Well hello there old friend! Now that C is in preschool I have a little more time available to not do housework! I also recently purchased a chintzy little tablet from WalFart, which broke our 2 year streak of living in the early 90s and not having a computer after mine fried.
We are currently engaged in Dinner Table War I at our house. I remember dinner time when I was really young and I still have PTSD so I wanted to try a different approach with my kids. My parents did nothing wrong but I remember lots of tears because I was a brat and didn't want to eat what my mom cooked. I couldn't appreciate the colossal pain-in-the-ass of cooking just one meal, let alone two. Honestly I just thought my mom had some sort of disorder where she couldn't conceptualize that if she'd just make me my goddamn mac and cheese without me having to ask (and by ask I mean pitch a fit) we could just bypass the drama altogether. It took many years but I finally submitted to the brainwashing and relented. Today I am feeling the effects of this sort of parental Stockholm Syndrome, as I can empathize with their plight.
I had (wrongly) decided that I would allow C two options: 1. Eat what I made; and 2. Peanut butter toast. I was hoping that she would at least be curious about what her dad and I were eating and try it (before being disgusted). Soon enough I was making Easy Mac on autopilot. Like my mom said when I was in 6th grade and she allowed me to only wear lip gloss and I came downstairs for school wearing lip gloss AND silver (lay off, it was 1996) eyeshadow, "I gave you an inch and you took a mile."
I was outsmarted by my opponent and, because I have been in a sleep-deprived fog since T was born, I just waved that white flag and ceded control. A couple days ago I snapped out of it and realized that shes never gonna learn to make healthy food choices, and she has to eat what I made or *cringe* go hungry and go to bed.
This is KILLING ME. Here is my DTWI diary:
Night 1
To my foe's shock and dismay, the dinner Blitzkrieg has commenced. She never saw it coming and handed me a container of Easy Mac. I engaged the enemy and a Battle Royale ensued. I lost: thirty mintes after being banished to exile (aka her room), I heard the joyful singing of "Let It Go" replace the agonizing wail from the enemy's camp. I went to investigate and found my opponent sitting on her bed, amidst discarded Welch's Fruit Snacks wrappers. Somehow she had smuggled contraband, my own bribery weapon, and used it against me. Defeated, I retreated to my base camp ( marked by laundry baskets of clean, folded clothes that will never end up in dressers or closets).
Night 2
After dance class, the enemy was literally eating out of the palm of my hand. Scarfing down carrot sticks! This is good, I thought to myself. Perhaps we are turning a corner and peace will be restored. I praised her for making Good Food Choices and hoped to continue the truce. No such luck. There were tears from her and I both, and I vowed to sit at that damn table until 3 bites were consumed. So we sat. And sat. And sat. Then her baby brother looked me dead in the eye, bore down, gave 'er hell, and waged Jihad on his diaper. I got up to change his diaper. Upon returning, my opponent had silently excused herself from the table, retreated to the living room and turned on Beauty & The Beast. I turned it off, picked her up and placed her back in her chair, wondering if I had overlooked a key player for the enemy - the baby with the ability to poop and allow her to escape. I decided to rename this mission Operation Trust No One. At this time I was relieved by my fellow troop. After roughly 45 minutes of relaxed snuggling on baby boy, I again heard silence and inquired of the enemy's position. She had fallen asleep. No food was consumed. She is steadfast in her hunger strike. I am beginning to question my fortitude here in the trenches.
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Bethenny Shops for Cars
My mom says I remind her a lot of Bethenny Frankel. To which I say, "Really? She's so funny! And she's so skinny!" And then reality sets in, and I am reminded that it's not because I'm funny or skinny - two things which I don't really think I am.
It's because I'm quite possibly one of the most neurotic, high strung, on-the-verge-of-hyperventilating, temperamental people in the world. Everything must be perfect at all times, or I'm a failure at everything. I have noticed this more and more as a parent. When Collins does something in public that she shouldn't do, like take a toy away from a kid, I freak the eff out. She's a kid, she doesn't know about sharing and boundaries yet. I shouldn't expect her to behave perfectly.
I just need to chill the eff out.
What some might call immature or snotty or bratty, I call intense. I get it. I am incapable of being halfway on anything. I'm either speeding downhill faster and faster and faster and faster...or I'm sitting on the couch in my underwear eating potato chips. There's no middle ground. I'm either 150% or, well, dead. And I know that I compartmentalize my feelings because I "just don't have time for that kind of shit..." uuuuuuntil they just explode all over everything.
So imagine my surprise when I have an epic meltdown in the parking lot of CarMax. All day I have been coaching myself to just breathe. Just breathe and get the eff over it, you can't have an actual love affair with your car for Christ sakes.
But..........I do.
My meltdown wasn't about wanting a car I can't have, or wanting to spend more money than we should. It had nothing to do with that at all. It had everything to do with change.
For all intents and purposes Ol Blue is my very first car. It's my only car. I've had her since I was 16. I cannot count how many times my girlfriends and I drove around in that car, laughing and singing and dancing to music...or how many times I drove home from the movies after a date, feeling all bujiggity and giddy...or how many times I sat in my car crying because a boy broke up with me - or worse, because I broke up with a boy and really hurt him. Or how many times I drove back home from college with a semester's worth of clothes and crap piled in the backseat. Or how many rush parties my car caravanned to. Or how many pulls of vodka we took, sitting in the parking garage on 17th & R just listening to music (not driving). Or how many times I played mix CDs of music that reminded me of a great night or a great party or great friends. Or how many times I curb checked in the Sandoz parking lot. Or how many bottles I had to get out from the way back because Collins chucked it when she finished her milk.
I know it's just a car, but it's been an amazing car. We've had a great ride. She's gettin old and tired. But she's really the only tangible link I still have to the girl I used to be. Fun, flirty, young, wild, free, crazy. I still have some of those qualities, but I don't have the same mind, or the same heart, or the same body. Everything has changed in my life. Ol Blue is the only thing that has ever stayed the same. So when people talk about car shopping like it's so exciting and fun, I just can't relate. I think it's gut wrenching, because I guess I just hate change and not being in control of time.
But as I sat at the steering wheel, I just felt like the whole world was crashing around me and I was being confronted with the reality that I'll never be the girl I used to be. In a lot of ways, thank God for that. I did a lot of dumb shit. But at least the dumb shit I used to do, and the mischief I used to get into didn't carry the consequences that it carries now. But how sad is it when you have grown up and not even realized it until you are forced to part with the youth you had to leave behind?
I think I need the number for Bethenny's therapist.
It's because I'm quite possibly one of the most neurotic, high strung, on-the-verge-of-hyperventilating, temperamental people in the world. Everything must be perfect at all times, or I'm a failure at everything. I have noticed this more and more as a parent. When Collins does something in public that she shouldn't do, like take a toy away from a kid, I freak the eff out. She's a kid, she doesn't know about sharing and boundaries yet. I shouldn't expect her to behave perfectly.
I just need to chill the eff out.
What some might call immature or snotty or bratty, I call intense. I get it. I am incapable of being halfway on anything. I'm either speeding downhill faster and faster and faster and faster...or I'm sitting on the couch in my underwear eating potato chips. There's no middle ground. I'm either 150% or, well, dead. And I know that I compartmentalize my feelings because I "just don't have time for that kind of shit..." uuuuuuntil they just explode all over everything.
So imagine my surprise when I have an epic meltdown in the parking lot of CarMax. All day I have been coaching myself to just breathe. Just breathe and get the eff over it, you can't have an actual love affair with your car for Christ sakes.
But..........I do.
My meltdown wasn't about wanting a car I can't have, or wanting to spend more money than we should. It had nothing to do with that at all. It had everything to do with change.
For all intents and purposes Ol Blue is my very first car. It's my only car. I've had her since I was 16. I cannot count how many times my girlfriends and I drove around in that car, laughing and singing and dancing to music...or how many times I drove home from the movies after a date, feeling all bujiggity and giddy...or how many times I sat in my car crying because a boy broke up with me - or worse, because I broke up with a boy and really hurt him. Or how many times I drove back home from college with a semester's worth of clothes and crap piled in the backseat. Or how many rush parties my car caravanned to. Or how many pulls of vodka we took, sitting in the parking garage on 17th & R just listening to music (not driving). Or how many times I played mix CDs of music that reminded me of a great night or a great party or great friends. Or how many times I curb checked in the Sandoz parking lot. Or how many bottles I had to get out from the way back because Collins chucked it when she finished her milk.
I know it's just a car, but it's been an amazing car. We've had a great ride. She's gettin old and tired. But she's really the only tangible link I still have to the girl I used to be. Fun, flirty, young, wild, free, crazy. I still have some of those qualities, but I don't have the same mind, or the same heart, or the same body. Everything has changed in my life. Ol Blue is the only thing that has ever stayed the same. So when people talk about car shopping like it's so exciting and fun, I just can't relate. I think it's gut wrenching, because I guess I just hate change and not being in control of time.
But as I sat at the steering wheel, I just felt like the whole world was crashing around me and I was being confronted with the reality that I'll never be the girl I used to be. In a lot of ways, thank God for that. I did a lot of dumb shit. But at least the dumb shit I used to do, and the mischief I used to get into didn't carry the consequences that it carries now. But how sad is it when you have grown up and not even realized it until you are forced to part with the youth you had to leave behind?
I think I need the number for Bethenny's therapist.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Girl Crushes
We've all had them. UrbanDictionary.com defines a girl crush as, "an overwhelming sense of awe felt by a girl for another girl elicited by varying causes ranging from deep respect to unadulterated lust. may result in the any or all of the following: general euphoria, prolonged sense of inspiration, desire for intellectual-intercouse with crush, simple sexual arousal, etc."
I think the entire female population is in full-on girl crush mode.
I'm flattered, really, I am.
Just kidding.
But seriously though.
Everyone, including myself, who watched The Bachelorette and/or doesn't live under a rock is crushing on Emily Maynard. Sans her too-big-for-her-perfect-little-mouth veneers (as a dentist, I am fully qualified to make that assessment), Emily is everything we all want to be:
Okay, that's not even a name. What is it with people making up names for their kids these days? If you make up a name for your kid, you are a grade-A asshole. Your child will spend his or her WHOLE life despising you for bestowing upon them a name that A) means absolutely nothing; and 2) they will have to repeat at least once to each and every person they meet over the course of their lifetime.
I'm looking at you, Jessica Blimpson. If you are going to give your daughter a gender-bender of a name, at least cushion the blow with a feminine middle name. I'll be the first to admit, Collins isn't a prissy fem name, but her middle name is! No one is going to expect a crew cut when Collins Claire shows up. But when Maxwell Drew strolls in through the door, she'll either be wearing a tutu, a tiara and a pair of toddler Louboutins to overcompensate for her masculine moniker, or she'll do what I would do if I were her - just say eff it and wear basketball shorts, Air Jordans and a pixie cut (and not a cute Michelle Williams pixie cut. I'm talking like a Brandon Teena do.)
While I'm on the topic of J. Blimp, let me make a prediction.
In two months, J. Blimp is going to be plastered all over the tabloid covers with the headlines, "How I lost the baby weight!" "She lost 160 lbs after baby!" "Jessica and Jenny Craig - teaming up to beat the post-baby bulge!"
Whatever.
Let me tell you what really happened. This is what (I think) happens in Hollywood. You have two different kind of pregnant people. You have the Victoria Beckhams and Rachel Zoes who add a couple extra sugar-snap peas every week to sustain their fetus, and maybe lay off the nose snow for the duration of their pregnancy.
Then six weeks post-delivery they are like, "OMG look at me I'm tinier now than I was before I was pregnant because I'm somehow nursing a baby while subsisting on a 15 calorie-a-day diet!"
Then you have the Jessica Simpsons and the Kate Hudsons who go BANANAS during their pregnancy, gain 300 lbs and eat everything in sight.
Of course this type of celebmom is probs going to endorse Jenny Craig or NutriSystem or some other shit after they have the baby, so they are probs in a contract that mandates that they gorge themselves beyond all recognition so then they can "lose the weight" on whatever stupid diet they are hawking. Nevermind that their babies are probably born with Type-2 diabetes and high cholesterol.
While these two types of celebmoms are vastly different, it all comes full circle and vanity wins in the end. I think that when they go to deliver said baby, the doctor wheels over to the promised land and pulls on his rubber gloves, looks up at her and says, "Okay Jessica, are we doing the Hollywood Usual?"
The Hollywood Usual - I imagine - is a common procedure for celebmoms that includes: a caesarean delivery, liposuction, tummy tuck, Brazilian butt lift, breast lift and/or augmentation (keep that breastfeeding look for the rest of your life!) urethral botox (so that they don't piss themselves everytime they laugh or sneeze like normal moms do), fat injections into the lips, vaginal reconstruction, abdominal muscle creation/sculpting, eye lift (gotta look rested for those magazine covers), and for God's sake a freaking reach around. The doctor then sends her on her way with a pamphlet that reads, "How to make normal non-celebrity moms feel like absolute shit" and a prescription for cocaine - they're gonna need that morning bump to keep awake during those 3 am feedings.
Ha. Kidding. They have nannies for that. And then they pose 2 weeks later, gushing about how great Jenny Craig is. But they aren't even on Jenny Craig. They have a personal chef, four nannies, a personal trainer, and they even have someone to wipe their ass.
Anyways, that's what really happens in Hollywood moms' delivery rooms. Granted, some of the procedures I made up I think. Like urethral botox? Not sure that's an actual thing, but if it is I'd like to look into it.
And while I'm on a rant about the ridiculousness of celebrity pregnancy, can I just say one thing?
STOP. Stop with the naked pregnancy pictures. I don't care if you are fully naked or just baring your naked belly. We all know what a naked person looks like. We all know what a pregnant person looks like. Thus, I think we can safely concur what a naked pregnant person looks like. In real life, without Photoshop. With stretch marks. And disgusting dry flaky skin. We get it. We'll never have a picture of our pregnant selves, looking glorious with a fresh blowout (the hair, not the diaper), perfectly smooth, evenly pigmented skin. No. And these celebretards publicizing their naked pregnant body are encouraging less-fortunate-looking nonfamous people to do it too. Everytime I see a picture of a naked pregnant belly show up on my news feed, I feel so embarassed for the sadly misguided young sperminated woman.
Maybe I'm just bitter that I didn't LOVE being pregnant. I LOVE the outcome. To each her own, but I felt like a sweaty, fat, stretch-mark covered beast and I only gained 25 lbs. I can't imagine birthing a fourth-grader like Jessica Simpson did. Hopefully Maxwell Drew enjoys the lunchbox I sent her as a baby gift. Maybe she'll be able to use it on Monday at Beverly Hills Elementary School.
I think the entire female population is in full-on girl crush mode.
I'm flattered, really, I am.
Just kidding.
But seriously though.
Everyone, including myself, who watched The Bachelorette and/or doesn't live under a rock is crushing on Emily Maynard. Sans her too-big-for-her-perfect-little-mouth veneers (as a dentist, I am fully qualified to make that assessment), Emily is everything we all want to be:
- Tan
- Blonde
- Petite.
- Size -2 .
- She's a mom, so you know she puts out.
- Huge boobs.
- Had a baby with someone who must have had her as the beneficiary of his monster life insurance policy (um, 26 - seeming unemployed, living in a giant house, drives a Denali? Lezbehonest.).
Okay, that's not even a name. What is it with people making up names for their kids these days? If you make up a name for your kid, you are a grade-A asshole. Your child will spend his or her WHOLE life despising you for bestowing upon them a name that A) means absolutely nothing; and 2) they will have to repeat at least once to each and every person they meet over the course of their lifetime.
I'm looking at you, Jessica Blimpson. If you are going to give your daughter a gender-bender of a name, at least cushion the blow with a feminine middle name. I'll be the first to admit, Collins isn't a prissy fem name, but her middle name is! No one is going to expect a crew cut when Collins Claire shows up. But when Maxwell Drew strolls in through the door, she'll either be wearing a tutu, a tiara and a pair of toddler Louboutins to overcompensate for her masculine moniker, or she'll do what I would do if I were her - just say eff it and wear basketball shorts, Air Jordans and a pixie cut (and not a cute Michelle Williams pixie cut. I'm talking like a Brandon Teena do.)
While I'm on the topic of J. Blimp, let me make a prediction.
In two months, J. Blimp is going to be plastered all over the tabloid covers with the headlines, "How I lost the baby weight!" "She lost 160 lbs after baby!" "Jessica and Jenny Craig - teaming up to beat the post-baby bulge!"
Whatever.
Let me tell you what really happened. This is what (I think) happens in Hollywood. You have two different kind of pregnant people. You have the Victoria Beckhams and Rachel Zoes who add a couple extra sugar-snap peas every week to sustain their fetus, and maybe lay off the nose snow for the duration of their pregnancy.
Then six weeks post-delivery they are like, "OMG look at me I'm tinier now than I was before I was pregnant because I'm somehow nursing a baby while subsisting on a 15 calorie-a-day diet!"
Then you have the Jessica Simpsons and the Kate Hudsons who go BANANAS during their pregnancy, gain 300 lbs and eat everything in sight.
Of course this type of celebmom is probs going to endorse Jenny Craig or NutriSystem or some other shit after they have the baby, so they are probs in a contract that mandates that they gorge themselves beyond all recognition so then they can "lose the weight" on whatever stupid diet they are hawking. Nevermind that their babies are probably born with Type-2 diabetes and high cholesterol.
While these two types of celebmoms are vastly different, it all comes full circle and vanity wins in the end. I think that when they go to deliver said baby, the doctor wheels over to the promised land and pulls on his rubber gloves, looks up at her and says, "Okay Jessica, are we doing the Hollywood Usual?"
The Hollywood Usual - I imagine - is a common procedure for celebmoms that includes: a caesarean delivery, liposuction, tummy tuck, Brazilian butt lift, breast lift and/or augmentation (keep that breastfeeding look for the rest of your life!) urethral botox (so that they don't piss themselves everytime they laugh or sneeze like normal moms do), fat injections into the lips, vaginal reconstruction, abdominal muscle creation/sculpting, eye lift (gotta look rested for those magazine covers), and for God's sake a freaking reach around. The doctor then sends her on her way with a pamphlet that reads, "How to make normal non-celebrity moms feel like absolute shit" and a prescription for cocaine - they're gonna need that morning bump to keep awake during those 3 am feedings.
Ha. Kidding. They have nannies for that. And then they pose 2 weeks later, gushing about how great Jenny Craig is. But they aren't even on Jenny Craig. They have a personal chef, four nannies, a personal trainer, and they even have someone to wipe their ass.
Anyways, that's what really happens in Hollywood moms' delivery rooms. Granted, some of the procedures I made up I think. Like urethral botox? Not sure that's an actual thing, but if it is I'd like to look into it.
And while I'm on a rant about the ridiculousness of celebrity pregnancy, can I just say one thing?
STOP. Stop with the naked pregnancy pictures. I don't care if you are fully naked or just baring your naked belly. We all know what a naked person looks like. We all know what a pregnant person looks like. Thus, I think we can safely concur what a naked pregnant person looks like. In real life, without Photoshop. With stretch marks. And disgusting dry flaky skin. We get it. We'll never have a picture of our pregnant selves, looking glorious with a fresh blowout (the hair, not the diaper), perfectly smooth, evenly pigmented skin. No. And these celebretards publicizing their naked pregnant body are encouraging less-fortunate-looking nonfamous people to do it too. Everytime I see a picture of a naked pregnant belly show up on my news feed, I feel so embarassed for the sadly misguided young sperminated woman.
Maybe I'm just bitter that I didn't LOVE being pregnant. I LOVE the outcome. To each her own, but I felt like a sweaty, fat, stretch-mark covered beast and I only gained 25 lbs. I can't imagine birthing a fourth-grader like Jessica Simpson did. Hopefully Maxwell Drew enjoys the lunchbox I sent her as a baby gift. Maybe she'll be able to use it on Monday at Beverly Hills Elementary School.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Back and it Feels SO GOOD.
I'M BAAAAAAAACK!!!
I really missed having this outlet for my thoughts. My husband isn't overly thrilled (or, he won't be when he sees this...) but I'm determined to be a little less vulnerable, a little less revealing, and a little less bitchy. I'm sure he will be pleased by this.
In the 2.5 months since I last blogged, a lot has happened. I started my job (which will remained unnamed, but rest assured it is not at a place called The Outhouse, The Playhouse, or an unmarked building). I love my job. I'm told that I am good at my job. I love my coworkers, I love the industry I'm working in (which is NOT the sex-trade industry), I love the 8-5 and I just love being a working mother. I can honestly say that in my situation - and only my situation, so I hope no stay-at-home moms get their panties in a wad - being a working mom is 150 times easier than being a full-time stay at home mom. Maybe it's just my personality type, but I crave interaction with people who don't consistently shit their pants. I also feel like it makes the time I spend with Collins so much more fun and meaningful. Homegirl can PLAY. I so cherish the evening hours and the Saturday/Sunday mornings. I think she appreciates the time spent with her friends, too!
Um let's see what else?
Oh, um, our house is completely torn up. I would post pictures butttttttt my camera is like, way across the room. And I don't crave public humilation. Basically,Superman I mean husband and I (yes I am partially to blame for this) decided to redo our flooring throughout the house, minus the basement because that carpet is totes fine. White brown carpet just wasn't gonna work. 
It looked gross, it constantly looked dirty no matter what we did, and honestly, who wants an entire houseful of carpet? Ron Jeremy?
Well, I'm not Ron Jeremy, and we were sick of it. So we had the bedrooms recarpeted and they are glooooooooooooooorious. Beautiful Stainmaster frieze, it will prove to be a great investment.
What about everywhere else, you might ask, if you are bored to death with everything else going on the world and happen to be reading this meaningless drivel?
We are installing wood flooring throughout. And yes I did say we. And I meant we. Because we are cheap and resourceful. And consequently, because we are also effing stupid. This has been the most unbelieveably frustrating, aggravating, and overall pain-in-the-ass home improvement experience I think I have ever had, or will have. Actually, no, it IS the most awful experience I ever will have had, because I will NEVER DO IT AGAIN.
Friday night was spent doing it incorrectly. For three hours.Sounds like my prom night
Okay, I think that's what Manchild was talking about when he told me I needed to clean it up.That's what she said.
I don't even want to get into how it was wrong, let's just leave it at, "Well the directions said to do it this way, but I decided to try doing it this way instead." Hmm...well I'm no engineer, but I'm pretty sure that we just wasted FIVE EFFING HOURS by not doing it the way the directions instruct.
There were tears.
But once I dried his tears, we decided to sleep on it, recharge our batteries and try again in the morning.We he worked throughout the day while I watched the wild thing, trying to keep her out of the way from dangerous tools, saws, etc. I felt bad not being able to help more, but we weren't intelligent enough to think "Hey might want to get a sitter." More progress was made today, until we decided (maybe one third of the way done) to take a little breakey-poo and go buy the appropriate moldings that we measured.
Go to the place, ask about the moldings. They don't carry our particular color that matches our flooring, we have to have it special ordered. Wtf. Baby needs a nap, mommy needs a drink, and daddy needs a medal for putting up with two pissed off girls, both of whom have pretty severe attitudes and can throw the kind of tantrums that offend bystanders. Needless to say, we arrived home empty-handed, save for the early-onset Type 2 Diabetes we picked up from Little Caesar's.
Have you ever been such a freakin stress ball that you binge eat, and it almost makes you feel high? Welp, I have. About 90 minutes ago, in fact. I took down three pieces of pizza and a crazy bread stick, and now I'm coming down off my high. I have the shakes. I almost forgot about why I am so stressed out, until I came to and saw the mess I am surrounded by.
Point is, if anyone is thinking about installing a houseful of flooring by themselves, reread this. This description is about twenty times more mild and gentle than how I'm really feeling. It's just that the four-letter words streaming through my head may read as slightly aggressive. Let's put it this way: If husband hadn't unplugged the oven and moved it, my head would be in it.
Another thing that's changed lately is my choice of reading material. Wild Thing likes to pull apart my magazines, so my stock of magazine reading is decidedly low. Instead I have been reading a lot of blogs. Awesome, fabulous blogs. A lot of Mormons. A lot of rich Mormons. Rachel from The Pink Peonies - I mean could she be any cuter? Lilly's Style, Living In Yellow, Penny Pincher Fashion, Running On Happiness, The Daily Tay (obvs), BLoved, The Possessionista and My Lovely Surroundings are all my daily-reads (do I like, need a menu bar or something for that?) How much confidence does it take to willingly have daily photographs taken of yourself, modeling your fashion of the day? I would kill for confidence like that, instead of diving headfirst out of the picture. The fashion ones are aiding a J Crew habit that needs to check itself before it wrecks my credit. For reals. Just kidding. But seriously though. What does a girl gotta do to dress in head-to-toe Crew, am I right? Plus, I havevery little absolutely no fashion sense whatsoever, so those blogs have helped me a ton - especially helpful now that I'm working and I don't live in my fartpants. My fartpants are my gray, oversized Theta sweatpants that Clayton nicknamed (I swear it wasn't me, I don't fart). They are so big and baggy that if I have my cell phone in my pocket, my pants fall down. No, I do not have a Zack Morris phone. But I wish I did.
Feels good to be back. You should also "like" me. Or "favorite" me...or follow me or whatever. Because according to my Stats page, I highly doubt that my measley (but wonderful and appreciated) 16 followers could have racked up over 10,000 hits...I'm just sayin.
I really missed having this outlet for my thoughts. My husband isn't overly thrilled (or, he won't be when he sees this...) but I'm determined to be a little less vulnerable, a little less revealing, and a little less bitchy. I'm sure he will be pleased by this.
In the 2.5 months since I last blogged, a lot has happened. I started my job (which will remained unnamed, but rest assured it is not at a place called The Outhouse, The Playhouse, or an unmarked building). I love my job. I'm told that I am good at my job. I love my coworkers, I love the industry I'm working in (which is NOT the sex-trade industry), I love the 8-5 and I just love being a working mother. I can honestly say that in my situation - and only my situation, so I hope no stay-at-home moms get their panties in a wad - being a working mom is 150 times easier than being a full-time stay at home mom. Maybe it's just my personality type, but I crave interaction with people who don't consistently shit their pants. I also feel like it makes the time I spend with Collins so much more fun and meaningful. Homegirl can PLAY. I so cherish the evening hours and the Saturday/Sunday mornings. I think she appreciates the time spent with her friends, too!
Um let's see what else?
Oh, um, our house is completely torn up. I would post pictures butttttttt my camera is like, way across the room. And I don't crave public humilation. Basically,
It looked gross, it constantly looked dirty no matter what we did, and honestly, who wants an entire houseful of carpet? Ron Jeremy?
Well, I'm not Ron Jeremy, and we were sick of it. So we had the bedrooms recarpeted and they are glooooooooooooooorious. Beautiful Stainmaster frieze, it will prove to be a great investment.
What about everywhere else, you might ask, if you are bored to death with everything else going on the world and happen to be reading this meaningless drivel?
We are installing wood flooring throughout. And yes I did say we. And I meant we. Because we are cheap and resourceful. And consequently, because we are also effing stupid. This has been the most unbelieveably frustrating, aggravating, and overall pain-in-the-ass home improvement experience I think I have ever had, or will have. Actually, no, it IS the most awful experience I ever will have had, because I will NEVER DO IT AGAIN.
Friday night was spent doing it incorrectly. For three hours.
Okay, I think that's what Manchild was talking about when he told me I needed to clean it up.
I don't even want to get into how it was wrong, let's just leave it at, "Well the directions said to do it this way, but I decided to try doing it this way instead." Hmm...well I'm no engineer, but I'm pretty sure that we just wasted FIVE EFFING HOURS by not doing it the way the directions instruct.
There were tears.
But once I dried his tears, we decided to sleep on it, recharge our batteries and try again in the morning.
Go to the place, ask about the moldings. They don't carry our particular color that matches our flooring, we have to have it special ordered. Wtf. Baby needs a nap, mommy needs a drink, and daddy needs a medal for putting up with two pissed off girls, both of whom have pretty severe attitudes and can throw the kind of tantrums that offend bystanders. Needless to say, we arrived home empty-handed, save for the early-onset Type 2 Diabetes we picked up from Little Caesar's.
Have you ever been such a freakin stress ball that you binge eat, and it almost makes you feel high? Welp, I have. About 90 minutes ago, in fact. I took down three pieces of pizza and a crazy bread stick, and now I'm coming down off my high. I have the shakes. I almost forgot about why I am so stressed out, until I came to and saw the mess I am surrounded by.
Point is, if anyone is thinking about installing a houseful of flooring by themselves, reread this. This description is about twenty times more mild and gentle than how I'm really feeling. It's just that the four-letter words streaming through my head may read as slightly aggressive. Let's put it this way: If husband hadn't unplugged the oven and moved it, my head would be in it.
Another thing that's changed lately is my choice of reading material. Wild Thing likes to pull apart my magazines, so my stock of magazine reading is decidedly low. Instead I have been reading a lot of blogs. Awesome, fabulous blogs. A lot of Mormons. A lot of rich Mormons. Rachel from The Pink Peonies - I mean could she be any cuter? Lilly's Style, Living In Yellow, Penny Pincher Fashion, Running On Happiness, The Daily Tay (obvs), BLoved, The Possessionista and My Lovely Surroundings are all my daily-reads (do I like, need a menu bar or something for that?) How much confidence does it take to willingly have daily photographs taken of yourself, modeling your fashion of the day? I would kill for confidence like that, instead of diving headfirst out of the picture. The fashion ones are aiding a J Crew habit that needs to check itself before it wrecks my credit. For reals. Just kidding. But seriously though. What does a girl gotta do to dress in head-to-toe Crew, am I right? Plus, I have
Feels good to be back. You should also "like" me. Or "favorite" me...or follow me or whatever. Because according to my Stats page, I highly doubt that my measley (but wonderful and appreciated) 16 followers could have racked up over 10,000 hits...I'm just sayin.
Friday, February 3, 2012
$h!t Said by No Housewife, Ever
Apparently making lists of things of things individuals have or have not ever said is the hip thing to do. Since I love lists and desperately trying to be cool, I will join in.
$h!t Said by No Housewife, Ever
I just love folding laundry.
I love putting laundry away even more.
That's not a dangerous electrical socket, it's a tunnel to Disney World.
Hey, touch that!
Dog food is delicious!
Please don't ever take a nap.
Please wake up 3 times in the middle of the night, screaming like you are being viciously assaulted.
Sure, Honey, I would love to get out of bed for the third time tonight to go see why the baby is awake - please stay here and sleep!
I would love to unload the dishwasher!
Are you kidding me? Unseasoned, dry, grilled chicken breast with brown rice is my favorite meal ever!
Please scream bloody murder for the entire duration of my (2nd) relaxing shower (of the week.)
If I hear Oh Susannah one more time, I am going to start jumping for joy.
Bubba, please bark louder at absolutely nothing.
I have brushed my hair using 100 strokes today!
It's noon and I already brushed my teeth!
Paying bills is by far my favorite hobby.
Pinterest sucks.
If my kid would just wake up, so I can get something done!
I would just love if you would have all of your buddies over for the Super Bowl - the house looks great!
I love it when the dog freaks out like the vacuum is some sort of evil Transformer.
I would really hate to have to look halfway decent everyday.
I wear makeup every day.
I despise wine.
Since having the baby, my boobs have never been perkier!
I wish I didn't have as much time for reading books.
Stretch marks make me feel so beautiful and womanly.
We never go to Target everyday.
I hope my baby never starts crawling soon. (Followed a few weeks later by:) I wish my kid would never sit still.
I love it when you open up all the dresser drawers and pull out the contents!
Bubba, that is YOUR toy! Not the baby's!
Collins, that is YOUR toy! Not the dog's!
Collins, please dip your foot into your poop-filled diaper.
Seriously, I was totally planning on giving you a bath right this second!
I really hope your poop your pants the second I get you into your carseat.
Thanks, Honey, I know I do look pretty great today, don't I?
Being a stay-at-home mom really challenges me mentally, and I feel I am using my expensive bachelor's degree to it's fullest extent, even if I can't pay off my student loans on a salary of nothing.
I wear yoga pants every day because I do yoga everyday.
I wish we didn't have so much money.
If I could just gain like, 30 pounds I would finally feel good about myself.
I have way too much cabinet space.
I would never resort to diet pills.
I lost the baby weight wayyyyyyy too quickly.
It's okay if the dog and the baby both put that in their mouths.
I dusted twice today!
I hope my day care provider lives in an impoverished part of town, because I want my daughter to be exposed to vast socioeconomic diversity.
$h!t Said by No Housewife, Ever
I just love folding laundry.
I love putting laundry away even more.
That's not a dangerous electrical socket, it's a tunnel to Disney World.
Hey, touch that!
Dog food is delicious!
Please don't ever take a nap.
Please wake up 3 times in the middle of the night, screaming like you are being viciously assaulted.
Sure, Honey, I would love to get out of bed for the third time tonight to go see why the baby is awake - please stay here and sleep!
I would love to unload the dishwasher!
Are you kidding me? Unseasoned, dry, grilled chicken breast with brown rice is my favorite meal ever!
Please scream bloody murder for the entire duration of my (2nd) relaxing shower (of the week.)
If I hear Oh Susannah one more time, I am going to start jumping for joy.
Bubba, please bark louder at absolutely nothing.
I have brushed my hair using 100 strokes today!
It's noon and I already brushed my teeth!
Paying bills is by far my favorite hobby.
Pinterest sucks.
If my kid would just wake up, so I can get something done!
I would just love if you would have all of your buddies over for the Super Bowl - the house looks great!
I love it when the dog freaks out like the vacuum is some sort of evil Transformer.
I would really hate to have to look halfway decent everyday.
I wear makeup every day.
I despise wine.
Since having the baby, my boobs have never been perkier!
I wish I didn't have as much time for reading books.
Stretch marks make me feel so beautiful and womanly.
We never go to Target everyday.
I hope my baby never starts crawling soon. (Followed a few weeks later by:) I wish my kid would never sit still.
I love it when you open up all the dresser drawers and pull out the contents!
Bubba, that is YOUR toy! Not the baby's!
Collins, that is YOUR toy! Not the dog's!
Collins, please dip your foot into your poop-filled diaper.
Seriously, I was totally planning on giving you a bath right this second!
I really hope your poop your pants the second I get you into your carseat.
Thanks, Honey, I know I do look pretty great today, don't I?
Being a stay-at-home mom really challenges me mentally, and I feel I am using my expensive bachelor's degree to it's fullest extent, even if I can't pay off my student loans on a salary of nothing.
I wear yoga pants every day because I do yoga everyday.
I wish we didn't have so much money.
If I could just gain like, 30 pounds I would finally feel good about myself.
I have way too much cabinet space.
I would never resort to diet pills.
I lost the baby weight wayyyyyyy too quickly.
It's okay if the dog and the baby both put that in their mouths.
I dusted twice today!
I hope my day care provider lives in an impoverished part of town, because I want my daughter to be exposed to vast socioeconomic diversity.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Hump Day...but not for Bubba
Happy Wednesday! Pretty quiet in the Fox Den today...Collins is in her high chair, pretty content with gumming down some graham crackers (aka the most amazing snack ever) and making a huge mess all over her face. Bubba is upstairs, hiding under the bed, surely licking the wounds from his overdue neutering today.
I was all for having him neutered when we got him two years ago. But Clayton didn't want to shell out the $150, and thought maybe we would "stud him out." Sounds a little sketchy, but okay. Well we never studded him out, because the little guy has a sexual appetite that rivals Bret Michaels - and if you give a moose a muffin...we all know the story. I didn't want to create a deviant, so we decided not to whore him out - I mean stud him out. I just feel like a mean person. I feel like too much time has passed, and now it's just evil to do that to him. I asked Clayton, "Would YOU want to get neutered?" (Crickets...) "No, seriously, do you want to get neutered - or whatever they call it?"
The subject was quickly changed. I think I'm too sympathetic to the plight of animals. Not that I have ever (purposely) slept in a kennel, or (purposely) eaten my own poop, or (purposely) humped a teddy bear...okay I think the correct term is empathetic. I just hate when Sarah McLachlan starts singing that depressing song and then you see the pictures of abused and neglected animals. It breaks my tender little heart.
Ah. The lump in my throat. It burns.
Speaking of burning, I wonder where Joe Paterno is. I am not sure I believe that ignorance and stupidity buys you a straight ticket to Hell, but it may cost you a couple more lifetimes in Purgatory. However, I do hope that God was taking note of all the RIP JoePa statuses on Facebook - maybe that will speed him up in line at the Golden Arches.
But seriously though, Purgatory would be a great name for a bar. Or detox.
**Addendum: It was just brought to my attention that the Golden Arches is McDonald's. I mistook Golden Arches for Pearly Gates......or did I? Think on that.
I was all for having him neutered when we got him two years ago. But Clayton didn't want to shell out the $150, and thought maybe we would "stud him out." Sounds a little sketchy, but okay. Well we never studded him out, because the little guy has a sexual appetite that rivals Bret Michaels - and if you give a moose a muffin...we all know the story. I didn't want to create a deviant, so we decided not to whore him out - I mean stud him out. I just feel like a mean person. I feel like too much time has passed, and now it's just evil to do that to him. I asked Clayton, "Would YOU want to get neutered?" (Crickets...) "No, seriously, do you want to get neutered - or whatever they call it?"
The subject was quickly changed. I think I'm too sympathetic to the plight of animals. Not that I have ever (purposely) slept in a kennel, or (purposely) eaten my own poop, or (purposely) humped a teddy bear...okay I think the correct term is empathetic. I just hate when Sarah McLachlan starts singing that depressing song and then you see the pictures of abused and neglected animals. It breaks my tender little heart.
Ah. The lump in my throat. It burns.
Speaking of burning, I wonder where Joe Paterno is. I am not sure I believe that ignorance and stupidity buys you a straight ticket to Hell, but it may cost you a couple more lifetimes in Purgatory. However, I do hope that God was taking note of all the RIP JoePa statuses on Facebook - maybe that will speed him up in line at the Golden Arches.
But seriously though, Purgatory would be a great name for a bar. Or detox.
**Addendum: It was just brought to my attention that the Golden Arches is McDonald's. I mistook Golden Arches for Pearly Gates......or did I? Think on that.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
The Makeover from Hell
When I think about our Master bedroom/bathroom makeover, I start twitching uncontrollably, I get sweaty, and I can't get "Opposites Attract" by Paula Abdul out of my head - specifially the line, "one step forward, two steps back." She really was a lyrical genius, God rest her soul.
I am trying to be patient, but it really felt a week ago like all was coming together nicely, save for the drywall patch from where we installed a new light fixture in the vanity, but a few inches higher to accomodate the taller mirrors.
Now things have unraveled and I just feel like I'm about ready to torch this joint.
I'm sure most first-time homeowners who undertake a project like this (which requires no demo, no reno, basically is just painting and switching out a freakin light fixture) feel this way during their first project, yes? It's only 10:30 and I'm about to open a bottle of Johnnie Walker red label, and that secret reserve pack of Camels in the console of my Jeep (which is on life support) sounds quite relaxing. I can't imagine that me and the manchild both being absolute nitpickers really helps this process.
I have uncovered several flaws in myself that became quite evident during this process:
1. I am impulsive. It has to be. Done. Now. Not tomorrow. Not when we have a little more money. No. Now. As in yesterday. Now. Oh, Clayton's at work? No problem, the baby's sleeping, I'll just remove a 35 lb mirror from the wall by myself. Because it must be done now. It won't be okay if it's done in 90 minutes when he's home from work. If I wait, the earth's rotation will come to a complete halt and begin moving the opposite direction. I'm a brat.
2. I am impatient. Duh.
3. I am picky. If it's not exactly what I had in mind, I will not compromise. Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure that what I want exists only in my mind (a glass shelf that is 8" long and 3" deep, mounts to the wall with minimal hardware visible).
4. I am bitchy. Duh.
5. I am completely overwhelmed.
6. I am either going 100 mph without stopping, or 0 mph and can't start.
All these flaws taken into consideration, I have struck gold with my husband, for I have found really only two major flaws within my husband:
1. He's so tight he squeaks. Actually, that's kind of unfair to say in this situation. He doesn't understand J. Crew but he won't balk at the idea of an $80 light fixture, $150 to change out all the door hardware, hinges, and cabinet hardware, or possibly purchasing a several-hundred dollar ladder. Apparently, the "I'll get on my hands and knees and you can stand on my back" trick is a wee bit white trash.
2. He doesn't read the directions. Exhibit A: caulk.
I could make endless jokes about how he doesn't know how to use his caulk, how we have to remove his caulk because it was too thick and needs to be thinner, etc. but I'm 26. Suffice it to say that he was removing the caulk, then spackling and sanding until ONE AM. Spackling and sanding over what we just painted. ???
We finished painting like 3 days ago. Soooo I guess I'm confused as to why we painted in the first place, if we didn't get it right? I shall try to upload some pictures which illustrate how close we were to being finished - last Friday - and now how our bedroom/bathroom looks like Joplin, Missouri.
Random sidebar: Manchild just put the baby down for a nap. He then runs out to me and says, "I'm just going to play ONE SONG (on Guitar Hero) and then I'll start." Guitar Hero is like crack cocaine for a man. One song? Yeah, right. That's like me saying I'm just going to browse at Target. Fat. Freaking. Chance.
If this God-forsaken project isn't done by tomorrow, and I mean DONE, I am going to freak out. Living in disarray is now the norm, and I feel like I belong on an episode of Clean House Comes Clean.
I am trying to be patient, but it really felt a week ago like all was coming together nicely, save for the drywall patch from where we installed a new light fixture in the vanity, but a few inches higher to accomodate the taller mirrors.
Now things have unraveled and I just feel like I'm about ready to torch this joint.
I'm sure most first-time homeowners who undertake a project like this (which requires no demo, no reno, basically is just painting and switching out a freakin light fixture) feel this way during their first project, yes? It's only 10:30 and I'm about to open a bottle of Johnnie Walker red label, and that secret reserve pack of Camels in the console of my Jeep (which is on life support) sounds quite relaxing. I can't imagine that me and the manchild both being absolute nitpickers really helps this process.
I have uncovered several flaws in myself that became quite evident during this process:
1. I am impulsive. It has to be. Done. Now. Not tomorrow. Not when we have a little more money. No. Now. As in yesterday. Now. Oh, Clayton's at work? No problem, the baby's sleeping, I'll just remove a 35 lb mirror from the wall by myself. Because it must be done now. It won't be okay if it's done in 90 minutes when he's home from work. If I wait, the earth's rotation will come to a complete halt and begin moving the opposite direction. I'm a brat.
2. I am impatient. Duh.
3. I am picky. If it's not exactly what I had in mind, I will not compromise. Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure that what I want exists only in my mind (a glass shelf that is 8" long and 3" deep, mounts to the wall with minimal hardware visible).
4. I am bitchy. Duh.
5. I am completely overwhelmed.
6. I am either going 100 mph without stopping, or 0 mph and can't start.
All these flaws taken into consideration, I have struck gold with my husband, for I have found really only two major flaws within my husband:
1. He's so tight he squeaks. Actually, that's kind of unfair to say in this situation. He doesn't understand J. Crew but he won't balk at the idea of an $80 light fixture, $150 to change out all the door hardware, hinges, and cabinet hardware, or possibly purchasing a several-hundred dollar ladder. Apparently, the "I'll get on my hands and knees and you can stand on my back" trick is a wee bit white trash.
2. He doesn't read the directions. Exhibit A: caulk.
I could make endless jokes about how he doesn't know how to use his caulk, how we have to remove his caulk because it was too thick and needs to be thinner, etc. but I'm 26. Suffice it to say that he was removing the caulk, then spackling and sanding until ONE AM. Spackling and sanding over what we just painted. ???
We finished painting like 3 days ago. Soooo I guess I'm confused as to why we painted in the first place, if we didn't get it right? I shall try to upload some pictures which illustrate how close we were to being finished - last Friday - and now how our bedroom/bathroom looks like Joplin, Missouri.
Random sidebar: Manchild just put the baby down for a nap. He then runs out to me and says, "I'm just going to play ONE SONG (on Guitar Hero) and then I'll start." Guitar Hero is like crack cocaine for a man. One song? Yeah, right. That's like me saying I'm just going to browse at Target. Fat. Freaking. Chance.
 |
| Stage 1 of the makeover: 1-1-12 |
 |
| The vanity area - after I dismantled the huge frameless mirror. Roughly 1-3-12 |
 |
| Painted up to the light fixture that would soon be removed. New mirrors put in place just so that I could feel like progress was being made, and to prevent me from drinking heavily. 1-3-12 |
 |
| Ahh so beautiful, if I do say so myself. The oil-rubbed bronze finish of the mirrors didn't match the satin nickel finish of the cabinet hardware and faucets, so we refinished the mirror frames to match. Yes we are nitpicky. But it does make a difference. There was also a drywall repair patch that needed to be painted, but you can't really see it with the lighting. |
 |
| New bedding, some new kitschy crap on the ladder shelf, stencil wall has been finished, all is well with the world - until we replace the bedroom furniture with something more modern. I may try to make an upholstered white headboard. 1-13-12 |
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| "I thought you were done! I don't wanna play in my high chair while you work! I wanna crawl around and find the electrical sockets that don't have covers!" 1-15-12. This is after Manchild decided that we needed to recaulk the sink and tub. |
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| This morning. FML. The caulking was too thick, so it had to be removed. Then the area that had the caulking removed had to be spackled and sanded. FML. |
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| As of yet unusable bathroom. I love taking showers in Collins's bathroom. She has way better bathtime toys than I do. |
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| Oh, hey shower shit, all over the floor! |
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| Oh hey, all my lovely clothes, heaped into a pile on the floor, because I can't even get into my closet because it's full of paint cans and room makeover supplies. 1-21-12. The sheets are missing because Collins dumped over a bottle of formula on our bed. Yipee! |
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