Am I the only person who's absolutely horrible with names? Like I have to meet most people two to three times before I remember their names?
And who can't remember most people if I haven't seen them in a few years?
Facebook is the worst invention ever, in my mind. About a quarter of my Facebook 'friends' are people who I don't even remember from my childhood. I know they really know me, because they're friends of people I know and their names sound vaguely familliar, but I've truly got no freaking clue who they are. No memory of them, no memory of their names.
Even worse? Yesterday, I thought 'hey, I should look up the guy I lost my virginity to!'
And then realized I could only remember his first name.
I'm not freaking kidding you. You could hold a gun to my head, and I still couldn't tell you his last name.
In my defense, I do remember his first name was Dale, and I tried to get everyone to start calling me Chip, because I thought it'd be cute. Little did I know that Chip & Dale is not just the names of two Disney chipmunks.
So yeah. I lost my virginity to some guy named Dale. Who, in my mind, no longer has a last name. And therefore, Facebook won't let me find out if he looks like poop now.
You know those commercials where they talk about the early signs of dementia and alzheimer's? No one will recognize those in me. I'm screwed.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Am I the only person who's absolutely horrible with names? Like I have to meet most people two to three times before I remember their names?
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
So guess what I did, children's?
I've gone and signed up for a pole dancing class.
I ain't making it up.
Me, the klutz who managed to trip and fall on a tour of the labor and delivery unit at the hospital.
Me, the rythmically challenged one who was once asked at a nightclub if I've been suffering from epilepsy my whole life.
Yup, that me.
That me will be swinging herself around some big metal pole.
Emergency rooms of North Texas, get ready. There will be blood.
Clearly, a post recapping the first class will be coming once I actually schedule my classes.
But it's a coming.
Monday, August 24, 2009
So yeah, you're getting a two-fer letter, since I'm so far behind that I'd never get caught up. And you can blame it on being the second-born, but I have to tell you that already, there are more pictures of your first 10 months than there are probably of your brother's first 18 months. As obsessive as I was with taking your brother's picture, I'm even more so with you. I know how fast babies change now and I have to capture every small change in you. You also don't help my obsession with pictures by looking so freaking cute.
There were a lot of firsts these past two months. First teeth, especially the five you sprouted in a three-week period. Man, I haven't seen crankiness that bad since I was pregnant with you and threw a dinner plate at your dad's head for disagreeing with me. For the longest time, you were our snaggle-toothed one, our little can opener. And I loved that tooth. I loved that it looked so out of place on its own, all by itself in your little mouth. One day, you had perfectly smooth baby gums and then, two days before you turned nine months old, there it was! A perfect little sparkling white tooth. And then a few weeks later, your mouth exploded, and now, as I write this, you have six teeth and considering you yelled at me this morning for not letting you crawl up the stairs (another first that you started a week ago. I? Am not amused by that one.)
There was also your first haircut, which I put off a long, long time, dude, because I love your hair a little bit too long and crazy. But you were beginning to look a little bit like a shaggy dog, and so finally, I took you to a children's haircutting place. And it, uhm, went well.
Until she cut that first piece of hair. And then you went ape shit on her, because apparently, you were just as attached to your hair as you were. You were so upset, that eventually I just had to get you out of that chair and hold you on my lap while the girl finished cutting your hair. Did I mention the whole thing was your father's idea?
Speaking of your hair, during the last few months, it's turned reddish. Which is the biggest genetic mystery ever. Your father is of Irish descent, but just where did those auburn highlights of yours come from? You've got the most interesting features, with your reddish hair, and your eyes the color of sea glass. Not quite blue, not quite green, I frequently find myself just looking into those eyes of yours, trying to decide what color they really are. And just when I settle on blue, the light in the room changes, and they suddenly become dark green. I suspect many women some day will spend hours pondering the same thing. I'll be at the door with a big stick chasing them off if you need me.
During the last two months, you've become quite the little ham. You always have been, to a certain degree, but now, as your personality is bursting at its seams, we can truly see how much you love to make people laugh. Nothing makes you happier than getting a laugh out of me, your brother, or your father. We've seen you smash your head into a wall after you covered your head up with your towel and when you hear us laugh, you peer over at us, snap your head back and let out this hysterical fake laugh, as your eyes light up with the joy of hearing us laugh. You've got it in you, kid, to be one hell of an entertainer. I can tell already that you'll grow up to be one of those people who loves to walk into a room and make people laugh. I can tell, because I'm one of them. Fewer things give me the thrill that having a group of people laughing at one of my stories gives me. And I can already tell that you have an innate gift for it, one that's already 10 times more potent than mine. I foresee many school reports that mention you talking in class too much or making the other kids laugh at inappropriate times. But don't worry, you'll have an ally in me.
In fact, you love to get just about any reaction from people. You love to lay your head down on random things and look over to us with a cute look in your eyes, just so we can make an "awwwwwwww!" sound at you. On more than one occasion, you'll lay your head down on something random, like a toy or the dog's tail and when we don't "awwwwww!" at you, you'll scream at us to get our attention and then do it again until you get the reaction you're looking for.
You're also amazingly sweet. You love our dog so much and get so excited when you see him. You're known for chasing him around the house, talking your little language to him, like you're asking him all about his day, because surely, that big furry beast must do all sorts of exciting things while we're gone right? You love to grab his neck fur to stand yourself up and squeeze him hard, and you feel bad that he has to eat alone, so you make it your mission to crawl over to his bowl while he's eating, grab his food and throw it around the kitchen. I have to say, you're awful lucky to have a dog this patient, kid.
This weekend, I had your father remove your infant car seat from my car. You are now 7 ounces from the maximum weight, which means that you'll probably outgrow it by noon tomorrow at the rate you're growing. I put you in your big car seat for the first time yesterday, and even though you're still facing backwards, you had this look of excitement on your face. You looked so small in that big car seat, that it brought me back to the day we brought you home, when you looked this small but in the infant seat instead. Hard to believe that in a few short years, you'll outgrow this seat too. You'll outgrow letting me rock you to sleep when you've had a rough day. You'll outgrow letting me kiss the back of your neck in public. You'll outgrow laughing at my jokes and funny faces.
But no matter how much you outgrow me, you'll still be that 7 pound-blog with the pitch-black hair and eyes so dark, we couldn't tell what color they were.
You're my baby. My last one. How about you take it easy on your Mama and slow down this getting big crap, ok?
I love you my Tiny Man,
Friday, August 21, 2009
Dear Fire Ants,
I'm from a place called Canada, I'm sure you've heard of it, since you have cousins there. Your Canadian cousins, are who I grew up with. They're much bigger than you, and fatter and they know that real beer does not have the word "Budweiser" on the bottle. They're also friendly, and having encountered hundreds, if not thousands of these cousins of yours over the years, I can assure you that each enounter was a friendly one, where said cousin crawled on me, tickling me slightly, and then was placed back down to me as I marveled at the amazingness that is nature.
You, however, might be the bitchiest bastards I've ever met. Now, I do realize that you might have taken my plopping myself down in the grass yesterday to possibly be a terrorist air attack. My boobs do look like missiles in my fantastic Victoria's Secret boulder holders. And sure, I did rest my right wrist right on top your nest, but let's be honest, your signage? Not exactly obvious. Nowhere did it say "DANGER! Approaching fire ant nest, approach at your own risk" or "Welcome to our nest!" or "You bitches going to die if you get any closer to our nest."
I can understand that you thought my intent was to destroy your nest, after all, my five-foot three height would probably make me appear to be as large as Godzilla to you.
But seriously? Did it ever occur to you to ask before maliciously throwing your army on me and biting me so much, that my wrist ballooned up to the size of my calf? I mean, most people would say 'hey, dude, this is my home over here, you mind moving before you crush my new plasma tv? Much obliged!' I guess your Queen never taught you manners, did she?
And I guess you and your friends aren't most people, are you? Most people wouldn't make my wrist look like I have leprocy or am going through puberty, because my wrist has close to 30 pustules today that look like giant white heads. And this? Is not the professional image I'm going for, especially when my underwear was sticking way out of my jeans on Wednesday, and I'd managed to tuck my shirt in said underwear at the last trip to the bathroom. At least everyone was aware that all of my good underwear was in the wash that day. The point is that you suck.
You're mean, you're vicious, and I'm pretty sure that out of all the ants, you have the worst BO.
What's made you so angry anyway? Project Runway's back on, there are many more days of summer left and the world has found out what a creep Jon Gosselin is.
At least I should thank you for staying away from my baby and taking all of your anger out on me. But seriously? Next time I see any of you little bastards, I'm setting your f'ing nest on fire, I'm not even kidding you. You want war, you little six-legged punks? I'll give you war. I spit on you and your stupid little venom. Trust me, you don't want to mess with me. I'm French, we eat snails and cow tongues. Don't make me name you the next thing on the national French menu.
Monday, August 17, 2009
A few weeks ago, Office Max had a 24-count crayon box on sale for 1 cent. I thought they would be perfect for Little Man's school goodie bags, since I'm a cheap mofo, yo. And I spent big money on his real party goodie bags, and am not willing to do the same for 22 kids I don't really know.
Only problem is that Office Max had a three/person limit. The first day I went in with Little Man, handed him 3 cents and told him that he was going to buy three on his own, so that I would start off with six right off the bat.
But the cashier said that it was a limit of three/family, since apparently Office Max believes that children are not people. (Where the hell is PETA when you need them???)
Since I don't argue with cashiers, I instead hit up Office Max every day on my way home that week, until I had all the crayons I needed.
The moral of the story is, if you're a little person of three feet, bad news, you're not a person at Office Max.
Actually, the real moral of the story is that I went to Office Max so much that week, that Little Man knows the store very well now.
And regularly asks me when we're going to Office Max again, like he does for CVS, Walgreen's, and the four grocery stores I hit up in order to stay within my new $50-$60/week grocery budget (now with organic/natural meats y'all!)
Yesterday, Little Man was thinking so hard in the car that my radiator almost heated up again.
I asked him what he was thinking about, and he looked down at his stuffed frog, Max, the one that he has carried everywhere, the one that I keep telling him that when he turns four, it needs to remain on his bed, because I WILL NOT HAVE A BOY IN COLLEGE WHO CARRIES A STUFFED FROG EVERYWHERE, and said: "I was just thinking that Office Max should change their name and just be 'Max.' That way, I could buy all the Maxes I want and never have to worry about losing this one."
Which really, the stuffed frog market has got to be a booming one, especially in this down economy, right?
Am I the only one with an almost-four year old who ponders retailers supply management strategy?
Friday, August 14, 2009
"I need to go potty."
(giggles around the table)
"Give me a break! I'm the Mom of young kids. I also call sex 'Mommy and Daddy time.'"
"You should be up there for the award picture!
- Nah, I had nothing to do with his success, I just pack his lunches and put out ever so often."
"You know what this event needs? More boobs."
Why yes, those were all things said by me. After a few beers, a few cocktails, a few glasses of wine and 3.5 shots.
Even better? This is an event for a company I used to work at 10 years ago, the company I was the PR girl for, that I met Sweetie Pie through because he's a dealer for them. Now 10 years later, he was invited to their fancy event in Montreal where he was awarded some big plate thing for his awesome sales record last year. And five of the people attending from headquarters are people I worked with back then.
I'm sure these people think I only improved with age.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
On the Canadian National news this morning, there was a story about three boys who were accused of chasing and beating a baby moose to death.
Clearly, the entire country is outraged, because damn it, we love our moose so much, we put them on our quarter!
One of the dads, in defense of his son, said there was no way his son and his buddies could have beaten the moose, because at that time, they were busy vandalizing a church.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
So I'm on my way back from Montreal after a mini-anniversary trip to Quebec City with
Paul Walker Sweetie Pie.
Here is what I've learned from this trip:
1. Working while riding Business Class on Via Rail is the best way ever to work. Because they give you lots of beer and wine. Writing a press release buzzed is the best way to write a release ever. Because surely no one in the approval process will have an issue with my quote for the VP that states "You bet my big hairy balls this is the best thing ever." Clearly, my writing gets better the more buzzed I am.
2. When your room is right over a patio restaurant and it's too warm to close the windows, you are going to be paranoid that your wild aniversary loving noises will cause some diner to choke on his garlic butter snails.
3. Quebec City might be one of the cleanest most beautiful cities in the world. If you have not been there, you need to go. Half of Japan was there, so clearly, they know where it's at, and you don't.
4. After 7 years of marriage, and 10.5 years together, I still really, really, like my husband. And he's very hot. Despite that crazy ear hair he's suddenly sprouted.
5. Brazillian bikini waxes are totally worth the agony. Trust me, shell out the 75 bucks. You'll thank me, after you regain consciousness from the pain long enough to have wild crazy animal passionate loving.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Catwoman is wondering if the cafeteria is still open. Ice on her freshly brazillian waxed coochie sure would feel good just about now. And hubby complains I never do anything for him.