mantle would simply fall about my shoulders, and I would take my rightful place in the world.
Turns out that mantle is a poopy diaper.
I'm not handling it all that well.
The stupidest part is that I know that it means nothing. I know that her success is a good thing. It may mean that I'll get that $2000 she owes me back.
I'm just plain old jealous.
Green is my color, being a redhead and all.
Having to admit that you are jealous, sucks ass, just for the record. It's such an ugly emotion. I'm not jealous of girls that are prettier than me, or smarter, or have more money....
maybe it's that I just don't care about that stuff. Maybe that is what jealousy is all about. I suppose it doesn't really count when people have something you don't want. Not that I wouldn't mind having more money, or more brain cells.
So, anyway, in summation, there is no summation. There is nothing to be done for it, but to accept it, congratulate her, and keep on pluggin' away.
And maybe wallow. Just for a day or two.
a pinder a ponder...
WHY, do I have two cats? They needed to go to the vet this AM, to get get fixed. This requires mucho advance-o planning-o, as one of the cats, Lady Hotdog, loathes the cat carrier with the fire of a thousand suns. It terrifies the shit out of her. Sometimes, literally. So, last night, we locked them in the downstairs bathroom, since they're not allowed to eat or drink after midnight. This morning, Doug wakes up, and put them into the carrier. I then get up with virtually no sleep (that is a whole separate story),cranky, with just enough time to shower, drink enough coffee to be coherent, and get the cats to the vets on time. Everything is going swimmingly, until I attempt to PICK UP the carrier. Apparently, if you turn the little black knobs on the sides...the whole thing comes apart. Guess what Lucien did??
So, 10 minutes before we have to be there, I'm tracking down Hotdog. Ruby could have cared less, I just threw her lazy ass back into the bathroom. I finally corner Hotdog, she is clawing the shit out of me as soon as she sees the carrier, I get her in (no small feat), and scream at Caleb "SHUT THE DOOR! SHUT THE DOOR!", while the cat jumpsabout 4 feet in the air (I had the carrier on it's end, so the door was on the top), and takes OFF. Caleb then proceeds to watch the cat run away.
This time, she made it upstairs, where there is no abundance of places to hide.
Half an hour later, all the beds were flipped over, including my king size (working on pure fury at this point, LOL). Eventually, reason kicks in. I opened a can of wet food, and sat patiently.
Two minutes later, here comes Houdini cat, strolling up for breakfast.
We made it to the vets, only about an hour late.
So, feeling guilty, I took all the littles to get some munchkins, figuring a bucket-sized latte couldn't hurt the momma either. You should have seen the confusion on the woman's face when I ordered a "Ginourmous latte please"
"huh? What size"
"The biggest you've got. A bucket would be nice"
"Huh?"
"Large, please".
My humor is lost on some people.
So, 10 minutes before we have to be there, I'm tracking down Hotdog. Ruby could have cared less, I just threw her lazy ass back into the bathroom. I finally corner Hotdog, she is clawing the shit out of me as soon as she sees the carrier, I get her in (no small feat), and scream at Caleb "SHUT THE DOOR! SHUT THE DOOR!", while the cat jumpsabout 4 feet in the air (I had the carrier on it's end, so the door was on the top), and takes OFF. Caleb then proceeds to watch the cat run away.
This time, she made it upstairs, where there is no abundance of places to hide.
Half an hour later, all the beds were flipped over, including my king size (working on pure fury at this point, LOL). Eventually, reason kicks in. I opened a can of wet food, and sat patiently.
Two minutes later, here comes Houdini cat, strolling up for breakfast.
We made it to the vets, only about an hour late.
So, feeling guilty, I took all the littles to get some munchkins, figuring a bucket-sized latte couldn't hurt the momma either. You should have seen the confusion on the woman's face when I ordered a "Ginourmous latte please"
"huh? What size"
"The biggest you've got. A bucket would be nice"
"Huh?"
"Large, please".
My humor is lost on some people.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Babies and batsignals...
..AH-HA! I have sucessfully taught the 'pews to refer to my sister-in-law's belly as the "Batcave"!
We've (by "we", I mean, Travis, Cameron and I), decided to name the babies Batman and Wonder Woman. Especially considering that Travis is convinced that he is getting a new brother, and Cameron is getting a sister. It's working out beautifully for everyone.
Did I mention that my SIL is not amused?
We've (by "we", I mean, Travis, Cameron and I), decided to name the babies Batman and Wonder Woman. Especially considering that Travis is convinced that he is getting a new brother, and Cameron is getting a sister. It's working out beautifully for everyone.
Did I mention that my SIL is not amused?
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Excuse me while I....
..clear my fucking throat.
I've just spent the day with my fucked-up family.
To "celebrate" my grandmother's and mother's, birthday.
This means that in addition to the normal shit-fest that is a gathering with this group of people that I am, genetically speaking, related to, that there is an additional cat factor.
My brother was his normal charming self. His first remark, as he eavesdrops on a conversation between Doug and I, who were playfully fighting, and actually lip-locked for his "Yelling. That's what my sister does best".
Me: "Yes, Chris, because you know me oh, so very, very well. We're practically bosom buddies"
Him: "A leopard doesn't change his spots"
Me: Silence, while mentally screaming "The ONLY FUCKING CAT IN THIS ROOM IS THE FUCKING PUSSY THAT ROLLED THE FUCK OUTTA THERE WHEN I WAS 14, AND NEVER LOOKED THE FUCK BACK, SO STUFF IT UP YOUR FUCKING ASS".
Which, totally would have blown the whole "temper? What temper?" point, that I was trying to make.
My mother, in the role of loving peacemaker, looks at me, my pursed lips, and the pulsating vein in my forehead, and says "You can come up with a comeback for that!".
Why yes, yes I can.
Unfortunately, it involves bloodshed.
"It's my mother's birthday, I'm biting my tongue" was my response, forced out between clenched teeth.
This was only the first round, illegal before the sounding of the bell.
Aidan: "Mommy! Let me show you my new trick", proceeds to show me how he places the butter knife like so, and then taps it with the mallet, cracking cleanly through the crab claw.
Me: "Aidan! That's great! The claws are my favorite part also!"
Grandmother to Aidan: "Don't go all the way through the crab leg Aidan, you're doing it wrong. Don't go all the way through, you'll waste that last morsel of meat that is clinging, stubbornly to the disgusting membrane with the crab leg. Don't you know that I paid good money for these crabs? You're doing it wrong. Don't go all the way through the crab leg...." ad nauseum.
Aidan to grandmother: I like to eat them this way. I get both ends out" with a "what the fuck is wrong with you?" bewildered look on his face.
Me: reaches for a drink.
Second bell rings. Aidan wins the first round.
My mother: This week is vacation bible school"
Me: "Aidan has tutoring at 10:30 on Monday and Wednesday."
Mother/martyr: "It's only one week Danielle"
Me: "I'm aware. However, Jen is having her gallbladder out this week, so I'll have Delaney and Emma for her while she recovers"
martyr: "Delaney can go with them"
Me: "Only if I strap 4 week old Emma to the luggage rack on the roof of the van"
martyr: "You asked me to sign them up for VBS, Danielle, so I did. I only did what you asked me to. It's all I can do"
Me: dumbfucked astounded by the fact that this conversation "Danielle, you need to sign them up for VBS this year.
Me: "noncommittal grunt" has been turned into a burning desire for them to go to a church I cannot stand, and learn about a god whom I do not believe in, and/or worship.
Third round
My father: "Dani!
"DANI"
"Yes Dad?"
"DANI!"
"What?
"DAAANNII!"
"WHAT!!!"
"Do you know where LUcien's bathing suit is?"
"no"
Me: "Lucien, did you leave it in the bathroom?"
Lucien: "I don't know"...skips off down the hallway to check.
Father walks halfway down said hallway and again yells "Dani! Do you know where Lucien's bathing suit is?"
"NO! I DON'T KNOW WHERE HIS DAMN SUIT IS! I HAVEN'T WORN IT TODAY!"
This is after repeated conversations such as "Dad, we're out of plates. Do you have anymore?"
him: "I don't know. Go look"
Me: "This isn't my party, though I can see how you might be confused, since I arranged all the food, made both birthday cakes, and the salad. I also, do not live here, have never lived here, and wouldn't have the slightest idea of where you would keep them"
Him: "grunt"
Knockout in the fourth round
Mom: "There is this distance between us, Dani. Are you mad at me?"
Me: "No.
Really"
Mom: "okay"
When, what I should have said was, "Yes, there is. There is distance between us. It's about the size, weight, and diameter of a bible".
I've just spent the day with my fucked-up family.
To "celebrate" my grandmother's and mother's, birthday.
This means that in addition to the normal shit-fest that is a gathering with this group of people that I am, genetically speaking, related to, that there is an additional cat factor.
My brother was his normal charming self. His first remark, as he eavesdrops on a conversation between Doug and I, who were playfully fighting, and actually lip-locked for his "Yelling. That's what my sister does best".
Me: "Yes, Chris, because you know me oh, so very, very well. We're practically bosom buddies"
Him: "A leopard doesn't change his spots"
Me: Silence, while mentally screaming "The ONLY FUCKING CAT IN THIS ROOM IS THE FUCKING PUSSY THAT ROLLED THE FUCK OUTTA THERE WHEN I WAS 14, AND NEVER LOOKED THE FUCK BACK, SO STUFF IT UP YOUR FUCKING ASS".
Which, totally would have blown the whole "temper? What temper?" point, that I was trying to make.
My mother, in the role of loving peacemaker, looks at me, my pursed lips, and the pulsating vein in my forehead, and says "You can come up with a comeback for that!".
Why yes, yes I can.
Unfortunately, it involves bloodshed.
"It's my mother's birthday, I'm biting my tongue" was my response, forced out between clenched teeth.
This was only the first round, illegal before the sounding of the bell.
Aidan: "Mommy! Let me show you my new trick", proceeds to show me how he places the butter knife like so, and then taps it with the mallet, cracking cleanly through the crab claw.
Me: "Aidan! That's great! The claws are my favorite part also!"
Grandmother to Aidan: "Don't go all the way through the crab leg Aidan, you're doing it wrong. Don't go all the way through, you'll waste that last morsel of meat that is clinging, stubbornly to the disgusting membrane with the crab leg. Don't you know that I paid good money for these crabs? You're doing it wrong. Don't go all the way through the crab leg...." ad nauseum.
Aidan to grandmother: I like to eat them this way. I get both ends out" with a "what the fuck is wrong with you?" bewildered look on his face.
Me: reaches for a drink.
Second bell rings. Aidan wins the first round.
My mother: This week is vacation bible school"
Me: "Aidan has tutoring at 10:30 on Monday and Wednesday."
Mother/martyr: "It's only one week Danielle"
Me: "I'm aware. However, Jen is having her gallbladder out this week, so I'll have Delaney and Emma for her while she recovers"
martyr: "Delaney can go with them"
Me: "Only if I strap 4 week old Emma to the luggage rack on the roof of the van"
martyr: "You asked me to sign them up for VBS, Danielle, so I did. I only did what you asked me to. It's all I can do"
Me: dumbfucked astounded by the fact that this conversation "Danielle, you need to sign them up for VBS this year.
Me: "noncommittal grunt" has been turned into a burning desire for them to go to a church I cannot stand, and learn about a god whom I do not believe in, and/or worship.
Third round
My father: "Dani!
"DANI"
"Yes Dad?"
"DANI!"
"What?
"DAAANNII!"
"WHAT!!!"
"Do you know where LUcien's bathing suit is?"
"no"
Me: "Lucien, did you leave it in the bathroom?"
Lucien: "I don't know"...skips off down the hallway to check.
Father walks halfway down said hallway and again yells "Dani! Do you know where Lucien's bathing suit is?"
"NO! I DON'T KNOW WHERE HIS DAMN SUIT IS! I HAVEN'T WORN IT TODAY!"
This is after repeated conversations such as "Dad, we're out of plates. Do you have anymore?"
him: "I don't know. Go look"
Me: "This isn't my party, though I can see how you might be confused, since I arranged all the food, made both birthday cakes, and the salad. I also, do not live here, have never lived here, and wouldn't have the slightest idea of where you would keep them"
Him: "grunt"
Knockout in the fourth round
Mom: "There is this distance between us, Dani. Are you mad at me?"
Me: "No.
Really"
Mom: "okay"
When, what I should have said was, "Yes, there is. There is distance between us. It's about the size, weight, and diameter of a bible".
Saturday, July 23, 2005
I've got a wild hair...
...up my ass...or is that a "wild hare"?
In which case, this has gone up quite a few notches on the creep-o meter...
I've decided that, since I'm wild to get to the business of ripping down the crumbling plaster walls in my house, which, I recently noticed, have moved a few blocks down from "ghetto chic", to, in addition to straightening up the house, hitting the grocery store and dry cleaners (who, at this point, are probably legally entitled to keep my husband's shirts), I'm tearing down the chain link fence out in the front yard.
You see, one of the many joys of owning an older home, is the plethora of projects you get to chose from. We, however have a system. Projects rank in this order:
1-If this shit doesn't get fucking down in the next 2 days, we must immediately move the washing machine as well as the dryer to the front lawn, and the cars must have all tires removed, and be situated on cement blocks. No fancy-schmancy round things here, no sir-e-blob.
2-It can wait. Like, maybe a week. Then, if not finished, the washer and dryer must be relocated, but the wheels may stay attached to the evil-mobile that is my mini-van.
3-Whatever. White trash is back in vogue, no? It'll be alright to sit there for a month or so.
4-Fuck it. If you don't like it, don't fucking look at it.
The walls, are currently, at #1. Since I, while not being overly attached to the process of doing laundry, I do enjoy, no, appreciate being able to do it in my underwear. This, would be severely curtailed if the appliances were moved the front lawn.
My dear, dear, baby daddy, however, has a different list than I do.
WTF? At what point was there a time when TWO lists were allowed? Everyone knows that there is only ONE list of projects allowed at a time. Since I have tits, mine automatically trumps his.
He, however, is not persuaded by my logic, that two boobs, beat one penis, any day of the week.
So, in order for him to help me with the walls, I have to help him finish his list.
HIS list.
Like, totally, whatever.
He's insisting that he finish the deck for the pool we put in over the summer, as well as getting the fence down in the front lawn, and finishing the treehouse. Though, he graciously is making allowance for the last item slipping down a few notches on his list, making room for fixing, you know, holes in the walls in our foyer.
He's a grand fellow.
So, I spent today ripping up a fence. A nasty-ass, chainlink fence, completely rusted and nasty.
The lawn looks FAB. My evil-mobile, which I feel compelled to add, is only 2 months old, didn't survive quite so well, as I backed into HIS van with it.
I, who have never hit another car, (the incidence involving Melissa Russo's car in the school parking lot in the 10th grade does NOT count), managed to back the holy fucking shit out of the back side of Satan's carriage. I also, managed to bang up his (which, is a company car, BWAHAHAHA), to the point, that the passenger side door will not open.
I, am one clever hag.
With about to be new walls.
In which case, this has gone up quite a few notches on the creep-o meter...
I've decided that, since I'm wild to get to the business of ripping down the crumbling plaster walls in my house, which, I recently noticed, have moved a few blocks down from "ghetto chic", to, in addition to straightening up the house, hitting the grocery store and dry cleaners (who, at this point, are probably legally entitled to keep my husband's shirts), I'm tearing down the chain link fence out in the front yard.
You see, one of the many joys of owning an older home, is the plethora of projects you get to chose from. We, however have a system. Projects rank in this order:
1-If this shit doesn't get fucking down in the next 2 days, we must immediately move the washing machine as well as the dryer to the front lawn, and the cars must have all tires removed, and be situated on cement blocks. No fancy-schmancy round things here, no sir-e-blob.
2-It can wait. Like, maybe a week. Then, if not finished, the washer and dryer must be relocated, but the wheels may stay attached to the evil-mobile that is my mini-van.
3-Whatever. White trash is back in vogue, no? It'll be alright to sit there for a month or so.
4-Fuck it. If you don't like it, don't fucking look at it.
The walls, are currently, at #1. Since I, while not being overly attached to the process of doing laundry, I do enjoy, no, appreciate being able to do it in my underwear. This, would be severely curtailed if the appliances were moved the front lawn.
My dear, dear, baby daddy, however, has a different list than I do.
WTF? At what point was there a time when TWO lists were allowed? Everyone knows that there is only ONE list of projects allowed at a time. Since I have tits, mine automatically trumps his.
He, however, is not persuaded by my logic, that two boobs, beat one penis, any day of the week.
So, in order for him to help me with the walls, I have to help him finish his list.
HIS list.
Like, totally, whatever.
He's insisting that he finish the deck for the pool we put in over the summer, as well as getting the fence down in the front lawn, and finishing the treehouse. Though, he graciously is making allowance for the last item slipping down a few notches on his list, making room for fixing, you know, holes in the walls in our foyer.
He's a grand fellow.
So, I spent today ripping up a fence. A nasty-ass, chainlink fence, completely rusted and nasty.
The lawn looks FAB. My evil-mobile, which I feel compelled to add, is only 2 months old, didn't survive quite so well, as I backed into HIS van with it.
I, who have never hit another car, (the incidence involving Melissa Russo's car in the school parking lot in the 10th grade does NOT count), managed to back the holy fucking shit out of the back side of Satan's carriage. I also, managed to bang up his (which, is a company car, BWAHAHAHA), to the point, that the passenger side door will not open.
I, am one clever hag.
With about to be new walls.
Friday, July 22, 2005
The storm of the eye...
Miss me?
Between the saga of the eye, and our trip to the beach, I've been horribly lax in updating my blog, for which, I sincerely apologize to my numerous fans. You're out there. I know you are.
Update on the eye...Only for the strong-stomached, LOL. I finally got a clean bill of health on Wednesday. After my initial posting, things went downhill, FAST. Apparently, my body walled off the infection to keep it from spreading (neat trick, now if only I could teach it to my dirty laundry pile), resulting in a huge, and extremely attractive, knot above my eye...So I, who loathes going to the doctors, sucked it up, and trekked back, for my third visit, in as many days. Once there, she informs me that it may be an infected cyst in there. Sounds fun, no? So, meanwhile, my head is throbbing like an elephant is pulling a Michael Flatley performance on it. She takes a big assed needle, and pokes me with it. Yup. So, since my baby daddy was sitting in the waiting room, I asked her to bring him in. Apparently, the needle trick didn't go as planned, so she numbed it (which is another word for poking and prodding, asking, "Can you feel this", to which the answer is "YES BITCH, I CAN!"), and then took a razor blade to my face. This just make me bleed like a stuck pig.
After fastening two beautiful butterfly bandages to it, she sets me up with an appointment with an eye doctor for the next morning, to have him cut it out. I'm freaking out, just a smidge, at the point. Not only is this my face, but I'm due to leave for vacation in 2 days! A girl has priorities!
The next morning, my father drives me there, where the doctor kindly allowed me to remove the bandages my self, since the doc from the day before, had stuck them in the MIDDLE OF MY EYEBROW. I looked funny enough, I had no desire to lose the middle of my eyebrow as well. He looks at it, and informs me that it is draining. Which, basically means, that was puss running down my face, not medicine. Hey, I warned you before this whole thing began. He can do nothing with it, without it hurting like hell, leaving me a "significant" scar, and probably not doing much good.
"Just keep the hot compresses on it, let it drain, and here, have ANOTHER antibiotic scrip".
This takes the antibiotic count up to FOUR. I could swim through raw sewage iffin I had the desire. Which I don't. Just to clarify.
So, finally, 5 days later, on Saturday, I was able to remove the bandaid I was using to cover it, and take off my "bandaid? What bandaid?" sunglasses. I still look a little funny. Well, funnier than usual, but I'll be fine.
So, rest easy, secure in the knowledge that I'll be around for awhile yet. I know you were sweating it.
Between the saga of the eye, and our trip to the beach, I've been horribly lax in updating my blog, for which, I sincerely apologize to my numerous fans. You're out there. I know you are.
Update on the eye...Only for the strong-stomached, LOL. I finally got a clean bill of health on Wednesday. After my initial posting, things went downhill, FAST. Apparently, my body walled off the infection to keep it from spreading (neat trick, now if only I could teach it to my dirty laundry pile), resulting in a huge, and extremely attractive, knot above my eye...So I, who loathes going to the doctors, sucked it up, and trekked back, for my third visit, in as many days. Once there, she informs me that it may be an infected cyst in there. Sounds fun, no? So, meanwhile, my head is throbbing like an elephant is pulling a Michael Flatley performance on it. She takes a big assed needle, and pokes me with it. Yup. So, since my baby daddy was sitting in the waiting room, I asked her to bring him in. Apparently, the needle trick didn't go as planned, so she numbed it (which is another word for poking and prodding, asking, "Can you feel this", to which the answer is "YES BITCH, I CAN!"), and then took a razor blade to my face. This just make me bleed like a stuck pig.
After fastening two beautiful butterfly bandages to it, she sets me up with an appointment with an eye doctor for the next morning, to have him cut it out. I'm freaking out, just a smidge, at the point. Not only is this my face, but I'm due to leave for vacation in 2 days! A girl has priorities!
The next morning, my father drives me there, where the doctor kindly allowed me to remove the bandages my self, since the doc from the day before, had stuck them in the MIDDLE OF MY EYEBROW. I looked funny enough, I had no desire to lose the middle of my eyebrow as well. He looks at it, and informs me that it is draining. Which, basically means, that was puss running down my face, not medicine. Hey, I warned you before this whole thing began. He can do nothing with it, without it hurting like hell, leaving me a "significant" scar, and probably not doing much good.
"Just keep the hot compresses on it, let it drain, and here, have ANOTHER antibiotic scrip".
This takes the antibiotic count up to FOUR. I could swim through raw sewage iffin I had the desire. Which I don't. Just to clarify.
So, finally, 5 days later, on Saturday, I was able to remove the bandaid I was using to cover it, and take off my "bandaid? What bandaid?" sunglasses. I still look a little funny. Well, funnier than usual, but I'll be fine.
So, rest easy, secure in the knowledge that I'll be around for awhile yet. I know you were sweating it.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Apparently...
everyone in my immediate circle is on a reproductive kick. Either that, or I need to stop drinking the water.
In addition to my friend Jen's, new baby, Emma, my cousin is pregnant, and I just found out that my sister-in-law is also knocked up.
I have to say, I think I could have done a headstand when Janell called with the news that she is pregnant again. Well, maybe not a headstand. I probably could have jumped off the floor higher than 3 inches though. I don't like to exercise. Even when excited.
My SIL, is married to my only sibling. He's an ass. She, however is a sweetheart. She also happens to be my Aidan's tutor (he is dyslexic). They have twin nephews, who turned 3 in May, whom I adore. I also spoil the living shit out of them. Janell's mother once said to me "You know, you can't BUY their affection".
To which I wanted to respond, "Really? How many toddlers have you known? The lady with the candy and toys is ALWAYS popular, bitch".
I've also taught them to call me "favorite aunt", which pisses off Janell's sister to no end. Which is another perk.
I informed Janell, when I dropped off a baby gift, about 2 hours after getting the news, that I was placing an order for twin girls this time. She was not thrilled, LOL....
As long as I don't have to raise them, I can dress them and send them right back to their mommas, little girls are fine with me. Just don't ask me to share a house with one when a pre-teen in the throes of puberty is PMS-ing.
In addition to my friend Jen's, new baby, Emma, my cousin is pregnant, and I just found out that my sister-in-law is also knocked up.
I have to say, I think I could have done a headstand when Janell called with the news that she is pregnant again. Well, maybe not a headstand. I probably could have jumped off the floor higher than 3 inches though. I don't like to exercise. Even when excited.
My SIL, is married to my only sibling. He's an ass. She, however is a sweetheart. She also happens to be my Aidan's tutor (he is dyslexic). They have twin nephews, who turned 3 in May, whom I adore. I also spoil the living shit out of them. Janell's mother once said to me "You know, you can't BUY their affection".
To which I wanted to respond, "Really? How many toddlers have you known? The lady with the candy and toys is ALWAYS popular, bitch".
I've also taught them to call me "favorite aunt", which pisses off Janell's sister to no end. Which is another perk.
I informed Janell, when I dropped off a baby gift, about 2 hours after getting the news, that I was placing an order for twin girls this time. She was not thrilled, LOL....
As long as I don't have to raise them, I can dress them and send them right back to their mommas, little girls are fine with me. Just don't ask me to share a house with one when a pre-teen in the throes of puberty is PMS-ing.
Medical leave...
should be allowed to be taken just for life in general. I'll be the first to admit, I have my vanities. I'm a woman. I'm entitled.
I got bit by a bug. I knew I always hated those nasty fuckers. This particular bastard decided that my eyebrow looked yummy, and took a chunk out of it. Two days later, I woke up with my right eye swollen shut and a headache like a trucker had driven over my head.
A few hours of hemming and hawing, because, naturally, this couldn't occur on a weekDAY, I sucked it up, and went to an urgent care facility.
Now, I would imagine, in all those medical school courses that these people take, there has to be one, where it is mentioned, that walking into an exam room, taking a step BACK, and exclaiming "What the hell happened to your FACE??", is generally not considered a particularly wonderful bedside manner.
After informing me that I have "Orbital Cellulitis", which is not to be confused with cellulite, she repeated, 3-4 times, "This is very serious", completely freaking the shit out of me. I was told to go immediately to the ER if it got any worse, or I developed even a low grade fever, so they could ADMIT me, and administer IV antibiotics. This can apparently spread to your actual eye, or even the membranes of your brain.
Wonderful.
Luckily, the horse-sized antibiotics they have me on, improved it, rather quickly, and I'm told, it should continue to clear up.
However...
I look like a damn circus freak. I mean, really. I've been unable to wear make-up for 2 days. Big fucking whoop, I know, but I feel naked, LOL. I haven't NOT worn make-up outside of the house, for probably 15 years or more. I'm a huge fan of black eyeliner, which, incidentally, I now have to toss, and buy a new one. Of course the one I've been using is only 2 weeks old, which is always the case where you find yourself with a bizarre infection that is usually only seen in children under 5.
I feel like a booger-eater, LOL...
What really bothers me at this point, since apparently I'm out of the woods for yuckies eating my brain, is that I look weird. I mean, I always look a little strange, but COME ON...
We're supposed to be leaving for the beach in 3 days, and meet my in-laws there. The WHOLE damn family. Here's hoping that it's cleared up by then.
Cause I'm VAIN.
I got bit by a bug. I knew I always hated those nasty fuckers. This particular bastard decided that my eyebrow looked yummy, and took a chunk out of it. Two days later, I woke up with my right eye swollen shut and a headache like a trucker had driven over my head.
A few hours of hemming and hawing, because, naturally, this couldn't occur on a weekDAY, I sucked it up, and went to an urgent care facility.
Now, I would imagine, in all those medical school courses that these people take, there has to be one, where it is mentioned, that walking into an exam room, taking a step BACK, and exclaiming "What the hell happened to your FACE??", is generally not considered a particularly wonderful bedside manner.
After informing me that I have "Orbital Cellulitis", which is not to be confused with cellulite, she repeated, 3-4 times, "This is very serious", completely freaking the shit out of me. I was told to go immediately to the ER if it got any worse, or I developed even a low grade fever, so they could ADMIT me, and administer IV antibiotics. This can apparently spread to your actual eye, or even the membranes of your brain.
Wonderful.
Luckily, the horse-sized antibiotics they have me on, improved it, rather quickly, and I'm told, it should continue to clear up.
However...
I look like a damn circus freak. I mean, really. I've been unable to wear make-up for 2 days. Big fucking whoop, I know, but I feel naked, LOL. I haven't NOT worn make-up outside of the house, for probably 15 years or more. I'm a huge fan of black eyeliner, which, incidentally, I now have to toss, and buy a new one. Of course the one I've been using is only 2 weeks old, which is always the case where you find yourself with a bizarre infection that is usually only seen in children under 5.
I feel like a booger-eater, LOL...
What really bothers me at this point, since apparently I'm out of the woods for yuckies eating my brain, is that I look weird. I mean, I always look a little strange, but COME ON...
We're supposed to be leaving for the beach in 3 days, and meet my in-laws there. The WHOLE damn family. Here's hoping that it's cleared up by then.
Cause I'm VAIN.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
WOK friends...
I was on the phone last night with my best friend, Amy, and we were just chatting about life. She had called to check in on me, since she's the 'rita girl from the "accidental drunk" post, LOL. We got to talking about what our plans are for the rest of the week, and I told her that I, and my oldest son, Caleb are going to hang out tonight, since Aidan is going to a sleepover, and I don't have to arise at the buttcrack of dawn on Friday. She asked what we would be doing, I told her that Caleb loves to read almost as much as I do, my bedroom walls are lined with bookshelves, and every flat surface has a least one stack that just won't fit anywhere else, so we talk books, just hang.
Then I found myself confessing something to her, that I wouldn't confess to any of my friend's with kids. I enjoy my children more as they get older. Babies are cute, don't get me wrong, but they cry. Scream actually. They poop ALOT. Then they head into the whole toddler phase, which is reason #2, why I don't ever want another child (the pregnancy part being the first. I'm a roller bitch when I'm knocked up, and I feel like shit too). Toddlers, don't have alot going for them. It's all "don't touch that", "please don't wipe boogers on the walls, or on mommy's face", "Please don't crayon on the furniture", "GODDAMMIT, I SAID STOP", that type of thing. ALL day long. They have their cute moments, don't get me wrong, but they can't really hold a conversation, or debate who would win in a death match between Indiana Jones, and Obi Wan. Which, for the record, if Indiana Jones could divide himself up into village children, the way that Gary Oldman did in Bram Stoker's Dracula (but with bats), he's kick Obi Wan's ASS.
I like the fact that my kids are getting old enough to actually TALK to. We eat dinner together most nights, and we can have some really interesting conversations. They actually EAT their vegetables without being strapped down in a highchair and forced to, so you can leave that part out of the table talk. So, we talk politics (which usually ends in a food fight), or about art (Aidan wants to be an artist when he grows up. When pointed out that he already is an artist, since he makes art constantly, he informed me he is also going to be a dentist, to pay his bills, LOL), or religon.
Do you notice there is no mention of boogers or crayons?
I don't really LIKE kids. I love my own, and most days I really dig them, but I am not, by nature, a kid person. I don't walk into a person's house, and head straight for the charming child seated at the table, and try to hold a conversation. She is obviously busy, shoving playdough up Mr.Potato Head's nose.
No, I walk into someone's house, and head straight for the hooch, followed by a cigarette on the back deck.
'Cause I got my OWN kids. And I have to like them. I don't, however, have to talk to other people's children, or even like them. Cause, frankly? Some of the kids I know are little SHITS. Some days, those children are my own.
Why is it, that it seems so...disloyal to say that? Why is it such a big deal to admit, that even though you are a momma, you just aren't that into kids that don't belong to you, and sometimes, it takes effort to be into your own? I'm a person OTHER than a mommy. Really. This doesn't mean I don't love my kids (even now, I'm qualifying what I mean, geesh), it just means I don't want to be the momma all day, everyday. I enjoy just being able to be Danielle with them sometimes.
Then I found myself confessing something to her, that I wouldn't confess to any of my friend's with kids. I enjoy my children more as they get older. Babies are cute, don't get me wrong, but they cry. Scream actually. They poop ALOT. Then they head into the whole toddler phase, which is reason #2, why I don't ever want another child (the pregnancy part being the first. I'm a roller bitch when I'm knocked up, and I feel like shit too). Toddlers, don't have alot going for them. It's all "don't touch that", "please don't wipe boogers on the walls, or on mommy's face", "Please don't crayon on the furniture", "GODDAMMIT, I SAID STOP", that type of thing. ALL day long. They have their cute moments, don't get me wrong, but they can't really hold a conversation, or debate who would win in a death match between Indiana Jones, and Obi Wan. Which, for the record, if Indiana Jones could divide himself up into village children, the way that Gary Oldman did in Bram Stoker's Dracula (but with bats), he's kick Obi Wan's ASS.
I like the fact that my kids are getting old enough to actually TALK to. We eat dinner together most nights, and we can have some really interesting conversations. They actually EAT their vegetables without being strapped down in a highchair and forced to, so you can leave that part out of the table talk. So, we talk politics (which usually ends in a food fight), or about art (Aidan wants to be an artist when he grows up. When pointed out that he already is an artist, since he makes art constantly, he informed me he is also going to be a dentist, to pay his bills, LOL), or religon.
Do you notice there is no mention of boogers or crayons?
I don't really LIKE kids. I love my own, and most days I really dig them, but I am not, by nature, a kid person. I don't walk into a person's house, and head straight for the charming child seated at the table, and try to hold a conversation. She is obviously busy, shoving playdough up Mr.Potato Head's nose.
No, I walk into someone's house, and head straight for the hooch, followed by a cigarette on the back deck.
'Cause I got my OWN kids. And I have to like them. I don't, however, have to talk to other people's children, or even like them. Cause, frankly? Some of the kids I know are little SHITS. Some days, those children are my own.
Why is it, that it seems so...disloyal to say that? Why is it such a big deal to admit, that even though you are a momma, you just aren't that into kids that don't belong to you, and sometimes, it takes effort to be into your own? I'm a person OTHER than a mommy. Really. This doesn't mean I don't love my kids (even now, I'm qualifying what I mean, geesh), it just means I don't want to be the momma all day, everyday. I enjoy just being able to be Danielle with them sometimes.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Just let me introduce myself...
My name is Humpty, pronounced with an 'humpty...
LMAO....
This was originally supposed to be a post introducing the newest kidlet in my world, but got distracted "and my sounds laid down by the Underground"...but again, I digress.
Emma Josephine was born somewhere around 4:30 AM, weighing in at 6 lbs, 5 oz...while her older sister did headstands on my bed. Literally. AT 4:30. That's AM. As in, unless you are the one who just gave birth, or strung out on coke, you're asleep for. Oh, and unless you're my in-laws, in which case you're probably still playing Texas Hold 'Em, and drinking Coors Light, if it's a weekend.
Wow. That's a whole 'nother post.
I haven't posted for a few days. I know, I know, my masses of adoring fans were heartbroken. I got an accidental drunk on, Saturday, and then Sunday was spent recovering, since, at the ripe old age of 29, I've managed to learn how to get a hangover. Lordisa, hangovers SUCK. I used to be able to drink entire bottles of Jim Beam, and not get hungover...now, give me a pitcher or two of margaritas, and I'm no good for a day or two.
It really was an accidental drunk. You know how it goes. Out with friends, no kids tagging along, you're being a pissy bitch because your baby daddy was gone all day helping his brother tear down the stone facade of his house, you're on the rag....so your friend offers you a margarita. You accept one, and drink two. Then you leave, and the stupid bartender cannot comprehend NO SALT. As in, NONE. Not so much as a kernel (is it a salt kernel? or a piece of salt? a salt sprinkle, but that implies more than one, since when you sprinkle...you know what? Nevermind) . So, I managed to drink 1/2 of both anyway. Back to their joint, where you have one, maybe 2, or 3, then they give you a "traveler" (for the record, responsible momma was NOT driving. At that point, I wasn't even walking so well), and BAM. By the time you are 1/2 way home, you're singing along at the top of your lungs to the Harper valley PTA, that your so very mucho NOT drunk husband is insisting that you listen to, because he didn't get to have any fun tonight, so he'd like to torture you with country music on the ride home. I don't even remember going to bed.
The nice part about marriage, is knowing that even if the other person takes advantage of you, while incapacitated, you're not going to get an STD.
There are other perks, or course.
There are.
I'm sure there are.
Hang on, I'm working on it....
Well, let's just say there are, and leave it at that, k?
LMAO....
This was originally supposed to be a post introducing the newest kidlet in my world, but got distracted "and my sounds laid down by the Underground"...but again, I digress.
Emma Josephine was born somewhere around 4:30 AM, weighing in at 6 lbs, 5 oz...while her older sister did headstands on my bed. Literally. AT 4:30. That's AM. As in, unless you are the one who just gave birth, or strung out on coke, you're asleep for. Oh, and unless you're my in-laws, in which case you're probably still playing Texas Hold 'Em, and drinking Coors Light, if it's a weekend.
Wow. That's a whole 'nother post.
I haven't posted for a few days. I know, I know, my masses of adoring fans were heartbroken. I got an accidental drunk on, Saturday, and then Sunday was spent recovering, since, at the ripe old age of 29, I've managed to learn how to get a hangover. Lordisa, hangovers SUCK. I used to be able to drink entire bottles of Jim Beam, and not get hungover...now, give me a pitcher or two of margaritas, and I'm no good for a day or two.
It really was an accidental drunk. You know how it goes. Out with friends, no kids tagging along, you're being a pissy bitch because your baby daddy was gone all day helping his brother tear down the stone facade of his house, you're on the rag....so your friend offers you a margarita. You accept one, and drink two. Then you leave, and the stupid bartender cannot comprehend NO SALT. As in, NONE. Not so much as a kernel (is it a salt kernel? or a piece of salt? a salt sprinkle, but that implies more than one, since when you sprinkle...you know what? Nevermind) . So, I managed to drink 1/2 of both anyway. Back to their joint, where you have one, maybe 2, or 3, then they give you a "traveler" (for the record, responsible momma was NOT driving. At that point, I wasn't even walking so well), and BAM. By the time you are 1/2 way home, you're singing along at the top of your lungs to the Harper valley PTA, that your so very mucho NOT drunk husband is insisting that you listen to, because he didn't get to have any fun tonight, so he'd like to torture you with country music on the ride home. I don't even remember going to bed.
The nice part about marriage, is knowing that even if the other person takes advantage of you, while incapacitated, you're not going to get an STD.
There are other perks, or course.
There are.
I'm sure there are.
Hang on, I'm working on it....
Well, let's just say there are, and leave it at that, k?
Friday, June 24, 2005
So, I'm strolling....
down cranky-bitch lane this evening, and I got an email from a friend, who lost her husband this past fall. In the middle of bitching to my baby daddy about the house, the insane amount of company we've had since getting this pool put in, and just being an ASS. Now, on top of being throughly ashamed of myself, I find myself counting my blessings.
1-An oldest son, who almost didn't even get to be born, who is adorable, helpful, and every bit as much of a wise-ass as his mother.
2-A middle son, who has big brown cow eyes, and asks questions such as "Do lightening bugs really have hospitals?", after becoming distraught over "breaking one of it's legs, on accident".
3-A four year old boy, who can give the sweetest, tightest little hugs, as he wraps his arms around my neck, while simultanteously wiping a booger on my shirt, and smearing peanut butter in my hair.
4-A husband, who, though did turn down a quickie earlier (which helped speed up the above stroll), loves me inspite of the fact that I'm smarter than he is, and that I clap for ALL the players who strike out, when he drags me to Orioles games.
5-A great house, with tons of character, as evidenced by the marginally racist wallpaper hanging in the foyer, and the crumbling plaster, only held up by the aforementioned wallpaper.
6-No longer owning one of our dogs. Yes. I'm one of those people. The kind that take their damn dog, that they rescued from being taken to the pound in the first place, to the SPCA, after he bulldozed yet another section of the fence (why go over it, when you can go through it?) and almost caused another car accident on our street.
7-My kitties. They kick litter all over my husbands side of the floor by our bed, everytime he irritates me. Us gals gotta stick togther.
8-My friends with children, who freely commiserate with me over children who mindlessly peel cracking leather off your favorite chair you found at the local thrift store.
9-My friends without children, who freely drive my ass to the bar, when I'm being a total HAG who needs to forget she's got children for an evening.
10-The man who married one of my best friends, bringing her back to me. I missed her.
11-My momma's group, who continually make me laugh hard enough to snarf coffee in the mornings, who never dissapoint in a contest to see who can come up with the most bizarre fetish to discuss.
I'm grateful for all of the above, and much more, but most of all, right now, to my cousin. Who left me 1/2 a bottle of strawberry twist vodka, which I've mixed with grape koolaid, for a slighly disgusting, yet satisfying drink, that y'all can thank for this particular post, when she housesat for us last weekend.
1-An oldest son, who almost didn't even get to be born, who is adorable, helpful, and every bit as much of a wise-ass as his mother.
2-A middle son, who has big brown cow eyes, and asks questions such as "Do lightening bugs really have hospitals?", after becoming distraught over "breaking one of it's legs, on accident".
3-A four year old boy, who can give the sweetest, tightest little hugs, as he wraps his arms around my neck, while simultanteously wiping a booger on my shirt, and smearing peanut butter in my hair.
4-A husband, who, though did turn down a quickie earlier (which helped speed up the above stroll), loves me inspite of the fact that I'm smarter than he is, and that I clap for ALL the players who strike out, when he drags me to Orioles games.
5-A great house, with tons of character, as evidenced by the marginally racist wallpaper hanging in the foyer, and the crumbling plaster, only held up by the aforementioned wallpaper.
6-No longer owning one of our dogs. Yes. I'm one of those people. The kind that take their damn dog, that they rescued from being taken to the pound in the first place, to the SPCA, after he bulldozed yet another section of the fence (why go over it, when you can go through it?) and almost caused another car accident on our street.
7-My kitties. They kick litter all over my husbands side of the floor by our bed, everytime he irritates me. Us gals gotta stick togther.
8-My friends with children, who freely commiserate with me over children who mindlessly peel cracking leather off your favorite chair you found at the local thrift store.
9-My friends without children, who freely drive my ass to the bar, when I'm being a total HAG who needs to forget she's got children for an evening.
10-The man who married one of my best friends, bringing her back to me. I missed her.
11-My momma's group, who continually make me laugh hard enough to snarf coffee in the mornings, who never dissapoint in a contest to see who can come up with the most bizarre fetish to discuss.
I'm grateful for all of the above, and much more, but most of all, right now, to my cousin. Who left me 1/2 a bottle of strawberry twist vodka, which I've mixed with grape koolaid, for a slighly disgusting, yet satisfying drink, that y'all can thank for this particular post, when she housesat for us last weekend.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
a really, really, REALLY icky post...
A friend brought to my attention today, that you can now buy Jesus-scented candles.
Yes. Really.
You can now buy, for the low, low price, of $18, a candle scented with myrrh, aloe, and cassia. Apparently, there is a psalm (No #45, kinda like Chanel #5, but older) that refers to Jesus's clothing smelling of the aboves smellys. The candles are called "His Essence", a line that is apparently, not just for porn movies now.
According to husband (it's a husband-wifey team), Bob Tosterud, "We see it as a ministry".
Now, far be it from me to mock religon (okay, maybe once or twice), but a MINISTRY? At 18 bucks a pop for a candle, buddy, that's a BUSINESS.
I'm an old-time religion girl myself, but even as someone who does not subscribe to the judeo-christian religion, this just SMACKS of crassness (is that even a word, LOL?)
I was going to ramble on about religion for awhile, but my head is THROBBING, so I'll leave that particular topic for another day.
Moving on...Evidently, when I wasn't looking, I have become a doormat.
I was shocked by this particular revelation this evening, as I was giving my niece a bath. At 9:00 PM. To explain, I watch her while her mom and dad work. They have a new business that Cheryl (da momma) runs, and Matt works for her father, in his heating/AC repair business. Sage is dropped off at 8 AM. I'll pause while you do the math. Cheryl got tickets for a dinner theatre, and was taking their older son, so Matt was to pick up Sage. By 7 PM. I'm not sure how they came up with this time, as the original game plan was 5-5:30, and now has stretched to, most days, 6-6:30. I'm a ballsy kinda gal, generally a take-no-shit, etc...I'm also, clueless, apparently. I'm WHINEY tonight, which is attractive to no one, so I'm gonna wrap this up, take 4 tylenol PM, and crash.
I hate these kind of posts. But, for shits and giggles, it's going up anyway. I have to have some sort of evidence I actually did something today.
Oh, besides my house, which is clean. For the moment. And only because I have company AGAIN tomorrow. For anyone debating on whether to get a pool, don't do it. Really. You'll be fending off every freaking kid that your kids know, your relatives, and random acquaintances.
Yes. Really.
You can now buy, for the low, low price, of $18, a candle scented with myrrh, aloe, and cassia. Apparently, there is a psalm (No #45, kinda like Chanel #5, but older) that refers to Jesus's clothing smelling of the aboves smellys. The candles are called "His Essence", a line that is apparently, not just for porn movies now.
According to husband (it's a husband-wifey team), Bob Tosterud, "We see it as a ministry".
Now, far be it from me to mock religon (okay, maybe once or twice), but a MINISTRY? At 18 bucks a pop for a candle, buddy, that's a BUSINESS.
I'm an old-time religion girl myself, but even as someone who does not subscribe to the judeo-christian religion, this just SMACKS of crassness (is that even a word, LOL?)
I was going to ramble on about religion for awhile, but my head is THROBBING, so I'll leave that particular topic for another day.
Moving on...Evidently, when I wasn't looking, I have become a doormat.
I was shocked by this particular revelation this evening, as I was giving my niece a bath. At 9:00 PM. To explain, I watch her while her mom and dad work. They have a new business that Cheryl (da momma) runs, and Matt works for her father, in his heating/AC repair business. Sage is dropped off at 8 AM. I'll pause while you do the math. Cheryl got tickets for a dinner theatre, and was taking their older son, so Matt was to pick up Sage. By 7 PM. I'm not sure how they came up with this time, as the original game plan was 5-5:30, and now has stretched to, most days, 6-6:30. I'm a ballsy kinda gal, generally a take-no-shit, etc...I'm also, clueless, apparently. I'm WHINEY tonight, which is attractive to no one, so I'm gonna wrap this up, take 4 tylenol PM, and crash.
I hate these kind of posts. But, for shits and giggles, it's going up anyway. I have to have some sort of evidence I actually did something today.
Oh, besides my house, which is clean. For the moment. And only because I have company AGAIN tomorrow. For anyone debating on whether to get a pool, don't do it. Really. You'll be fending off every freaking kid that your kids know, your relatives, and random acquaintances.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Sweden. Where everything makes sense.
As a public service announcement, for those of you who live in Sweden, or plan on a vist, please be aware of the following: Apparently, it is legal to SELL sexual favors, but illegal to BUY them.
What's a gal to do?
What's a gal to do?
Disaster on a stick....
Apparently, having nothing better to do with their time, as well as desperately needing to find a new PR firm, Snapple decided to errect the world's largest popsicle today in New York. In June. In 80-something degree heat. Then, they were apparently *shocked* when it melted, flooding Union Square. Firefighters spent hours hosing the remanents of the 25 foot tall, 17 1/2 ton 'sicle, off the damn sidewalk.
"“What was unsettling was that the fluid just kept coming,” Stuart Claxton of the Guinness Book of World Records told the Daily News. “It was quite a lot of fluid. On a hot day like this, you have to move fast.”"
So many raunchy comments. I cannot chose.
Competent Mommy moment of the day: While visiting a friend today, I realized, an hour into the visit, which, by the way, we had walked to, I put my 3 year old neice's sandals on the wrong feet. As well as my 4 year old sons.
"“What was unsettling was that the fluid just kept coming,” Stuart Claxton of the Guinness Book of World Records told the Daily News. “It was quite a lot of fluid. On a hot day like this, you have to move fast.”"
So many raunchy comments. I cannot chose.
Competent Mommy moment of the day: While visiting a friend today, I realized, an hour into the visit, which, by the way, we had walked to, I put my 3 year old neice's sandals on the wrong feet. As well as my 4 year old sons.
Betty Crocker can kiss my ass....
Having grown up with a mother who was Betty Crocker on speed, one must wonder, HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO THIS? You know how, when your children are infants, you think " I can't wait until they talk/sleep through the night/walk/can pick their own nose/manage to vomit on something other than the $300 blanket you just bought from Crate and Barrel? Then, they can do all of those things (with the exception of the vomit-aiming, which, apparently, given my husband as an example, is not a skill that boys EVER learn), at which point, your thoughts start running along the lines of "WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING". How the hell am I supposed to help a 10 year old boy, in the throes of pre-adolescent angst, figure this shit out, and at the same time, still be able to find my living room floor on a regular basis? I mean, I was queen of angst, still am, on some days (I'm working on getting more and more tortured in my old age, which is surprisingly difficult these days, so I'm leaning more towards cranky), but I didn't understand boys then, let alone now. My husband (who, from now on, will be referred to, my baby daddy) is no help. I swear, he's the most normal person I've ever met, in my entire life. No angst. Nothing. Happy childhood, parents love each other, no skeletons in the closets, nothing. How the hell is that even possible, in this day and age? But I digress....which, you'll notice, happens alot. It's another skill you loose when you have multiple children. The ability to maintain a thought pattern for longer than 2 or 3 minutes. I spend most of my day saying "What the hell was I just doing? I know I came in here for a reason?".
My oldest son, will be 10 in a few months. If I allow him to live that long. He was always my example child, my "TV kid". Now he's angry, defensive, and apparently, has inherited his momma's dry wit. Lovely. It's just peachy to live with a hormonal, smaller version of yourself, but with a PENIS.
So, as I sit in my messy ass house, which, was spotless yesterday morning (seriously, I had company), I wonder, just what the hell are these people ON, anyway? And you know exactly who I mean by "these people". They're the ones that whenever you stop over, their house is clean, they've just finished baking bread, and are teaching their pre-schooler algebra. I actually got up early to make a lesson plan the other day for the boyos. I printed out age appropriate activities, planned this week and next, made a list of supplies that we would need. They woke up, I made breakfast, got everyone dressed, and then dragged FIVE children to the store (2 are spares. I'm fertile, but not insane). I even had time to brag on my mom's list about all the neat stuff we would spend the next few days doing.....
By the time I got back from the store, it was all I could do to slap PB&J sandwiches together, throw some strawberries on their plates, and lay their asses down for a nap.
I spent two hours planning, $60 at the damn store, and so far, everything is gathering dust on the top of my previously clean fridge.
Whatever.
My oldest son, will be 10 in a few months. If I allow him to live that long. He was always my example child, my "TV kid". Now he's angry, defensive, and apparently, has inherited his momma's dry wit. Lovely. It's just peachy to live with a hormonal, smaller version of yourself, but with a PENIS.
So, as I sit in my messy ass house, which, was spotless yesterday morning (seriously, I had company), I wonder, just what the hell are these people ON, anyway? And you know exactly who I mean by "these people". They're the ones that whenever you stop over, their house is clean, they've just finished baking bread, and are teaching their pre-schooler algebra. I actually got up early to make a lesson plan the other day for the boyos. I printed out age appropriate activities, planned this week and next, made a list of supplies that we would need. They woke up, I made breakfast, got everyone dressed, and then dragged FIVE children to the store (2 are spares. I'm fertile, but not insane). I even had time to brag on my mom's list about all the neat stuff we would spend the next few days doing.....
By the time I got back from the store, it was all I could do to slap PB&J sandwiches together, throw some strawberries on their plates, and lay their asses down for a nap.
I spent two hours planning, $60 at the damn store, and so far, everything is gathering dust on the top of my previously clean fridge.
Whatever.
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