I know some of you have said in the past that you don't get what the big deal is about Dooce.
In case you haven't gotten her in the past, please read her post from yesterday. It's the kind of post that makes me laugh so hard, that I end up losing a contact lens.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
I know some of you have said in the past that you don't get what the big deal is about Dooce.
So about eight years ago, Random Mommy asked a bunch of questions on her blog and I was pinpointed as one of the people expected to answer.
Naturally, I rebelled against this, because I have a problem with any kind of authority, even the seven-month pregnant with a gorgeous head of hair kind. You tell me what to do, and I will promptly not do it. That's how I roll.
Until I realize that I have nothing to post and that if you guys hear about my diet one more time and Sweetie Pie's snarky comments, you'll all die from too much eye rolling. So, I've decided to answer these questions. Not because I've been told to do so. It's just I feel like it could put an end to global warming if I do this, and I don't want to be held responsible for killing polar bears.
1. How many one night stands have you had?
Leave it to Random Mommy to start off strong. So here's where I get to be honest.
I don't know.
I know, right? But here's the thing. After sleeping with guy number three or five or 10, I decided that I wouldn't keep track of the number of guys I slept with. This was my one act as a feminist, that I couldn't be labeled that stupid moniker of slut if I couldn't honestly give a number.
So let's just say I've had a few one night stands. I'm pretty sure it's less than five.
But there was a lot of drinking during those years in debating. And lots of cute boys to flirt with. And then there were my three months in Spain. And my active night life in my early 20's. So at worse, I'd say it's under 10.
Enough to say, I am not looking forward to discussing the birds and the bees with my kids.
And I'm especially terrified of having a girl.
2. What's your grossest habit?
Uhm, I'll assume that we're talking about now, because we all know about my grossest habit when I was 13.
Although, my grossest habit now is closely linked to my gross habit of the ghost of Catwoman past.
I can't see a zit and not pick it. Whether it's on me or my hubby. It grosses me out just to think about it, because ewww, picking other people's zits? Turns my own stomach really, but if Sweetie Pie has a big juicy white head on his back, I have to pop it. It's like this urge, deep inside of me. He won't let me touch them, so sometimes, I'll make out with him when he's not wearing a shirt and stroke his back looking for the zit and try to pop it without him noticing.
It irritates the crap out of him. I think it's because he's thinking he's about to get laid, when really, I'm just out for blood.
3. Did you ever experiment with a member of the same sex?
Nope, there's something I've actually never done. It's kind of funny, because in a lot of ways, I'm the official friend of gay guys. I attract them by the hundreds. If I had to pick one kind of person to live with on a deserted island, I'd tell you to drop me off on gay men deserted island, because they are my peeps, where I can be myself, flirt like crazy and not worry about adding to my tally. Plus they say fantastic things to me like one time when one of my gay buddies told me that my body made him want to go straight. How can you not love someone who's hot and says stuff to you like that without trying to get into your pants.
But back to the topic on hand. Nope, no experimentation for me.
4. What is your biggest pet peeve with strangers? With your spouse?
With strangers? So many! I hate people who shuffle their feet when they walk. It's like, how freaking lazy are you? Lift your freaking feet up when you walk. Or people who refuse to blow their nose, like their boogers are made of gold, so they snort it back in every few minutes. This makes my ears bleed so bad and sends waves of revulsion all the way down to my toes.
I also hate stupidity, rudeness, people with a superiority complex, body odor and sleaziness. Basically, just send me to that previously mentioned gay island, because the rest of society? Sucks butt munch.
In Sweetie Pie, my biggest pet peeve is that he's not great with hygiene. Like yesterday, he goes to empty the dishwasher, and I knew the hand soap by the kitchen sink was empty, because I'd used the last of it right before making dinner and hadn't had a chance to refill it yet. So as he's holding half of our plates in his nasty men hands, I ask him "how did you wash your hands when that soap dispenser is empty?" And he says, "well, I just rinsed them off, since there's no soap." There are 3.5 baths in our house. All of them have soap. But no, he'd rather cover our clean dishes with his nasty germs rather than walk his ass over to a bathroom.
5. Favorite band of all time?
That's a tough one, because my taste in music changes all the time. If I had to pick just one though, I think I'd have to say Bon Jovi. I know that's probably really lame, but I still love most of their songs, even some of the new stuff. I'd love to see them in concert. I also really, really heart Nickelback, even though I know all of their songs sound exactly the same. I just love their sound, love their songs and have a ton of their stuff in my iPod.
6. Person you wish you knew more about?
Man, that's hard. I have no clue. So I'll go with Santa Claus. I mean, what's the man's motivation? He builds toys all year round, and then gets in a sleigh with a bunch of deer and flies all over the world, including Texas, which has 3.2 rifles for each citizen, during deer hunting season. I just think he'd be fun to sit with for coffee. But I wouldn't let him have a scone, because his beard is so long he'd probably get crumbs in it, and that grosses the crap out of me. Add that as well to my list of pet peeves in strangers.
Anyone else got questions for me? I'll answer anything.
Monday, July 30, 2007
"So I've been thinking that you must be really good at this dieting thing.
- What? Why do you think that?
- Well, the whole purpose of dieting is to burn as many calories as possible and to spend more than you take in, right?
- And when you look at the fact that every month, you strive to spend every penny of our income as quickly as possible and regularly put us in overdraft, I would think that those skills would come in very handy when it comes to dieting."
The crazy part? He said this to me on Saturday.
Today's Monday. And he's still alive. And his testicles are still attached to his body.
I think it's fair to say that I'm not currenly PMS'ing.
Friday, July 27, 2007
- Do you think my ass is any smaller today?
(scrutinizes my glutteus maximus)
- Yeah, you've definitely lost some weight
- Do you think my stomach is flatter.
(scrutinizes my stomach)
- Yeah, it's definitely flatter.
- Why did you emphasize definitely?
- You emphasized the word "definitely." Did you think I had a gut before.
(without pausing) - Yeah, you definitely had a gut.
- How dare you say that!
- What's your problem? It's not like I said anything to you when you had the gut. I can't even tell you after you're thinner that yeah, you had porked up, even though you fully well know you'd porked up since you went on a diet?
- Yes, that's exactly right. The answer is always no!"
I mean, seriously. We're about to celebrate our fifth anniversary. Is the man just completely untrainable?
Thursday, July 26, 2007
3 a.m. Cell phone rings in a loud club (ring is probably something like "Don't Cha" by the Pussy Cat Dolls or "If You Think I'm Sexy" by Rod Stewart):
Dinah Lohan: (slurring) "Hello?
Lindsay Lohan: Mom?
DL: Who the hell is this?
LL: It's me, Lindsay, your daughter? The one whose money you use to support your party lifestyle?
DL: Oh yeah, ATM card girl! I remember you! What's up dog?
LL: Where are you? I can barely hear you?
DL: Uhm... At home?
LL: No you're not. I think you're in a club!
DL: Actually I am. I'm grinding with one of those cute boys from High School Musical.
LL: MOM! Those boys are underage!
DL: Duh! I know! Why do you think I haven't stuffed my panties in their pocket yet.
LL: (sighs) Anyway, that's not why I'm calling you. Uhm, I kind of need you to come bail me out.
DL: Were the cops angry about having paid good money to see that Herbie movie you made? Or for your album?
LL: No, no, it's nothing that serious. It's just I was kind of drunk.
DL: So? I'm always drunk. When did that become a crime?
LL: I know right! Well, they're pissed because I was kind of drunk and I was also kind of driving.
DL: Damn cops, they're so, like, uptight.
LL: I know, right! And then, at the cop station, they made me empty my pockets and they kind of found something that looks like powdered sugar in my pocket.
DL: Oh, did you get in my stash again?
LL: Mom, what should I do.
DL: OK, first, you need to get off carbs, because I swear you've ballooned up to about 98 pounds now, and you're seriously putting your career at risk.
LL: Got it.
DL: Then, we need to figure out how to keep your good girl image going. Oh, I know! This is brilliant! So you call one of those news shows that don't talk about depressing crap like wars and other stuff people don't care about. The ones that cover the important shit, like what Victoria Beckham is doing and how many poops Shiloh has had today.
LL: You mean like Extra?
DL: Yes! Those real newscasts. So you call one of them up and you tell them that the drugs weren't yours. That you were holding them for someone. That works every.freaking.time.
LL: Mom! You're so smart!
DL: I know! That's why I get to take 95 percent of your wages!"
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
I get a little cranky when I'm sleep deprived. And since I partied it up on Saturday night and Little Man has refused to sleep in his bed the last couple of nights resulting in me getting kicked in the head all through the night, I'm a little crabby.
Add to the fact that my cycle has now shrunk down to 23 days, ensuring that I have my period about every 8 days, yeah, that's also fun and not making me moody at all.
But anyway, Little Man's been driving me nuts the last couple of days, and this has led me to say things to him that might not always make a ton of sense, like:
"Seriously, why are you being so immature about this?"
"Why can't you use your fork like a grown up?" (Uhm, I don't know... Maybe because he's 22 months old?)
"You're really being unreasonable about this."
"Don't you even think about putting that in your mouth!" (which is the best way to give a toddler the thought that the gross thing could actually go into their mouth, rather than just be held)
"I am so not speaking to you until you quit whining and begin to speak in complete sentences the previously mentioned "I wuv you, Mama.")
"You have got to chill out!" (Surfer dude speak totally doesn't jive with toddlers and will not put a stop to a meltdown, just in case you were curious)
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
So a few weeks ago, I opened the kimono. I put my blog on Humor Blogs and I decided to accept to be reviewed.
I don't think of myself as a humor blog, necessarily. Hell, in many ways, I still don't consider myself a blog period. This started three years ago as something I did because a couple of my friends had blogs. No one read or commented on most days. I got tired of it, it had no purpose, I had nothing to write, so I kind of dropped it for a little bit. And then I got pregnant. And I did have something to blog about. And it didn't matter if anyone read or cared, this blog became my online diary. And then I discovered Dooce, and my hormonal self wept openly at the sweet letters she wrote each month to her baby Leta and I decided right then and there that I would do the same thing for my kids. And so this place is my online baby book in many ways, because lord knows I have not been good anywhere else at marking down the first tooth, the first step, the first fart and all the other things good moms should do.
And then Emma discovered me and she began reading. And commenting. And then she told others to read. And now, I've got this close knit group of blog friends who I interact with every day. And who tell me that I make them laugh. And who led me to think "I'm kind of funny! I should list myself on Humor blogs." Yeah, it's called over confidence.
And here's the thing. All of you who read me are moms, for the most part. And I'm sorry to tell you that, apparently? Being a mom? Is not funny. You didn't know either? Must be the mommy brain effect.
Apparently, there are different types of blogs: there are funny blogs. And there are mommy blogs.
And the two? They cannot be both. Moms clean up snotty noses and scrape poop from under their nails. But at no time should a mother be funny. Because that would be time taken away from vacuuming while wearing pearls.
Did you guys know that? I sure didn't! Apparently, even when I post about collecting blackheads as a kid, I'm still a mommy, so that doesn't make me funny.
I scored in the 24th percentile! That means 76 percent of blogs do better than I do in the ratings. How great is that?
I knew I was being reviewed. And so for the last week, I have been petrified. You'll notice that most of my postings last week occured much later in the day than normal. The reason for that is that I literally stared at the blank computer for hours thinking to myself "be funny, be funny!" And the pressure? Practically made me throw up. Because I'm kind of a perfectionist and I want people to love me and having random people who were going to judge me on these posts, really made me poop a lot last week.
Some of the comments made me giggle though, and I must share them with you, my trusted friends.
"I liked this blog, but I don't know how funny it is, per se. I think it's more of a mommy blog than a humor blog, which I don't consider a knock at all. If it were a college student it would be majoring in Mommy with a minor in Humor."
I like this actually and will use this as my new blog tagline.
Another blog about kids and cats and families and shopping and stuff. Just what the internet needed. Probably GREAT for the author's family and friends, not so interesting to the rest of us.
Which is really quite perfect. Because, really, I wouldn't want friends who aren't interested in that stuff since it's you know, my life. And I know that as a friend, I'm interested in my friend's lives. But that might just be a Canadian thing for all I know. And also? I doubt this person even read much of my blog, because I can't remember the last time I blogged about cats.
Dumb stories about her kids. The template is clean. Not my thing.
First of all, I have one kid. That's singular. Second of all, nothing about my kid is dumb, especially not the stories about him. I'm sorry if my child is not solving complex quantum physics equation, but he's 22 months old and What to Expect the Toddler Years says I shouldn't be worried about him doing so until he's 25 months old and still can't name all the elements of the periodic table. So there are times where he gets red and orange confused, but that doesn't make him dumb. And my template is clean, because I bathe it nightly. The only filthy things I like are minds.
If I were doing a review for Mommy Humor Blogs, I might have given Canadian Thoughts a higher score. Unfortunately, because I'm over that "diaper" stage in raising my kids, poopie diapers no longer crack me up. Mommy Blogggers are very cute and loads fun, but not necessarily hilarious.
I hope that when Little Man is 18 and (hopefully) out of diapers, I haven't become so disenchanted with the world that I can't find other people's toddlers amusing. At least I'm very cute, so that's good. I should have posted a picture of my ass in my new jeans for bonus points.
A humor blog about someone's kid and the mundane things about life are not funny.
Also not funny? World hunger. The war in Iraq. And people who can't see the humor in every day life.
If you want to see my scores and the rest of the comments, check them out
And don't worry about filling my comments with warm and fuzzies telling me how much you love me. Because I'm just happy this is all over and really? It's not as bad as it could have been. But just for fun, click on some of the other blogs listed and tell me whether they are any funnier than mine.
I'm just relieved it's over. And
Chick will be reviewed in the next few weeks too. You can bet that this reviewer will give her mucho love and bestow the highest number of points to her! :)
One of Little Man's good friends is this gorgeous little girl with chestnut shiny hair that curls ever so slightly to frame her sweet little face. And she has the most incredible eye color, very light green, speckled with grey that makes them all you see. In other words, she's gorgeous. She's also got a great personality and not only is she sweet to Little Man, she's never clingy to him, and she always greets me when I walk in.
This morning, when I was about to leave, I kissed Little Man as I always do, and he non-chalantly went back to his mini-bagel with cream cheese and applesauce, because cream cheese rocks his world something fierce, what with it being in the same family as yogurt. Little Man's belief is that if it's a product made out of cow teat juice, then it must be delicious.
As I was about to walk out the door, I heard this sad cry. I turned around, and there she was, that sweet little girl, heartbroken that I was leaving. I kneeled down and asked her what was wrong and she ran into my arms. I scooped her up, and she put her little head on my shoulder and squeezed me tight.
I have found her, my daughter-in-law. The one who won't just tolerate me and tell her friends behind my back how irritating I am, but will instead genuinely love me and go shopping with me and meet me for Starbucks.
Andshe'll make me many, many beautiful grandchildren.
It took 22 months, but she was worth the wait. This means I can now work on the other big concerns on my list, like a cure for bloating and the creation of an all-chocolate diet.
Monday, July 23, 2007
I am really, really tired. As I write this, my tiny narrow eyes have been reduced to microscopic slits. Which could come in handy should I decide to rob a bank, because the witnesses would be unable to determine my eye color. I watch CSI, I know how to get away with stuff.
You see, while my husband was likely in bed at 10:30 p.m. on Saturday night, I was only getting warmed up at establishment number two of a three-establishment excursion.
And then I remained up long enough to put in a full work day. Well, just about. I believe that we were up talking about girly things until about 4:30 in the morning.
Last time I was up this late? Was when I had an infant who insisted on being fed breakfast at this time.
And because my body hates me, I was up at 7:15 a.m. Because that's usually when my child wakes up. And my body couldn't comprehend that said child was 10 miles away and therefore, I didn't actually have to wake up to hand him the box of Cocoa Puffs with a sippy cup of milk.
I took a 20-minute nap in the afternoon, where I drooled on my pillow in exhaustion until our older dog barked in anger at something. More likely a change in barometric pressure, because he believes that barking will prevent the end of the world and that he must do it often. Especially when I am napping.
Also? When did drinks get so freaking expensive? Why is it that anyone thinks that 10 bucks for a drink is a reasonable price to pay? When I was in university, I'd freak out if I spent 50 bucks in a weekend. Saturday night? I spent much, much more than that.
And you can't get bread for under a dollar anymore. Not in bars, you freaks, I'm talking about the grocery story, which is my usual hang out.
I've also learned that if you get divorced in your late 30's or 40's, you can still go clubbing to pick up men. You just do it at a martini bar where dirty old men will leer at your boobs while you try to smile through your botoxed face and both of you fill the air with desperation.
Also? I learned yesterday from grocery shopping at Walmart to try to compensate for my overspending the night before that Walmart hates the planet Earth. They're cheaper for everything except for organic foods. It's like they're saying to me "if you can afford the mark-up of organic foods, then we don't want you to shop here!" How can a gallon of normal milk be a dollar cheaper at Walmart but a gallong of organic milk be 1.50 dollar more?
So it's not just the human race they hate. They also hate the environment the human race lives in. I'm pretty sure they're going after the sun next, what with us humans liking it for the heat it provides. Come to think of it, there was no skin cancers before Walmart came along. Anyone else think that's a strange coincidence?
Friday, July 20, 2007
Last week, Little Man decided that he wanted to eat at the table with us, rather than on his booster seat's tray. Which so far, has been a very good experience and the attacks on us with toddler utensils have been reduced to zero.
I've even gotten as bold as serving little man his meal on a real and breakable plate, rather than the plastic bowls from the dollar section at Target he has been accustomed to hurling on our tile floor. This means that I now hardly eat, between my fear of Little Man losing an eye should he decide to scratch an itch on his lid with his fork still in his hand, and my fear of having to replace my wedding gift dishes.
But the weight is coming off great thanks to this twist, I'm talking like ounces a week.
Last night though, Little Man got mad at his baked beans, something I serve because I live in Texas and it's considered an appropriate side dish here, even though my French heritage is so offended each time I open a can of Bush's baked beans, that it begs for me to at least throw frog legs or snails in the pot so that I won't have my citizenship taken away. Maybe the fact he's half French made him realize that this really shouldn't be an acceptable thing to call dinner, especially when it's served alongside a hot dog and left over chili mac.
And so he began to disgustingly throw his beans on the tile. I must say, he has the French sneer down pat, to the point that a beret magically appeared on his head and he began to scoff and roll his eyes and calling us stupid Americains.
I told him that if he threw any more beans on the floor, I would have to put him in time out. The American side came out of him, because he refused to put up the white flag like a proper French man would do. The look he gave me could be loosely translated to "I live in the greatest country in the world, where freedom rings and I'm allowed to throw any damn food on the floor I want."
And so I had no choice but to put him in time out on the naughty step and explained to him that he was put there because of his disdain for authority, one trait shared by the French and the Americans. But not the Canadians. Because in Canada, the authority gives us free healthcare and a year maternity leave, so why would we not like them? Plus, it's kind of anti-Canadian to despise anyone. Except for the Americans, which Canadians mildly disdain and yet embrace all at the same time.
When I went to get him two minutes later. He was sitting there and when he saw me, his face softened. I kneeled in front of him to remind him why he'd been put on the naughty step, but before I had the chance to say anything, he gently grabbed my face between his two hands and kissed me. And then, just to ensure that my heart had turned into a puddle of mushy goo, he said "I wuv you, Mama."
And that, my friends, would be the Canadian in him, the same one that will one day sew a maple leaf on his backpack so that as he tours Europe, people will automatically love him and buy him drinks.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Lately, I've been trying to decide if we do actually want a second child. I mean, I love Little Man to pieces, I don't think anyone who reads this blog regularly would doubt that (unless you guys are the bastards who keep calling Child Protective Services every time we send Little Man on beer runs). But sometimes? He can be a handful, what with the fork throwing incidents and the inconvenient fear of Elmo potties. Also, sometimes his feet get really, really stinky.
But the biggest doubt in my mind is that when I'm laying on the couch with him tickling him and he's squealing and laughing so hard that it makes my heart burst with happiness, I just can't imagine loving any other child as much as him. And I can't imagine ever making a child as gorgeous, loving, and perfect as him. Because with the gene pool we've got to offer? This one was a total fluke.
And then I come to work and see my coworker who's an only child, whose entire social life revolves around her parents and I think to myself "must give child siblings now so he doesn't become that!"
I talked about getting ready to have another child a few months ago. And I'll tell you, I tried for a month. And then nothing happened. My period came. And then Sweetie Pie mentioned the fact that as we're living paycheck to paycheck currently, how in the world would we find another 900 bucks a month for daycare for a second child. And that got me to thinking. And I shut down the uterus for business. Not for good, necessarily, just figured that maybe it was best to wait another year or so. And then I decided that since I wasn't sure about anything, it probably wasn't the right time to have another child.
And then the world flipped on the switch. The switch some call the biological clock. Or maybe it's that inside maternal voice that yearns to procreate.
Whatever it is, during the last few days, it seems to me that newborns? They're everywhere. I swear, they've totally infiltrated our country people. Here the government's been concerned about Mexico, when instead, they should have been concerned about the masses of blobs who can't even hold their own damn heads up and spit up for absolutely no reason.
And worst of all? Not only am I noticing this army of newborns, but I'm cooing at them, and my heart skips a beat at the sight of their microscopic socks. And quarter-inch long thumbs. And I've considered swallowing one whole, just because he was just the cutest freaking little bald baby ever.
So yesterday, as I walked through the mall with freshly bought hand weights with a coworker, I knew that what I really, really wanted to buy at that minute? Was another baby. And the fact that I have to wait three more weeks before I can even get (potentially) pregnant. And then wait another nine months before getting to hold that baby in my arm? Well, that just makes me want it even more.
My uterus is back on the market. And I'm pretty sure I've got a sperm donor in mind.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
So I've never like Victoria Beckham, a.k.a. Posh Spice.
She won't smile, she's clearly anorexic, her marriage has to be a sham, what with his cheating on her a few years back and she stayed with him like nothing happened.
And she just seems so, well, posh.
I'm the kind of person who immediately decides if I like you or not. Just by the way you look.
I believe this is what confirms to the world that I am, indeed, a woman, despite having had only one pedicure in my whole life and completely unable to apply eye liner without looking like I've been beaten up.
Ever so often, I am willing to change my opinion of someone, but they've got to do something really, really crazy to earn it. Like tell me that my ass looks great, and mean it. Or that my son is gorgeous. I'm not going to question whether they mean this one, because the possibility of someone not meaning it, well, that's not even a possibility. I believe them scientist call that zero probability or something.
Back to the subject on hand.
I hate Victoria Beckham.
And I've never met her, so she's never been able to lie to me about what a great ass I have or wish that my kid could be part of her Beckham clan. Even though he kicks like a girl. With his tongue out.
So skinny girlfriend's had no chance to redeem herself.
When I was folding laundry in front of the TV while Sweetie Pie was giving Little Man his bath. And there was nothing freaking on.
And then I saw that NBC had sold their soul to the devil and given Victoria Beckham a platform for me to have a reason to hate her more.
So I watched.
And about two minutes later, I bust a gut laughing. Because, my girlfriend Vic (we're very close now, you see), she's freaking funny. As in totally self-depracating, scratches like crazy when she's nervous or uncomfortable and she's polite to a freaking fault, even finding it in her to smile when someone shows off their dolphin mating call imitations to her.
But Victoria wasn't done. She then went to a sex toy store. And bought a blow up doll. And picked an outfit for her. And then discussed whether men really wanted to have sex with something that had a stunned expression on it. And then she imitated the stunned sex doll face look and she got it down pat so great, that I wanted her phone number to invite her to my girl's night out on Saturday, because I know she'd love my three closest girlfriends and would love to get sloshed with us.
And then, just because she likes to show off, Vic confronted that slime toad known as Perez Hilton, who I despise more than the hairs that insist on growing on my big toe (I mean WTF! Why would I need two hairs on my toe? Will it keep me warm during the long Canadian winters???) because he likes to out people before they're ready to be outed and I just want to slap him silly and tell him to leave my closeted gay friends alone, you little wienered slimy bastard.
So now, I've decided that Beck girl, she's really not that skinny, I think she just has a fast metabolism.
And the fact that she doesn't smile? I think she's like me, and hates her smile. I've been told numerous times that I do this weird half-smile thing when I'm in pictures, but that's because I have this tooth that was discolored by antibiotics as a kid that I hate, and my two front teeth overlap, so I hate my real smile in pictures. Vicky and I, we're just smile-phobic soulmates.
Do you think it'd be weird if I invited her and her kids to Little Man's second birthday party, what with her not knowing that she's my new BFF?
Also, with her being my new BFF, does that mean I can no longer have her hubby on my five celebrities I can sleep with list?
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
So Loukia tagged me for this Meme, and although I've done it before, I'm having writer's blog and this is the perfect excuse for me to share more thrilling facts about me that will horrify you.
First, the rules:
1. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
2. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
3. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
4. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
So here goes!
1. When I was 22, I once walked right into a tree because I was too busy watching my boobies bounce while I was walking. I'd never realized before that they did that and understood much better why men are fascinated by the hooters.
2. I was highly lactose intolerant until I got pregnant. Side effects included mucho farting and explosive diarrhea if I was really, really bad (like ate half a pint of ice cream). But when I was pregnant, I became cured and could eat a whole box of Mac and Cheese and have no issues. I ate an entire box of Kraft Mac & Cheese many, many times during my pregnancy just because I could.
3. I'm fiercely competitive, but only about really, really stupid stuff. At work, everyone knows that my boss will be retiring in two years, but I feel no inkling in competing for his job. In fact, I'm really not interested in the additional stress and responsibilities. I like my mid-level job just fine, thank you very much. But open up even the lamest board game around me, and my head will spin around 360 degrees and I will begin to belittle you and every muscle and brain cell in my body will make it its mission to crush you. I even once got overly competitive with coworkers at the Food Bank when we were volunteering for half a day to fill boxes for them. I became obsessed with filling as many boxes perfectly and quicker than anyone else with my partner, and I actually upset a couple of people with some of my nasty comments and my mocking them incessantly. But we all know only sissies fill boxes for the hungry slowly.
4. I had a mild freak out when I found out Little Man was going to be a boy. I'm one of three girls and my mom was one of three girls. The women in my family? They just don't make boys. And so I always knew that someday, I'd have three girls too. So when we had the sonogram, I figured it was kind of pointless, since I already knew what I was having. When the nurse told us that it was a boy, I told her she was wrong. We argued for a couple of minutes as she circled a certain part that made it clear that he was, in fact, all boy, and finally stopped arguing with her when Sweetie Pie asked me what the hell my problem was. On the way home, I realized that if I'd made one boy, the possibility was that I would make more boys. I turned to Sweetie Pie and said "what if we have three boys? Then what the hell am I going to do?" Now? I don't know what the hell I'd do with a girl.
Actually, I do. I'd buy her some really, really kick ass dresses. And barrettes. Lots and lots of barrettes. And I'd totally let her play with my make up. Even my good stuff from the MAC counter.
5. My mother drives me absolutely bonkers. I really, really hate the fact that I feel this way about her. She'll call me and not listen to anything I say. Or she'll call me five minutes before she's about to have dinner so that she needs to hang up as soon as it's my turn to speak. Or, like right now, she'll send me an email asking me a question about a two-line email I sent that had the answer in the two freaking lines I originally wrote. It's like come on woman, read the fucking email and listen to me talk! Or else, don't bother communicating with me.
6. My sisters are twins. I hated them the first 18 years of my life, because I always felt left out. They'd developed their own language as infants and would speak their alien language, point at me and laugh and laugh. Later, they'd gang up on me and beat me up, and when my mom would come down the hall yelling, they'd run to her and tell her that I was hitting them. Because they were younger than me, my mother believed them. They admitted to doing this over dinner two years ago and my mother was quite horrified. If I get lucky enough to have more kids, I will never automatically take the side of the youngest.
7. When I hear a story of a child that was sexually abused, all I can think of is that if someone did that to my child, I would kill the bastard. No second thought about it and no regrets. I don't have a violence tendency in me, but that? That I know would totally set me over the edge and I wouldn't care about going to prison for the rest of my life for it.
8. I have really, really weird fears like of being impaled, and having things (like a fork) jammed in my eyes. I obsessively worry about these things for Little Man too, and feel anxious every single meal, because I'm convinced he's going to impale himself on his fork or stick it in his eye. If I had it my way, he'd eat with his hands or with a rubber spoon for the rest of my life.
I'm supposed to tag eight people, but since I know most people have done this, feel free to do it yourself if you need blog fodder!!!
Also? Jesse nominated me for another award!
I was kind of born to receive this award, since it has Catwoman in it. So now I'm supposed to bestow this award on other people. And I'm going to take the easy route out. If you're in my blog roll, consider yourself awarded! Because I heart you all. And you are all deserving of a blogger award.
Now let's go stop world hunger and Tom Cruise, shall we?
Monday, July 16, 2007
The great thing about 22-month olds is that they learn to anticipate things. And when they know what comes next, they assume that they should just say it, rather than wait for you to.
Little Man is currently in the process of figuring out the give-and-take of conversation. But because we've spent a long time telling him "thank you!" whenever we hand him something, in order to teach him manners, he now thinks that all of the responses that come after his statements are things he should be saying too.
So now, he'll walk up to me, hand me his frog and say "Thank you! You're Kecome!"
Also, if he walks in a room, he acts all excited and says "Hi! How are you? I'm good!"
I'm thinking he'll make an extraordinary telemarketer some day, as he's got the keen talent to say his piece and not give a rat's ass about your answers.
Either that, or he'll be one hell of a male ballet dancer, as he now runs with his arms by his side and his hands fanned out, like some freaky tap dancer.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Sigh. I'm not happy with you guys right now. I write a loving, sweet post about my son being possessed by the devil, and instead of having you guys say "oh, how sweet! You're the mother of the horned one" you focus instead one one tiny little itsy bitsy so small and really not that odd fact that I once collected blackheads.
What, like you're so perfect? Like you've never collected the content of your clogged pores ever?
Seriously? You didn't?
Huh, I guess we couldn't have been friends in grade 9 then.
Although, that was kind of the year where I really didn't have any friends. Except for this weird girl, Stephanie, who's hair was so big and curly and out of control, that she'd given up on even brushing it. Also, she never talked. I did all of the talking in the friendship. Which means that we got along famously.
We'd spend our lunch hour either walking laps around the track, ignoring the evil comments from the other kids, or in the game room (we had one, how odd is that) playing boardgames like the game of Life. Really, I think we were just undiscovered popular girls.
But back to the blackhead collection thing.
Here's what I can tell you. I'm a pack rat. I don't like to throw stuff out. And I'm a collector of things. In my life, I've collected many things. Like stickers. And erasers. And matchbooks. And PEZ dispensers. And one night stands.
And yet none of these things seem odd to you.
But blackheads? That creates a brouhaha?
Here's how it got started. I have a tendency to have blackheads. As we speak, I have a nice coat of foundation of my nose to hide the fact that my pores are more likely clogged by a blackhead than not. You know that girl in the Biore strip commercial that removes the strip and says "EW! It looks like a cactus!"? That girl is me.
So 18 years ago, I squeezed a blackhead, and the thing was as big as a cat. Maybe not a cat, probably more like a squirrel.
I was so impressed by the ginormousness of this blackhead that, for whatever reason, my brain decided that it had to be saved. And for the next few days, every time I would manage to squeeze out a blackhead that I considered to be large enough to be kept like a pet, I would do so.
My damn snoopy sisters discovered my little box on my dresser and saw dried things that looked like tiny boogers in them. They were horrified. I told them, in that superior tone that the oldest sibling is allowed to use, that they were idiots and that these were in fact blackheads and not boogers.
They mocked me so endlessly, that I eventually threw out the blackhead collection in order to shut them up.
Other weird things I did during that phase was keep my CD collection alphabetized and created a library check out system for my sisters to borrow them. Also, I collected pennies, and I once spent an entire Sunday rolling them in stacks of 10 of the same year. I sorted them for about two hours, and then I made little stacks of 10 and wrapped them in scotch tape. I then counted my stacks and realized that I had over 800 pennies.
If you ask me, the 13-year old me seriously needed to get some kind of hobby. Or to get laid.
So there. Can we move past this now?
Thursday, July 12, 2007
I live with an eccentric man. Who has to carry a stuffed frog with him everywhere, and spends hours sucking that frog's face, pursing his gorgeous full lips against its face like if the frog was some kind of pacifier.
But lately? He's becoming even more quirky, pulling stunts that lead me to think that he could potentially end up with 50 cats, or collecting removed blackheads, like I did for a one-week period of my life that I like to call "that time I officially became a freak for a week."
Like this morning? Little Man saw an old dirty soccer ball in our garage and decided that he had to ride in the car with it sitting in his lap. Forget that the ball is bigger than his head, he hung on to that thing the whole ride to school, his frog safely tucked in his other arm. And then? He was devastated when I wouldn't let him bring it into school.
Because I'm a cold hearted bitch, and I like to squash originality anywhere I see it.
Also? My Little Man? He speaks in the voice of Satan when he's angry. Which is really, really quite often. And it can occur in the time it takes you to blink. He'll be a perfectly normal, sweet, cute little boy, and all of sudden you tell him that he can't, in fact, set the dog's tail on fire, and he drops his head down and growls "NO!" in the voice of Satan. I find it quite amusing, and it's hard not to laugh at him, but I'm kind of concerned that he'll eat my liver while I'm sleeping if I do lose it and begin to giggle.
So I just put him in time out instead.
There's also the fact that he tried to kill his father with his toddler fork on Sunday night. Little Man threw a sugar pea across the kitchen, so Sweetie Pie grabbed Little Man's face and told him "no throwing!" Apparently, Little Man didn't like his father's tone of voice, so he threw his toddler fork right at Sweetie Pie, where it landed flat on Sweetie Pie's shoulder and sat there, minding its own business, just waiting for someone to remove it. Sweetie Pie, being the grown up between the two of us, told Little Man that because he didn't listen and threw something else, he was going to time out, all while that fork, with little bears on it, continued to sit on his shoulder.
Me? I had long run down the hallway to hide my bursts of laughter, because really? The image of driving Sweetie Pie to the hospital with a toddler fork embedded in his shoulder, the little bears on the handle staring at his gaping wound was just too hilarious to not laugh at.
Maybe my son's not an eccentric. Maybe he is possessed by the devil.
But until he begins to spew pea soup, I'll take my chances and keep him around.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
So my son is a food snob. I guess it had to happen, what with me feeding him shrimp when he was barely 14 months old and asking at his 12-month check up exactly when it would be ok to take him to his first sushi bar.
I've spoken of Little Man's obsession with yogurt, but I guess I should have said that he is particularly obsessed with one kind of yogurt: Yo Baby, which I bought for the first time when Little Man had maybe two teeth in his mouth. I remember the first spoonful like it was yesterday, because Little Man's eyes got about ten times bigger and lit up like Times Square and he began to pump his chubby little arms in the air in a manner that made me think he was having a reaction to something. "Wow," I thought."He really likes this."
And that's when I finally looked at the ingredients. The first three ingredients were organic milk, organic sugar and organic crack cocaine.
Ok, maybe not crack cocaine. But some other kind of organic sweetener. Which meant that my son was eating pure sugar mixed with a little dairy product. No wonder he freaking lit up! Kid had been eating fruits and veggies with nothing mixed in until then.
I stopped feeding him the Yo Baby for a while, switching instead to plain whole milk yogurt mixed with half a jar of baby food in whatever fruit flavor I had around the house.
Although his eyes didn't light up as much, he still enjoyed it. But eventually, I got lazy and I switched to Yo Baby a couple of months ago, because it was easier. And I guess I also loosened up, because there are bigger issues to worry about in this world than sugar, things like global warming and who Paris Hilton has given the clap to this week.
But last week, in an effort to save money, I noticed that the Yo Baby six pack is close to four dollars, while a six pack of Yoplait kids is like $2.50. They have Dora on them, which I thought would appeal to Little Man's flirty side, since he loves women with giant heads who stare at you for too long and hang out with a monkey all day.
Yoplait Kids are not organic, but I figured that Little Man still doesn't have any hair on his chest, and he's quickly approaching his second birthday, which puts him way behind his other friends at school who've been raised on nothing but pesticides, because this is Texas, and organic foods are for sissies and granolas. Texas also believes that them frou frou gays choose that lifestyle because they like feather boas, so I'm not necessarily sure that everything the State says is right, but you only live once, right?
The first time I served Little Man a Yoplait Kids, he scrutinized it for a brief minute and ate the whole thing, like he'd eaten them forever. I began to picture the pair of Jessica Simpson shoes I'd be able to afford at the end of the year by saving two to three dollars every week.
But on Monday, Little Man looked at Dora's smiling face on the side of the yogurt and gave it back to me with a stern look on his face and demanded a "YAYOO!"
He doesn't know the word "real" yet, or else I know it would have preceeded the word yayoo. I tried to explain to him that this was, in fact, a yayoo. The kind that was enjoyed by millions of kids across America whose parents loved their kids a whole lot, but didn't feel that this love was reflected in the purchase of designer brand yogurts.
That's when Little Man screeched at the fact that I've also switched him from Designer diapers, a.k.a. Pampers Cruisers, to the store brand which have held up just as well for a fraction of the price.
So I'm at a crossroad. Do I keep forcing my designer obsessed, food snob son to eat these common folk yogurt, which are a brand I've eaten for years, after all. Or do I give in to his fancy schmancy palate and let him continue to have the Yo Baby yogurt?
And most importantly, should I obey him him when he demands that his winter coat this year come from Burberry instead of Old Navy like last year?
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
So I faltered last night. I put Little Man in his toddler bed last night and he cried for five minutes, and then he was fine. He wasn't sleeping, as I could hear him talking to his frog, but he wasn't crying. But at about 8 p.m., 45 minutes after I put him to bed, he began to wail. And wail. And wail some more. So I went and got him, took him downstairs, gave him some water and let him scrapbook with me for a while, to ensure that his coolness factor would drop by a couple of points.
At about 8:30, I decided that he needed to go to bed. After all, he'd been crabby all day and spent most of his evening with me in time out, since he was being really, really rotten. And not following the Super Nanny rules of saying "I'm sorry" for his infractions. And so to ensure that Super Nanny would never have to visit my house, I kept putting him back in time out, until he resigned himself to the fact that he would indeed have to apologize for being a booger head. I figure that I'm training him for his future wife. She'll owe me big time.
So the idea of my child getting another bad night of sleep, was more than I could bear, since I was drinking the last Miller Light in the house while scrapbooking. Which really, is the only way to scrapbook, because drunks scrapbooking creativity involves Santa Claus stickers on Easter pages.
So I went upstairs while Little Man was busy sticking a bunch of powder blue ABC/123 stickers on his belly, grabbed his mattress, pillow, stuffed sheep, stuffed giraffe, Elmo, Cookie and Ernie dolls and put them all back in his crib.
I then took him upstairs, put him in his crib where he cried a total of three seconds and was passed out cold with a smile of relief on his face before I'd even shut his door.
He's not ready. That's all there is to it. And you know what? I'm not ready either. The kid does not need to move up to a bed yet. We don't need his crib for anything, except maybe to keep a caged tiger. And since I'm pretty sure our neighborhood frowns on jungle animal ownership, I guess we'll just let Little Man sleep in there a little longer.
Now on to story number two of the day. I've got a confession to share with everyone. Something that would drive Nicole Richie to never consumer her only food, water, again, because surely it has to be a high-calorie food, what with all its wetness of flavor of water.
Remember my jeans of last week? The ones that make my butt look like Heidi Klum if I stand behind a wall and you stand five counties away? The ones that I slipped on and went up like butter, leading me to think that three days of Slim Fast for lunch and two work outs had caused me to trim down enough to once again fit perfectly in my bigger size?
Well, those jeans bitch slapped me that night. Because I spilled a beer all over myself while I was wearing them at the house to show Sweetie Pie how they were so worth the 12 dollars I paid for them, and had to take them off to wash them. Before doing so, I remembered that Old Navy and The Gap now have that weird tag that clearly states "remove before washing or wearing", which I always notice after I've worn and washed the item a few times, so I figured I'd actually respect the laws of The Gap and Old Navy for once. In case they keep track and will ban me forever from their great sales and awesome baby and maternity clothes.
As I went to cut off the tag, I noticed the tag inside the clothing that has the size on it. A number was on there that isn't my size. As I examined it more closely, I realized that the jeans? The ones I could fit into without any issues? They're actually three freaking sizes bigger than what I consider to be my bigger size. The freaking Gap person who put the sales tag with the size and price on the outside labeled my freaking jeans wrong. No wonder they were on clearance!
I panicked. What the hell do I do now? I've got these jeans that are in a big size that I've never had to buy before. And they freaking fit. It's heartbreaking, right? And the jeans, they have a little room in the tummy, butt and leg area, so I guess technically, I have a little room to grow into them should I ever get pregnant.
And that's where I showed the most maturity, maybe in my entire life. I cut the tag off. And I wore those jeans. And I worked them on Friday.
Because I've never been good at math anyway. So why start now?
Monday, July 09, 2007
I apologize for causing the economy to come to a halt.
For some reason, Blogger won't let me add a title to this post. Nothing like a grumpy blogger to start a Monday morning.
And not being able to type a title? It's all screwing me up. Because now? I don't know how to start this post.
So you know what I did this weekend?
I made spaghetti carbonara. And the most freaking delicious apple pie ever. Mmmmm. Both of which are part of my special diet. Isn't it fantastic?
Yeah, not so much. In my defense though, I did manage to get up at 5 a.m. today to work out. I'm the pilates queen, I am. And my tummy? It's already pooching a little less. So hurray for that.
And Little Man moved into his toddler bed last night, which is really exciting. If you're not Little Man, that is. If you're Little Man, it's not exciting, it's actually the most terrifying thing that could ever happen.
He's been playing in his new room for weeks, so I didn't think it'd be an issue. Last night, I put his crib mattress in his toddler bed, made the bed, put all of his animals on the new bed, and when we took a bath, I told him he was going to get to sleep in his new bed tonight, and how exciting! He kind of brushed me off, I guess he figured that if he pretended it wasn't going to happen, then it wouldn't. This is a tactic I've also used many times, being the Queen of Denial that I am. I have to admit that in 31 years, it hasn't worked very much for me either.
Things were fine while we read books in his new room, but when we went to turn off the light and I went to put him into bed, his eyes looked a lot like this:
Except there were no bubbles around his head, because I'm pretty sure that would mean my son has rabies. The look of terror on his face was actually so funny, that I had to bite my lip not to laugh. I know, mother of the year, right?
He whispered to me "No, mama!" like he didn't want to talk too loud and wake up the spirits in his evil new room.
I kissed him goodnight and figured he'd just roll over and go to sleep, but he spent the next half hour crying. I ended up sitting with him for half an hour, singing to him and rubbing his head and eventually, I was able to leave, but I had to keep the door open, because he freaked out if I tried to close it.
He did end up spending the whole night in his bed, and didn't wake up, so as far as transitions, I think it was a pretty good one.
He woke up at 5:45 in the morning, right when I was finishing my work out. I walked into his room, expecting him behind the door, but he was sitting in his bed going "Up! Up!" And let out a big sigh of relief when I took him out like he thought "thank freaking God I survived that!"
At what point should I tell him that he'll be sleeping in it again tonight?
Thursday, July 05, 2007
"Hi Sweetie Pie! What'cha doing?
- Working. What are you doing?
- Oh nothing much, working too! So have I told you today how much I love you?
- (pause) What did you buy?"
Which really? Should piss me off. Because can't a woman just call her husband up and tell him she loves him? Does she have to have an ulterior motive to do so?
Just a second.
I need to move the Gap bag that's in the way of my keyboard.
Where was I? Oh yeah.
I was saying that a woman should be able to call her man to say she loves him.
And to mention that she spent a mere 32 dollars at The Gap.
Because I found jeans. And they fit. And they make my ass look a little like Heidi Klum's. If you close your eyes and then hold one eye lid open and try to look at the back of your head.
Are you doing it? You see how my ass looks like Heidi Klum's? A little bit?
I know. That's the power of my new jeans.
And the best part? They were on sale for 13 dollars.
Worth every penny right?
Also? I got a shirt. A shirt that was on sale for $1.97. I'd tell you I made that up. But I didn't. It's a whole shirt. With a front, a back and sleeves. And it was under two dollars. And me? I like to wear shirts. They cover up the fact that my bra no longer has matching straps, because Satan's Dog? He ate one. I think he swallowed it whole. And so I had to replace the strap with a plastic see through strap, which really doesn't quite match the white strap on the left side. It doesn't match even if you do the closed eyes, force open an eye lid trick from before. So anyway, the shirt's purpose is to cover up the fact that my bra has issues.
I also got some cropped pants. Because I have nothing to wear on the weekend. And it's summer. And it's kind of hot out, what with me living in Texas and all. And I'm tired of wearing my old raggedy jeans all weekend. And so, although my butt looks more like Bea Arthur's (no offense Bea, I'm sure your butt is lovely) in these pants, I'm sure that with another week or two of Slim Fast, they'll be loose enough that you won't be able to count every dimple on my butt.
And if life couldn't get any better than owning the perfect pair of jeans, the kind you want to cradle in your arms at night, because you love them that much, I've been nominated for an award! Me! It's the Rockin' Girl Blogger award. And not one, but two freaking people gave it to me! Which really, is cheating on my part, because if I hadn't kept forgetting about getting it the first time, I wouldn't have been nominated a second time. And the fact that anyone thinks I rock? Is very, very touching. So I thank Sheri and Jesse for nominating me.
And now? I get to bestow this award on five of my blogger friends, which is really hard, because that's like picking amongst a mound of milk chocolate chips. They're all so good, why would you pick just five?
So here are my choices...
Random Mommy: She doesn't just rock motherhood, she does it with a fantastic head of hair. Plus her husband is the most lovable drunk pervert, maybe ever. And her baby? Is one of Little Man's BFF's. Which forever makes her good peeps in my book, even if she'd decide to become a serial killer.
Emma in Canada: The woman has four kids, which boggles my mind when I can barely handle one on certain days. And she is she hand makes cards that look so good, it makes me wonder why I had to be born with so little artsy talent. And she's Canadian, which means she rocks something mean, and can eat beaver tail without giggling.
Ohio Blue Eyes: She's my pooping soul mate. And if you don't have one, well, you're missing out. Also, she's taught me potatoes are from Idaho, not Ohio. Which makes the whole Buckeyes name really confusing to me, because isn't that a potato thing? And her daughter? Totally inherited her mama and daddy's hot genes.
M: Girl's got some mighty cute kids! And her kids? If they lived any closer to me would totally be friends with my Little Man, because they (and she) are hysterical. Also, she's got one wacky family, and yet she's probably one of the most grounded people out there, which is so amazing.
Kellie: Even if your neighbors are psycho killers who barbecue puppies, they're not as crazy as hers, unless you're That Chick and then you've got the Tennessee version of crazy neighbors. Also, she drives a really, really big truck. And she rocks the highways of NY like nobody's business.
Julie: Girl packs more in a weekend than some of us (ok, mostly me) do in a month. Her daughters are cute, funny and the oldest has more sass in her little finger than I wish I could have in my entire body.
OK, there. I've picked five. But everyone else? You also get an award. You wouldn't be in my blog roll if you didn't rock something fierce.
I've always said that I'm easily amused. But here are things that make me laugh today:
The fact that Al Gore's son, Al Gore III, was arrested going 100 miles per hour in his Prius. And found to have illegal drugs in the car. I don't know which is funnier. The fact that the dude was able to make a Prius go 100 miles an hour. I mean seriously? I thought only Porshes could go up that high. I think I've gotten my V6 Jeep Liberty up to 80 something once (before I had Little Man, of course), but I'm pretty sure that if I tried to push it to 100, the wheels would fall right off and the engine would jump through the windshield and bitch slap me.
The other part of this that makes me laugh really, really hard? Is the phone call from jail as I picture it in my head:
(2 a.m., Independence Day 2007. The Gore Residence. Al and Tipper are snoring on their recycled tire and glass mattress.)
Phone made of recycled tampons:Ring! Ring!
Al Gore: (half asleep) Hello? This is Al Gore, former future president of the US of A.
Al Gore III: Hey Dad! Uhm, what'cha doing?
AG: Just sleeping. Tried to get me some earlier, but your mom's still claiming that sex with me is what causes global warming.
AG III: Right, right. So uhm, anyway, you still excited about your big global music concert to save the Earth shinding?
AG: Absolutely! It's the light of my life! My reason for living! That and throwing darts at Floridians' heads for the whole hanging chad thing.
AG III: How many continents is it on again?
AG: All 7! I'm really excited about the bikini contest in Antartica that Ludicrous is going to host. That will be the nuclear bomb as you kids say.
AG III: So I'm guessing you've got lots of media appearances booked, eh? (Apparently, Al Gore's son spent a lot of time in Canada, which most people don't know)
AG: Oh yeah, I'm booked for 198 interviews during the next 72 hours! And I can spend every minute talking about the concert and saving the world. And also, why I finally decided to shave that beard of mine, despite adding three tons of hair to landfills in the process.
AG III: Well, uhm, daddy? Uhm, you might have something else to talk about...
Voice in Background: If you don't get off the phone, I'm making you my new girlfriend bitch!
AG: Where are you calling me from exactly? Are you at the White House again?
All I have to worry about? Is Little Man getting his leg stuck between the bars of his crib at night. And for that? I'm mighty, mighty grateful.
Oh, and I'm totally adding the Prius to my potential car list. Because those puppies? They're really freaking fast. And could get me to work in 12 minutes instead of 35, apparently.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
So for now two days, I have gotten up at 5 in the morning to work out. And like the crazy person I am, I'm convinced that I'm already thinner and that my gut is jiggling a little less. Because I'm a perpetual optimist.
I've also had a Slim Fast as my lunch for three or four days now. It's hard to remember which, because, as I've stated before in a post the last time I was on a diet (many, many moons ago), Slim Fast tastes like a big can of sperm to me. And sperm, like espresso coffee is something that can only be enjoyed in small quantities.
So why go on a diet when I will be trying to get pregnant in a couple of weeks? Well, mainly because if I can just lose 5 pounds, then that will mean I'll have five pounds less to lose after I have the baby. Because right now? I ain't fitting in any of my pants. Which leads me to wonder what the hell I'll wear three days after I get pregnant and my uterus decides it needs its own zip code.
Because right now? I'm about 25 pounds too heavy. And yeah, I know that you can't tell from that picture I posted a while back of Little Man and I. But that picture? Besides how humorous it was, it also was very flattering and made me look a hell of a lot thinner than I am. Me likey pictures that make me look thinner.
This weekend, when we were at the pool, there I was, in my tankini, my gut peeking out below my top so that it wouldn't miss out on any of the cloudy fun, and as I was snapping hundreds of pictures of Little Man, a woman asked if I wanted her to take pictures of the three of us. Horrified, I bit her head off and told her that hell no, because one, I was fat, two, my hair wasn't done and three, I wasn't wearing any make up.
She was a kindred spirit, because instead of getting pissed that I bit her head off, she simply removed it from my mouth, popped it back on her neck and said that she completely understood.
The only way she could have been sweeter is by telling me that I'm a natural beauty and that blotchy thing I call my face doesn't need a lick of make up.
So what prompted this new diet? A couple of things. First, I have to admit that the girl formerly known as Beebop has talked about her weight loss and how her amazing shrinking boobs now fit in a C cup. And girlfriend is hot. So girlfriend who now weighs less than before she got pregnant must now be so freaking hot that Ohio's got to be under some kind of wildfire risk. I've never been to Ohio, but I'm assuming that there is wilderness there. Of course, I did think that Ohio was full of potatoes, but Girl-Formerly-Known-as-Beebop was confused by this, so maybe I don't know anything about Ohio, except that apparently they have really hot people. Except for Drew Carey. That boy definitely brings the beauty quota of Ohio down big time.
But back to the subject at hand. Should Girl-Formerly-Known-as-Beebop and I decide one day that our Avatars should go clubbing, or whatever it is that people who know each other through their blogs do, I don't want to be her fat friend. So girlfriend's motivated me that if she can do it, I can do it.
But the biggest kick in my ass? It's my husband. My husband who despite not exercising at all, has great guns and a six pack. It's really quite unfair. The man can't eat just pasta, because his body burns the carbs so quickly that he's starving an hour later. And his waist? It's smaller than mine.
With my first pregnancy? I outweighed Sweetie Pie 10 pounds into it. So for five months of my pregnancy, I was heavier than he was. How fun is that? If that's not grounds for a divorce, I don't know what is.
And now? The stupid man has freaking decided that he's out of shape. And he's started running. Every freaking day. And when I get home at night? He'll tell me how he just finished doint 80 crunches and 40 push ups. I've seriously considered smacking him repeatedly with a shovel. Or a brownie. Whichever is closer.
So I've decided that two can play this game. If he's going to get in shape? Well, I'm going to get in the best shape of my life. For one month any way. And then I'll live on Happy Meals and doritos with sour cream for 8 1/2 months.
Monday, July 02, 2007
This month will forever be remembered as the month of the yogurt. Your plaintive cries of "Yayoo!" have been heard so often these last 30 days that the dairy council has begun to send us commission checks. On more than one occasion, I entered your room after your nap to have the first word out of your mouth be "yayoo???" No longer am I greeted with toddler gibberish of "hey lady, how's it going? I slept great! What'd you do? So anyway, I'm kind of a little hungry." Niceties are for suckers, after all, and if you can skip the being pleasant and go straight to the request, why wouldn't you? Of course, my Little Man, I should warn you that this attitude is probably the root of the thought process of history's most famous tyrants. I'm not judging, I'm just saying.
During this past month, you've also decided that sitting on your mother's lap during story time is about the lamest and most babyish thing one can do. And should I even suggest that we go back to you sitting on my lap, so that I don't have to try to read the book over your shoulder, you'll look at me and yell "NO!" in the same manner you speak to your dog when he has his mouth firmly entrenched around the goldfish cracker in your hand or when I make the stupid suggestion for you to quit whacking me in the face.
Your vocabulary has once again exploded this month, and now you actually string words together and say entire sentences. It freaking blows my mind, kid, because it seems like it was just two days ago that you called everything "Dada." How in the world are you that same kid as the one who spit up on me every two seconds and couldn't even hold its own head up? When now, you can solve a wooden puzzle in 30 seconds flat. With your eyes closed. And both hands tied behind your back. And you get basic grammar better than most people in the back woods of Kentucky do. Like if I say to you "You did it!", you'll respond with "Yes, I did it!" Sometimes I'll make you say random stuff just to see if it's my imagination, or if you're actually becoming a real human being and not just this creature whose body convulses when they're throwing a tantrum.
You also know all the basic colors now and whenever you don't know the name of something, you'll simply call it by its color, which will now be my strategy instead of my old one of using the word "thingie."
It's been raining here constantly this past month, to the point that just about the entire State of Texas is flooded. At first I thought this was a marketing stunt to promote the movie "Evan Almighty", which is about Noah's Ark. The rain wouldn't be so bad, except that it means that you can't go outside like you're used to doing. You'll stand in front of the back door and ask "ow-ssside?" And when I look at you, you'll repeat "OW-SSSSIDE?" and then say "YEEEEEES!" while nodding emphatically, which leads me to believe that when we put you to bed, you've been reading books about persuasion and subliminal tactics, but that you've yet to read past chapter one.
Yesterday, it looked like it was going to rain yet again, but we decided to head to the pool for a few minutes, figuring that if you didn't get out of the house, you'd begin to gnaw through the drywall to get yourself out. When we first got to the pool, you were amazed! "Water!" you exclaimed, because you've always been the observant one in the family.
We started you off with the toddler pool, and although you didn't seem sure at first, you quickly warmed up, and laughed at the squirting sprinklers and even let your dad take you in the water for a little while. As the clouds became darker over us, we decided to take you into the big pool for a few minutes, and we set you down on the first step. And that's when you flipped out. You wanted out like if we'd set you down in the fiery pits of hell.
No matter how much we held onto you in the water, you cried and wailed and shivered and wanted out. I took you out, wrapped you in a towel, and we sat on the side of the pool and watched your dad swim before the storm broke. There you were, snuggled in my lap, wrapped like a big burrito, talking to me. And even though I was sad that you are now afraid of the water, I loved those few minutes that I had to just hold you, because these days? You're usually too busy running around, pushing stuff, playing, doing all those toddler things than snuggle with your mom.
Not that you're not an extremely loving boy. You give the most amazing kisses and can say 'I love you' in both French and English now. And you've got this new thing you do, where you'll walk up to me, grab my face between your hands and lay a kiss on me. And then you won't remove yourself. Every single time, I end up laughing, which makes you laugh, which means that you then end up drooling in my mouth. Which I wouldn't say is the most pleasant experience of my life, but it's quite amusing, in a way that only parents can understand the humor of toddler drool and snot.
Your dad and I have been working on your big boy room this past month. It's pretty much done, and I expect that by the time I do the next update, you'll be sleeping in your toddler bed. Some people would think that 22 months is awful young to be moved out of a crib, but the thing is, I know you, and I know that you won't even try to get out of your bed. You've never even tried to climb out of your crib before, and you're always so reasonable about bed time. Last night, you wouldn't go to sleep, so we finally went to get you. Ends up that you'd pooped yourself, and really, who can go to sleep with poop in their diaper? I changed it, and I let you stay up for a little bit. After a few minutes, I asked you if you wanted to go to bed. You looked at me, nodded slowly and said "yeah."
I'm not even that mature about going to bed. Whenever your dad is out of town, I end up staying up until two in the morning, watching sitcoms and infomercials and kicking myself the next day for being so stupid. You, my sweet baby, are so much more advanced than I am, that I wonder at what point you'll be able to really explain to me why the sky is blue. Because I still don't get it.