The Animosity Coat

For my birthday two years ago, my dear friend, Matt, bought me this coat. He is a loyal Eddie Bauer employee. He recalled me mentioning that I wanted a new casual, warm coat and purchased this for me. To be honest, I liked it but I am not a huge Eddie fan. I’m not being rude, Matt knows this. They sell mom jeans! I can’t! I can’t! It’s bad enough that I get the mail in the morning while wearing my bathrobe. I cannot participate in the bathrobe and mom jeans!

Honestly, it’s the best coat ever. It’s huge; massive really. It’s like bringing an extra person. You have to have an extra chair when dining out. There’s no stuffing it on your seat next to you, no sir. I love it! I love it! I feel the need to repeat myself! I feel the need to repeat myself!

No, really, down is most definitely God’s answer to cold weather. I start salivating at the mention of cold temperatures in October because I cannot wait to put the down comforter on my bed. Bread hates this as our sleeping preferences differ. I like warm and cozy in the bed and freezing cold outside. I love to turn the heat down really low at night and turn our ceiling fan on. Bread wants a sheet with the heat cranked. I am frugal. That, my friends, is a terrible plan. Imagine the gas bill!

So, the coat is glorious. It’s like wrapping yourself up in a huge down blanket. It’s toasty and cozy. I never feel cold, even on the chilliest of Michigan days. It’s perfect for the days where the temperature is in the single digits with a vicious wind chill. I will say, because it’s so large, it’s not very practical to take it places where you have your coat and nowhere to put it while you shop, play or whatever.

Just as Bread loathes the down comforter, he loathes THE COAT. It wasn’t always this way. It happened last year around this time. We went to the mall. Bird was happy as she was allowed to play in the giant, germ-infested kid pit. Bread was happy because he could just sit and watch her. I was happy because I could shop in peace and I had someplace to leave my coat; it was cold outside so I needed to wear THE COAT that particular day.

I headed out on my way, found some items to try on and went to the dressing room with a huge pile. Of course I heard my cell beeping furiously from my bag but I wasn’t too worried about it. I was busy trying on clothes! What could be more important than me scoring a cute outfit to wear to my BFF’s rehearsal dinner? I can think of nothing. 

Well, it turns out Bird crapped her pants. Bread was alone in the kid pit with her, her shit-filled pants, his coat and THE COAT. He was trying to get me to come and get THE COAT. He was pissed. I mean pissed. There was steam rapidly flowing from his entire self. He was livid.

I get that. I understand the frustration. But, I always answer my phone. Shouldn’t I get a free pass once? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK? Once. But, no, he was mad. I, being a mom and able to master several tasks at a time while balancing a stack of books upon my head, thought this not to be a big deal. Bread, however, felt the opposite. It was very traumatizing for him to try and juggle a toddler with shitty pants and a corpse of a jacket.

I believe he spent the rest of the day pissed at me. I know for certain he complained (being polite here) the entire drive home. He spoke of it being ridiculous and huge. He told me that half the time I don’t wear it and we have to reserve a seat in the car for it. He said he wanted to light it on fire. He ruined the coat for me. I didn’t wear it for the longest time. I couldn’t. I felt like wearing THE COAT was putting us on the brink of divorce.

He got over it. He didn’t speak about it. I eventually began wearing it again. He still scowls at it. I watch him look at me when we leave the house. I know he’s saying a silent prayer for me not to choose it. I try but, well, you know. So, this year, I bought him the best Christmas present of all-I got myself a new jacket, thus, guaranteeing us martial stability! It’s half the size! Who knew the answer to matrimonial issues was only a new coat away? Wait! I still feel off! I need a new bag, some shoes and perhaps some perfume. Then, I will feel great. Merry Christmas!

Your Mom Won't Stop Calling Me

I get the the inkling to blog a lot lately. I just can’t find much time. I technically have no excuse since many people have actual jobs they go to. I do not. I have only one tot. I am here. I am still alive, although, I’m threatening to take drastic measures if I don’t get my Christmas shopping done this weekend as well as find a super-duper lotion to help my hands. Cracked and bleeding is so not a good look for me.

Christmas is creeping up; I swear it was Thanksgiving just yesterday. We haven’t really got into the spirit too much over here as we’ve been very busy painting and cleaning our basement. I don’t think normal people decide to do this two weeks prior to the holidays…Ha! We aren’t normal! This is not a revelation. It’s a fact, people. My stress level is high. I don’t like messes. I hate disorganization and I definitely do not like clutter. But, the end is near and Bread will be off from work for nearly two weeks! Vacation, all I ever wanted…

Obviously, this holiday season is sad for us because it will be the first without the Greatest Man Ever. We’re trying to carry on. He wouldn’t want us all mopey and depressed. So, we shall have a beer or two or three in honor of him. It won’t, however, be a Busch Light. Sorry, Grampy, your choice of beer makes me retch. That’s okay because I never found it offensive that you didn’t like guacamole or lasagna.

Things make me laugh on a daily basis. My child is probably on the top of that list for obvious reasons. She’s so smart, a genius perhaps. I know I am supposed to say this because she is my offspring but I’m a firm believer in telling the truth, even if it hurts. The kid is definitely the next Albert Einstein, for shizzle. Do people still say that? I am doubtful. My level of “cool” has seriously gone downhill. In fact, my friend called for fashion advice this afternoon. I laughed and then divulged I was wearing cropped Yoga pants, a miss-matched tank and t-shirt (teal and green) and a pink hoodie complete with a stain from lunch. Yes, I am a regular Kate Moss- trendsetting, beotch.

Oh! I’m a bit off topic. Was there a topic? Is there a point to this nonsense, you ask? Of course, er, I suppose…No! No! I remember! Bird is funny. Yes! That’s it. So, why is she funny? Well, somewhere, once upon a drunken evening or two (not only am I fashionable, I’m also an alcoholic-stellar role model), the friends and I started in with mom jokes. It started as your mom called. It has progressed for months now with random phone calls, texts and jokes back and forth about mom calling. Sometimes she just calls. Other times she calls for a reason-to say it’s cold and to wear a sweater, to tell someone congrats on a getting a high-paid job, to mention the need for more beer. Mom is a smart lady, amongst friends she’s “calling” a lot. The joke has yet to get old. One night, for whatever reason, one adult amongst us did not understand this joke. Joe, a friend of a friend’s husband, couldn’t fathom why his mom was calling me. Sometimes people just don’t get it.

Bird has picked up on the whole mom-calling shenanigan. One day last week, she picked up my cell, handed it to me and said, “Mumma, your mom called.” That was it. I was alone with her and, of course, burst out laughing. A couple days later over dinner, she looked Bread in the eyes, smiled and said, “Daddy, your mom called and she wants some roast beast,” (as in roast beast from The Grinch Stole Christmas if you are not familiar). Again, mass laughter ensued. Later that week, while riding in the car, I looked in my rear view mirror and informed her that her mom had, indeed, rung. She replied with, “No she didn’t. She just hung up.”

I was telling my friend, Claire, this story and she politely, and rather brilliantly, informed me that my tot, was indeed a genius because, “she got it and Joe, twenty-something didn’t.” Yes! Yes! You’re right! She gets it. Merry Christmas! My three-year-old is smarter than your husband, asshole. I’m having a bumper sticker printed.

This Blog is a Mess

Enough said.  Shit.

Thanksgiving

We’re carrying on over here. Bread gets a free turkey from work (some people get money, he’s appreciated in poultry). He requested he be allowed to cook the turkey in our home, for the family, on Thanksgiving. A little bit of history here-Bread loves meat. He loves to cook meat. And so, given the opportunity, he wants to either fire up the old BBQ or the stove to make a large bird, in this instance.  We’ve been gone a ton lately so I’m happy to stay home. And, I am even happier to be in charge of the desserts.

Bread has been diligently working on his meal plan for the past few days. I gave him a deadline for his list because, since I don’t have a, ahem, real job, peer say, I’m shopping ASAP. The nutters come out to shop during the holiday season. I will avoid the stores on Wednesday. I can’t deal with that shit; I will have my child with me.

I believe I’ve discussed before, my family, and their inability to stray from a very 1970’s type of meal. If you missed it, in summary, they essentially have the same meal each time we get together. They are not embracing the change. Having just lost the patriarch of the family, The Greatest Man Ever, I’m not arguing. You want Deviled Eggs? We will makes some. You desire a vast array of pickles and olives and want to place them in a special, divided bowl? Go on with yourself. Do it! Make a relish tray! It can sit untouched and I won’t say a word! God bless the pickles!

My mom was asking what she could make for our lovely Thanksgiving meal. I couldn’t think of anything so I gave her Cole slaw. Admittedly, I like the slaw. It’s good. What’s not to like about cabbage tossed in mayonnaise? That was last week. I was all settled in with the Cole slaw. We added that to our menu. Then, mom throws a wrench in the plan. She wants to bring this Jell-O salad she makes. It’s pretty tasty, I suppose, but I never understand the Jell-O thing. Shouldn’t it be a dessert? My family always serves it with the meal. It’s confusing to young children! You’re not supposed to get dessert until you eat your meal! Plus, just because it has oranges in it, does not make it healthy! I’m crazy enough! I cannot be sending these mixed signals to my child!

Anyway, my mom wants to make the Jell-O. She says, “I know you don’t like it, but Grandpa likes it.” This is Grandpa, as in, The Best Man Ever, as in, her deceased father. I don’t say a word other than okay. I mean, I was speechless. Is he coming? If yes, why are we only making special Jell-O? Wouldn’t he rather have a steak? Why didn’t anyone tell me he was coming! I’ll go buy more plates! I don’t have enough China! We were going to eat off the “fancy” paper plates! WTF! It’s my house! Why am I always the last to know! And, we wonder why I’m crazy. Hi, Grampy.

Life Goes On

I recognize it’s been a bit since my last post-nearly two months. Time flies when you’re having fun! False. I have not been having much fun. But, I’m still here and ready to blog again. As I’ve mentioned before, blogging is my therapy. I need some of that for various assorted reasons. And, some of you missed me! Thanks!

What was I up to? Well, I was working for starters. Don’t be alarmed! I have not bailed on stay at home motherhood! Rest assured what I was working on was the seasonal job I do for my former employer. It involves much time on the old computer. Therefore, when I had a spare minute, spending time on the internet was not my first choice of leisure time. Plus, the ol’ Carpal Tunnel prohibits me. Yes, I am complaining about aches and pains. I am, indeed, elderly.

As I was wrapping up the job, The Best Man Ever, became very, very ill. He passed away almost two weeks ago. At nearly age 32, this is my first time dealing with a personal loss. Grieving is nothing like I imagined it would be; I realize I had lots of false notions about death, dying and grief. It has been significantly more difficult than expected. I’m not ready to discuss it but, maybe someday I will be. It’s just hard, that’s all I can say right now. The world has lost one of the best. I’m lucky to have a great husband and supportive friends. Thanks guys, I heart you.

Other things that have happened: my child turned three, we hosted a small birthday party, Bread had a birthday, we decided we have to give our pets away due to Bird's allergies and then changed our minds again and again and again...

Now I’m just working on finding my groove again. Perhaps I shall call Stella? Bad joke. Bad. Anyway, I’m just trying to return to “normalcy,” whatever that is. And, aside from dealing with some crazy people in the world (why are there so many), not much else is happening. Luckily, my child has been supplying me with an endless supply of blog material so, I’ll be writing when I have the urge. Laughter is the best medicine and who better to laugh at than yourself.

Hire Me

Lately I’ve been thinking about finding a part-time job for various assorted reasons. Mainly because it’s difficult to live on one income, still have money left over for fun things and still save or get ahead on bills. I do work from home for my old job but it’s seasonal. Another reason I think I could use a job? My sanity! What sanity, you ask? Exactly! It might be too late!

I have thought of some things I could do. It’s difficult. I could look for a career-type job, but, I didn’t love my career before and I love being home with Bird. And, for us, it did not make sense by the time we paid for daycare and all the other nonsense that went along with having an actual career. And, then there’s the huge part of me being even crazier than I am now…

I want a job I can leave at the door. I just want something to do. I want to make a little extra cash and maybe, just maybe SPEAK TO SOME PEOPLE ON A DAILY BASIS. I was thinking maybe I could get a seasonal job at say, Target or Costco. I love those places! They should hire me! I am a good employee! It’s still difficult because Bread doesn’t get home from work until 6 or later. We’d have to orchestrate a meeting place since probably most later shifts start before six.

I know bars are open late and a great place to talk to people but I don’t see myself working until two am or later, coming home and getting up at six or seven with the tot. No! I will be cranky.

I had a thought! I could baby sit! Wait? But how will this help my crazy? Isn’t this going to perpetuate it? I’m crazy because I stay home trying to entertain my child and now I want to add another child or two into the mix? Yes! I do! I think this would be okay! I will post an add on Craigslist:

Crazy stay-at-home mother of one darling three-year-old girl will watch your child in my smoke-free and, mostly, pet-hair free home (thanks to my need for a clean house and constant need/compulsion to Swiffer). I am college educated and, by some miracle, my child is seemingly intelligent. We have fun! Background check is welcome but I have to tell you about that one thing I did in high school that is probably going to come up when you search for me as it did at my career…I’m really excellent at making fun of myself and even better at making fun of others. I’ll teach your child so many things! Call me!

Yes! Yes! This could work! I really think it could! It will give Bird a playmate until we decide if we want to make another child or not. It will also give said prospective child time to brew and actually grow into a playmate for Bird…There’s that.

All in the matter of this here post I’ve figured out my “situation.” I mean, you’d hire me to watch your kid, right? I’m witty! I’m only slight crazy! Call me! We’ll talk! While this does not exactly solve my inability to speak to adults, it may help in my financial situation. Therefore, I could pay someone to come over and talk to me each day! I am a genius!

Fashionable Friday

In correlation with Operation War on Yoga Pants, I’ve invested in some new fall fashions. In order to purchase said fashions, I had to do an extensive amount of research. I wanted to know what would work with my body type (roundish currently, and no, I never miss a chance to rip on myself) and for my “career.” I also wanted a few items to wear when Bread and I go out.

So, in honor of fall having arrived, with 85 degrees nonetheless, I’m sharing my list of possible-haves with y’all. Thankfully, I am a magazine junkie so I didn’t have to go far for my research. I used O Magazine because Oprah, of course, has an awesome stylist who actually puts together outfits for real people. That is, if you’re a real person who can afford $500 heels or, at least, has the sense to know that Payless makes a great knock-off. Anyway, slight tangent there, I also used Marie Claire, Real Simple, Self and Shape magazines. Here is my list:

1). Animal print. Specifically leopard. I am stalking a purse at Target, waiting for it to go on sale because I go there every week and I refuse to pay full-price for anything.

2). Loafers. I have some in purple but I want some more in brown. The mom in me thinks this is fabulous because they are so practical and so cute. I refuse to wear them with mom jeans, however.

3). Skinny pants. I got some! It turns out you don’t have to actually be skinny for skinny pants. Who knew! I keep reading about skinny cargo pants. Now, IDK about that but I’ll definitely try them on. I listen to Tim Gunn. I know that you should not rule things out until you try them. Do not be narrow-minded when it comes to fashion!

4). Red. Apparently, red is the it color for fall. My resources told me to pair it with teal, purple (no can do-reminds me of the Red Hat Society) and khaki (no longer can do this either as my dear friend, Claire pointed out it’s what Target employees wear-I can't have people bothering me while I peruse).

5). Sweaters with belts. I am trying. I bought a few belts that would work with this but, I’m thinking, perhaps, this does not work with my body type. I’ll keep trying.

6). Booties. I love them. I bought some super-cute grey ones. I’ve worn them once. I wish I had somewhere great to go so I could wear them with a dress or pencil skirt and tights. Sigh.

7). Peacoat. I found a plaid one I am stalking. I want that.

8). Structured satchel. I need one. I’m looking. I have a few prospects. It has to be sort of large so I can use it every day to carry my basic necessities and my child’s.

9). Draped Jersey dress. I love these; however, I really don’t need one. And, I feel like I’d need an entire Spanx suit to go underneath. I can’t justify the expenditure.

10). Feminine tops. I also love this fad. I already own several and love to wear them as it gets cooler with cardigans. I bought a new one in leopard! Combining trends! I go!

11). Fitted blazer. I have some but, even casually, I don’t see myself in this every day.
12). Camel. I love this color. I need some more of it in my life.

13). Black and tan. This has always been one of my favorite color combinations. I guess its back. Did it ever go away?  It's also a tasty beverage.

14). Military inspired. I have a casual jacket that embraces this trend.

15). Lace. I like this on other people but not on me. I think it looks trashy because I’m busty. Just saying.

That’s all I have. Hopefully, I’ve compiled a good list and picked out the right trends for me. Now I have to figure out hair and makeup. I don’t think there’s enough time in the day for that…Happy Friday!

Sale of the Century

This past weekend “we” decided to have a garage sale. We have tons of junk. We have an old house with almost zero storage space. Therefore, our basement has become our giant closet; it’s a mess. And, since we are not moving out of here anytime soon (our plan was five years), due to the fact that our home is worth a fraction of what we paid for it, we have to make do. I say purge, purge, purge, thus, the sale.

Bread likes to keep things. He is very disorganized. I have to constantly remind him (nag) to throw things out. He keeps piles of junk everywhere-the kitchen counter, his dresser, in drawers and in his pockets. I’ve actually found boxes in the basement from when we moved out of our apartment, over five years ago, full of receipts and such from his dresser. I’ve since put the kibosh on that. I force him to clean it. But, in case you can’t tell, it’s a major source of contention for us. Clutter at home equals clutter in my brain and we all know I don’t need any more of that. Ohhellno.

So, after some coercing (translation: idle threats), I convinced him to have a garage sale. I was finally going to get rid of the last of my pre-Bird clothing. If I ever have a job again, these clothes are already out of style, not to mention they don’t fit so well. So, that was my major contribution to the sale, along with various other junk (er, treasures), such as books and gifts we never used from our wedding (sorry if you’re reading and are a person who dared stray from the registry-ungrateful bastards that we are).

Bead was holding out. I posted our sale on Craigslist and someone emailed asking if we happened to have a Nintendo. I told Bread, as sort of an oh-too-bad and he says, “Well, actually we do.” WTF? I’m getting rid of my crap. Where is this Nintendo? So, just like that, we have a Nintendo and add $30 to our profits.

The day of the sale, Saturday, started out pouring. We didn’t know what to do and consulted several weather sources, who all had different forecasts, of course. It stopped raining and cleared up so we hauled our crap out. Now, let me tell you, having a garage sale is much like airing all your dirty laundry for your neighbors to examine. The neighbors were flocking to the sale. I could see their wheels turning. Where in the hell do these people keep all this crap! That’s what they were thinking, I can guarantee it. Also, having a sale is, apparently, a great way to actually meet your neighbors and to get the gossip on everyone. Who knew?

The first person to stop by was some alternative-type dude who, it turns out, has given up his car, only to ride a bicycle. He was looking for records. As I open my mouth to say, no we don’t have any, Bread pipes up with, yes, I do. Again, WTF? He heads to his secret cavern of all things in demand at a garage sale and returns with a giant stack of records. This time I am smart! I watch where he goes! To the garage! He is hoarding things in his garage! In the attic of the garage, nonetheless, where he knows I won’t go! I don’t like bugs or the rickety ladder you have to climb to get to said garage attic! Score one for Bread!

Alternative-type dude bought several records, complimented us on our fab taste in music (we also had lots of CDs) and went on his way. He was one of the less-exciting shoppers of our two-day sale. Let me tell you, a garage sale brings out all the crazies. One lady resembled Little Richard, complete with moustache. She wanted to buy a purse, asked how much and when told a couple dollars, promptly stomped off. Sorry. We could have made a deal. I’d have taken $1. Shit. There was a guy with an extra large belly in a size small sweatshirt, a guy who checked out my mom (disturbing), a neighbor who refused to pay $1 for a book, actually became offended, and, a kid who wanted to buy an abused dollhouse to paint black for his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Lair.

My favorite crazy, was another moustache-sporting woman. She was wearing a rather ratty sweatshirt; she had jet black hair, but her ‘stache was blond, and black leggings with a large rip in the back, exposing her white underwear. Now, I’m not judging her outfit, aside from the rip. Maybe she was cleaning and just happened to run out of supplies? She happened by our sale and stopped in. I’m totally not judging. BUT, wear a shirt to cover the rip! Nobody wants to see that shit. She looked at the clothes I was selling. I was thinking, yes, yes, buy some! Nope. Alas, she decided on a CD! She could have gotten pants for the same price! I wanted to tell her! I should have said, “Oh my, you’re in luck! We’re having a sale! Buy one CD; get a pair of pants for free!”

We also sold some of Bird’s toys. I know. We’re horrible parents. But, the number of toys she has far outnumbers anything else in this house. Some of the toys were garage sale finds, some she’s outgrown/sucked to begin with. We prepared her for this as much as you can prepare an almost three year-old for such a traumatic experience. We really wanted to sell her play kitchen, for as you know, I’ve bought her a new one for her birthday. We discussed this with her. She was okay with it. That is, until it actually happened. She was napping when the sale occurred. We packed up and, later in the house, the first thing she wanted to do with Grandma, who was helping with the sale and staying to babysit so we could go out, was “ play kitchen.” Poor Bird, ran to her play food and pots, gathered up a few things and turned to use her stove, only to discover the stove was gone! Where is my kitchen she asked? We explained again that we had to get rid of some of her toys in order to make room for the new ones coming in a few weeks for her birthday. She had a look of devastation, ran to the couch and buried her face in the cushions. I caved. At that moment, I totally gave in. We have to give her the kitchen now, I proclaimed, but Bread was dead-set against it. We let it pass.

Another day of her being devastated by the loss of her favorite toy passes. Again, there is more playing with pots, pans and play food sans the kitchen. She inquires several times as to where her kitchen has gone and whether or not we’re going to sell more of her toys when she’s asleep. Crap. We have scarred her for life. Finally, Bread caves. It’s nearly 8:30 on Sunday night, bedtime. And, he decides we must give her the kitchen now. Sucker! I knew it! This was supposed to be her great birthday surprise! We did it. We gave it to her! She was ecstatic! She also asked, before bed, if we were going to sell it while she was asleep. She also asked if we were going to sell the couch! I guess both of these items are precious to her. I feel her on the couch! What would we do without our couch? We have officially messed up our child! She’ll probably be talking about this in therapy 20 years from now! Great! Parents of the Year! I guess we need to find a birthday gift for our three year-old…

Sherlock Effing Holmes

I have found myself wondering, on many occasions, what moms did before internet. How did they get child-rearing advice, fashion tips and find the lowest price on diapers? Did they actually have to read maps to get to where they were going? Did they use cookbooks for their recipe needs? How on earth were they able to keep up on to-the-minute celebrity gossip? Where, besides pesky class reunions, did they get the dirt on their former classmates? The world must have been a scary place sans the World Wide Web. Thank you, Al Gore. Right.

So, thanks to the internet (Facebook) and my super detective skills, I now know that one of my ex-boyfriends is divorced with two kids and dating some chick named Helga. The other one is divorced, dating some chick that looks to be about 50 and is missing some teeth. Yikes. I feel so superior. Why is it, despite the fact these two are exes for a reason, it still matters that I made out better than them. I’m happy!  My husband is quite good-looking, I will say so myself. He looks young too! My friend Jackie’s mom thought he was only 20! I would be such a cradle robber! Awesome! And, best of all, today when I told him I was watching Teen Mom during naptime, he didn’t care. He didn’t say anything like, “Bitch, my dinner better be on the table and you better clean the house.” He just said, “Cool. I miss you.” He loves me! Anyway, thank you internet for allowing me the capabilities to feel like a psycho stalker.  Actually, I don’t really feel like that because my friends do it too. This makes it okay. There is safety in numbers, people.

One of my other favorite internet places is Craigslist. It’s a freaking 24 hour garage sale! One where you can look only for those things you want and don’t have to sift through other people’s junk. Bird’s birthday is coming and I want one of those cool retro kitchens for her. I love them! They are so much cooler than the plastic ones! I refuse to pay $400 of that shit, though. Enter Craigslist. I will let some other dumb fool pay that much for a kitchen, discover that their child does not like it and then they can sell it to me for less than half the price. Plus, Bird is young, she doesn’t know what used is. I’m saving money for when she wants designer clothes and all that fancy shit.

Anyway, I was searching and searching and emailing folks and getting no results. Then, in one week, I scored two! I was beside myself with excitement. Which one would be better? I finally declared number two the winner. The plan was to sell back the first one after Bread picked up number two. Of course I had Bread get it. I am not brave enough to go alone! I read the news! People will prey on you via Craigslist!

Being the paranoid soul that I am, I searched for the seller of kitchen number two on Facebook! I am so smart! Well, some chick, with the same name, living in the same city as the seller of my precious kitchen, had an open Facebook account. This means, I was able to deduce that, while she may not be a killer, her child did, in fact, have MRSA! No! Hell no! I do not want that shit up in here! We don’t want that! Keep that! There are not enough Lysol Wipes on earth for that! Or, do I? I mean, it’s a nice kitchen! It’s a steal! No! No! Germs! What are you thinking? Bread could wear a Hazmat suit and then we could pour bleach on it! Yes! It’s a deal! No! No! No! You’re crazy! You have a hard enough time with the dog hair in your home let alone knowingly bringing in an infectious disease! Crazy! That’s basically how my internal dialogue went.

I took a poll of friends and family (yes, I suppose I have that much time on my hands). And, no, it was a bad idea, I should not get that kitchen. So, thank you internet for providing me with a wealth of knowledge and allowing me to stalk a random stranger in order to decide I don’t want to buy their shit. Or, I want to buy their shit; I just don’t want their highly-frightening super-bug! This is the perfect example of evil being put to good use (laughs manically). It’s the age of technology, my friends. You better watch yourself!

Day Two

One thing that helps me rise and shine at the butt crack of dawn is the promise of a good television program to watch while I torture myself for an hour or so. Summertime programming is over. There is nothing good in my DVR. This is my excuse for deciding to sleep in this morning on the second day of Operation War on Yoga Pants. Well, that and the fact that I was in the midst of the best night’s sleep I’d had in about two weeks; I wanted that extra hour. A sick tot and a crappy mattress make for a crabby-ass Jessie Domestic.

I’ve instructed Bread not to leave the bedroom in the morning sans me. I could see the frightened look in his eyes when he realized I was not jumping out of bed as quickly as I did yesterday; he knew he had a potential disaster if he pressed me. He was recoiling in fearing of me shouting things at him along the lines of, “Why are you making me get up? You think I’m fat don’t you!” I’m not the happiest person in the morning, especially when it’s been nearly two weeks since my last decent night of rest and, if, somebody else is waking me up. I am impressed because I had the sense to tell him that I have a backup plan and, since today was a cardio only day, I could walk the dog and exercise at the same time. I saw the relief register on his face; he knows how I can be when I feel as though I’ve failed.

Surprisingly, I don’t feel like I’ve failed. I was up early yesterday, and according to my heart rate monitor, had burned over 800 calories by 7:30 am yesterday. I slept in today. I feel rested, although the ugly bags under my eyes tell another story. I am going walk with my posse (two dogs and a tot in the jogger) in a bit. Believe me, I needed that sleep. Tomorrow I plan to resume my 6 AM workout because I need to also lift weights and it’s just too hard to do all that during waking hours. Thursday will be an easy day of just Yoga. See? I’ve got this and I feel better all ready.

It’s amazing what a little bit of exercise can do for a person. I love to sweat. I love feeling like I’ve just accomplished something, like I’ve just done something really great for myself. It’s almost better than shopping. Almost! I said not quite! I have more energy during the day when I exercise and I tend to eat less. I sleep better. I could go on and on about the benefits of exercise but you probably know so I’ll spare you.

Bread always tells me that I’m so hard on myself. I’ve always thought he was wrong but I’m starting to see that, perhaps, he’s right. The old Jessie would see today as a failure. Instead, I’m going easy on myself. I knew Bird and I were staying at home this morning and that I could have both an extra hour of sleep and a workout outdoors (which is a thousand times better than in my living room). I didn’t fail; I did rearrange. It’s okay. I do want regular clothes and makeup, but, since I’m not really going anywhere today, and, luckily, my toddler doesn’t mind looking at me without my face on I’ll cope.

I am a very structured person. I function best when I have a plan for each day. A schedule, if you will. Being a SAHM, makes it hard as my number one priority is obviously my tot. Sometimes things don’t go as planned. I know this. But, there are things I can do to plan. It’s all a work in progress. I’m not making excuses, I’m only being flexible. I got some extra sleep and I’m about get my exercise and some quality playtime with my kid. Those are three things that many working moms would love to have. So, instead of beating myself up for what I did “wrong,” I’m realizing I’m human, being happy about what I have and moving on. Wow. How novel. And, tomorrow morning, I’ll hop right out of bed because tonight is Teen Mom, Parenthood and Life Unexpected! Glorious.

Operation War on Yoga Pants

This begins the countdown to my independence. I am officially liberating myself from the yoga pant. I believe my happiness is directly related to my wardrobe. And, as of late, I’m having a bit of an identity crisis due to the fact that I spend an abnormal amount of time in pants made for exercising while I’m not actually, well, exerting myself in any way. In order to regain my sense of self, I’m removing the option of wearing yoga pants for anything other than yoga or exercise.

As a stay-at-home mom, I have many freedoms. I have the flexibility to make my own schedule. I can mostly do whatever I want each day. Probably better said, I can do whatever my toddler will allow me to do each day. I won’t go into the pluses and minuses of having the privilege of spending each and every waking hour with my daughter, but I will tell you about the glory that is my daily wardrobe choices! It’s a blessing and a curse, I tell you! If you’re like me, and feeling a wee bit chubby, the yoga pant is an excellent option. It’s elasticized! It’s like Spanx without all the shimmying! It’s black so, therefore, slimming, right?! It comes in boot cut or capri length! You can wear it with a tank top or a t-shirt! You can wear a hoodie with it if it gets chilly! If you wear it with tennis shoes, you will appear to be a fitness goddess!

Now, you folks reading this from your place of employment, in your suits and, hopefully not hose (I pray to Jesus your employer does not make you wear pantyhose), are probably thinking, what’s this bitch complaining about, I would love to sit around in leisure-wear all day. No! No! It makes you lazy! It possesses your mind! You will put jeans on, go out for an hour or two and come home only to immediately return to your elastic glory!

Seriously, people, I’ve had to perform an intervention on myself. No more yoga pants! I cannot! I feel like a slob! Basically, I get dressed each day, with my workout in mind. On most days, this does not happen until Bread gets home which is after 6 pm. This means, I spend days on end wearing only pants with a stretchy waistband since I generally go from working out to the shower and my pajamas (sorry if I just ruined the notion you had of me lounging in lingerie). This is messing with my psyche. I need to wear regular clothes, put make up on and style my hair.

In order to solve my problem, I’ve declared tomorrow, Monday, September 13, 2010, the beginning of Operation War on Yoga Pants! I shan’t wear them! I have spent numerous hours reading magazines and scouring the internet for “cool” clothes. I am officially a wealth of fall fashion knowledge. I have purchased some clothing I believe will meet my needs and make me feel like a “normal” human being.

What is the first mission in this war, you ask? After consulting some mom friends, I’ve decided that my exercise time shall be first thing in the morning. I shall rise, with Bread, at six in the morning and have my daily workout routine completed by 7:30 am. At this time, Bird will be allowed to join me, if she’s awake. I shall feed her and get her situated for her morning episode of Sesame Street, at which time I will be able to shower, dress and put on some make up (gasp), if I haven’t already done so. God bless Jesus for having a plan! I am committing to do this each and every week day. I shall be feeling normal in no time! Next week I shall tackle nightly snacking!  Baby steps, people! 

Friday, Bitches

Why is the week following a holiday weekend so long? Always. For me, this week, it’s because Bird has been much like a teenager during puberty. This frightens me for when she actually is a teenager going through puberty. Shit. I’m so screwed. I should have been a better person this lifetime. Karma.

One of our local radio stations was having a chat about celebrities they wish would go away for good. My ears perked right up there due to my fascination of all things celebrity. This got me thinking. There are many people who frequent the sites I read that I cannot even bear to look at. I realize that I have a long list of stars I wish would go away so I’ve narrowed it down; for whatever reason these folks really get under my skin. In honor of it being Friday and me keeping with my promise to blog, here is my top ten list:

10. Snooki. I don’t believe I need to elaborate on this.
9. Billy Ray Cyrus’ daughter. I shan’t even say her name.
8. Rachel from Big Brother. Ugg.
7. Kanye West. How could anyone be mean to Taylor Swift? And, I’m not even a country music fan, really.
6. Eva Longoria. Double Ugg.
5. Kate Gosselin. She has such cute children but heels and short skirts to chase them? There’s not much I hate worse than people who don’t dress for the occasion. Flats. At least she fixed her hair…
4. Red Hot Chili Peppers. NAILS ON A CHALK BOARD.
3. Rachael Ray. Fake.
2. Jennifer Aniston. Over-rated. Too perfect. Nobody is that perfect. She must have an extra nipple or something.
1. Mel Gibson. Go away. Take your racial slurs and your over-active sperm, crawl under a rock and leave us all alone. Walk. Do not run and definitely do not make any more films.

In my mind, the world would be a better place sans the aforementioned folks. This is just my opinion. Who did I miss?

On the other hand, there are lots of celebs who do not get nearly enough press. I need more of these people. Here is my list:

10. Chelsea Handler. I love her. She says it just like it is. We could learn so much from her!
9. Tim Gunn. Fabulous.
8. Johnny Damon. The perfect specimen of the male being, with dimples!
7. Jon Hamm. I guess I have a thing for Jons.
6. Betty White. She had me as Rose Nylund.
5. David Hasselhoff. I’ve loved him since Night Rider but fell in love all over again when I saw him shed a tear on an American Idol finale. I’m kidding. He fascinates me. I feel normal. “This is a mess.”
4. Rocco DiSpirito. Adorable and he cooks!
3. Christina Hendricks. I’m curvy. She’s curvy. She’s famous. My hero! Of course I love her!
2. Taye Diggs. I wish we could mate. Don’t tell Bread.
1. The Kardashians. I love them. Do not hate me.

The world would definitely be a better place if we all had a bit more of these people. Who did I miss? Happy Friday!

Fall Lineup

If it were possible to blog by osmosis, I’d have had a summer filled with enthralling entries (I am deluding myself into believing what I’ve been saying here is that exciting). Alas, I’ve been lazy and neglectful. Summer was busy or, at least, I convinced myself I was too busy to blog. Truthfully, I just didn’t have much to say. But, over the past week or so, I’ve compiled a list of things I should or could write about. This is good.

This here blog is sort of like my connection to the outside world, I suppose. I feel better after I write a bunch. I especially feel better when people tell me they are enjoying what I’m writing about. This makes me happy (hint, hint). I kid, I kid. It’s as if my blog is a free therapist, one who makes fun of me almost as much as I make fun of myself. Almost.

Fall has sprung, people and I could not be happier! I hate summer. Gasp. I know. We wait the entire long winter to be outside, summer comes and it’s too bleeping hot to go outdoors. I do not like to sweat while I’m just standing. My hair does not like the humidity. My makeup (what makeup) runs. I need to be able to do my face. Fall is good for all of these things.

I have a sick child this week and I’m not feeling great myself (this no longer matters in the world of parenthood). Bird has a cold which, for her, can turn into something worse because she’s almost asthmatic. So, after a trip to the doctor, some medicine and a few days of watching too much telly, she’s feeling better. The meds! Let me tell you about the meds! They are like speed for a child. She has a breathing machine and the medicine that goes along with that proclaims a side effect to be hyperactivity as does the steroid they’ve given her. This is a minor understatement. Minor. The child cannot focus on anything. She has been literally bouncing off the walls, running from one couch to the other jumping, yelling and speaking in tongue. I swear. Last night Bread was trying to ask her a question and she was answering him by repeating the same undecipherable statement. She’s manic because she goes from that to crying and yelling. I’ve had to hide all the knives!

After she had her meds last night, she was running in circles. It was funny. I wonder, in the time of modern medicine, why there isn’t something else they can give them. It’s like, you have a sick kid, here’s some speed for her, now have her rest. WTF? So, she’s running in circles, stopping and, while still standing up, attempting to kick herself in the head and knocking herself down. All the while she’s doing this, she’s laughing. Bread starts laughing hysterically. I start laughing hysterically. We’re all cackling like a bunch of hyenas. We compose ourselves and I say, while nodding, “I think I need to hit that.” More hysterical laughter from Bread ensues. I don’t know, maybe you had to be there but it was comical. And, I do need to get some of that. Think of all that I could get done! The weight I said I was going to lose over the summer would melt off! It would be fabulous! I’m sort of serious. I’m getting desperate here, people.

So, fall is here, my child is on crack and I’m working on some posts. Life is good. I have a plan to write about several good things including: new recipes I’ve tried, fall fashion, tips for wedded bliss, television shows, old age and, of course, stories about my child because everybody cares as much about her as I do. See what you have to look forward to? I know. I know. The excitement!

The Great Mattress Debacle of 2010

I am not necessarily a frugal person. I mean, I like to save where I can but I’m not afraid to spend either. I like to get things on sale and I don’t love making unnecessary purchases. I don’t like to waste things. I try to think about each and every purchase as a need versus a want. Do we need 75 rolls of paper towel because it’s on sale? Possibly. Do I need seven different shades of pale pink lip gloss? Yes. Do we need clothes? Yes. Does Bird need a pair of shoes for every occasion? Yes. Do I? Absolutely. Do I need a manicure and a pedicure every other week? No. I would like one but, since we now live on one income, some things have had to go. I’m okay with that. I am. It’s all about priorities, people. If I do my own nails, I can have more shoes and a huge lip gloss variety. You see? Need versus want. It’s rather simple.

I feel the need to share this story with my internet friends because it makes me laugh and laughter is the best medicine. There is a bit of a back story here. Please bear with me; I’m tackling this as best I can as I’m a wee out of practice here. It came to light that something was wrong with our bed. It seemed to be sagging in the middle and there was no support. Our mattress is less than three years old so, in my mind, there was no way we could need a new one. Aren’t those bastards supposed to last 10 years or something? Hell, I know people who have slept on the same mattress for 20 years.

We have a bed frame, complete with a headboard and footboard, purchased from IKEA at about the same time we got the mattress. Bread and I discussed it and he thought, perhaps, it was the frame causing out mattress to sag as there wasn’t a ton of support underneath. He said we should get rid of the frame. What? No! I love this bed! It “goes” with our room! We need this bed! We aren’t going to buy a new one! That’s a waste! There’s nothing wrong with the frame! After some eye rolling and heavy sighing, Bread’s solution was to put some more boards underneath. This worked for a while. Let’s say six months. Then the problem began again. So bread actually built something (he’s so handy!) to go underneath the bed and hold it up better. This worked for a month or so until it became apparent neither of us was sleeping well.

Again, I told Bread it was the damn mattress. They should let you sleep for a night on the damn things. How in the hell are you supposed to deduct if you like a mattress or not by laying awkwardly on it, in the middle of the store, while dozens of strangers mill about you waiting for their turn? And, you don’t want to actually put your head on it because God knows what else has been there. There could have been some stranger’s ass or a child’s snotty face! No, thanks! Welcome to my world of germaphobia! I cannot Purell my entire face! My skin would dry out! Welcome to my world of complete and total vanity!

Moving on then, after a brief “discussion” where I insisted that it was not, in fact, our cheap IKEA bed frame causing our distress, “we” decided it would be best if we tried the mattress on another frame. We have a guest bed, so the plan was to bring the frame from the downstairs guest bedroom upstairs in order to try it with our mattress.

I believe it was a Tuesday night. Bread decided he couldn't sleep one more night on the shitty bed. He begins the process of moving things around. At some point, I suggest we just throw the mattress on the floor, on top of the box springs, for a night or two. It’s the same idea, right? Bread agrees. I’m trying to save him the trouble of having to move all this stuff around. Admittedly, this is because I’m afraid it actually is the bed frame creating the problem and I don’t want him to beat the shit out of me when we finally conclude this.

He gets the mattress all “set up” on the floor. When Bird sees what we’ve done, she exclaims, “Oh! I like this! It’s a little bed!” No, actually, it’s ghetto as hell. But, it does go really well with the sheets we currently have hanging as “curtains” (another story for another day).

I think we slept like that for about two weeks. I wanted to be sure. I’m positive now. It’s the damn mattress. No, wait! Maybe it’s the box spring! Yes! Yes! That’s it! The mattress is saggy because the box spring is two pieces. There is a crack in the center and this is causing the mattress to feel saggy. Our solution to this problem, you ask? We put the frame back together and put the mattress on the frame sans box springs. Problem solved, right. No! No! It’s the mattress, I say! That was terrible! It did not work at all!

Over the course of all this, I’m keeping my brother, who has recently gone through a similar debacle, abreast (I so wanted a reason to use that word) of the situation. He suggests we try the Memory Foam mattress topper he bought and only used once because it was too soft. At this point I’m desperate because I don’t want to get rid of my cute bed frame or spend money on a new mattress (must determine if it’s a need or a want, you know) so I agree.

He brings us the mattress topper, which barely fits in his car. This sucker is huge! Since it’s placed in two garbage bags, it appears we are carrying a body into our home. We are now giving our neighbors more to talk about. They have already alluded to the fact that they believe we are growing marijuana in our basement because we never turn the light off. It’s a long story but, essentially, our dog used to sleep down there in her crate and, for some reason, we just never turn the light off. Once they began saying stuff to us it sort of became a game of us not wanting to turn the light off because we enjoyed having our neighbors believe we were, in fact, growing pot in our basement. Don’t you know that’s why we live the luxurious lifestyle we do- spending money like it is water? I mean, seriously, if I was doing that, don’t you think I’d have a nanny? I would certainly have an Escalade with over-sized, chrome rims and a kicking system. There would be some extra cash and I would definitely, at least, be getting my bi-weekly mani and pedi. Geez.

That brings us to where we are now. The mattress topper is huge. Our mattress pad barely fits over it. And, coupled with our pillow-top mattress, the sheet can barely fit. But, we are trying it! I do not want to get rid of that frame! It’s not the frame! It’s the damn mattress! I swear! So, now, thanks to the mattress topper, the pillow-top and our semi-high bed frame, I now have to heft myself in our bed. I am five foot and six inches tall! I’m not short by any means. I have to practically get a running start! This has nothing to do with my weight, by the way, it is purely because the damn bed is like seven feet tall! Bird can no longer jump on our bed for I fear she will catch her head in the ceiling fan! Wouldn’t that be a mess! And, the end result after all this? We need a new fetching mattress. Jesus. I told you so. And, in case you did not hear me, I TOLD YOU SO.

You're On Your Own

My little girl is obsessed with the world of Cinderella, Belle, Sleeping Beauty and Tiana. She is constantly asking questions about life as a princess, specifically marrying Prince Charming. She is fascinated with weddings, she has yet to actually attend one, and the idea of wearing a “beautiful gown and dress,” especially a white dress. She loves putting on her princess dress-up clothes and dancing with Bread, who in a pinch, acts as her very own Prince Charming. Any time a member of the male species comes over, or is on their way over, she has to put on a gown, her “glass slippers,” and accessories.

I’ve said before she’s boy crazy. I’m not sure how this happened; I know Bread is scared silly for her teen years. I have been a bit frightened, being the semi-modern woman that I am, that she has all these crazy notions about life based on her obsessions with being a princess and living happily ever after. In her two year-old mind a prince can save her, protect her and define her happiness. While I realize she is only two, it is certainly a bit frightening to think of how this notion might grow. I hope it will disappear because I definitely don’t want my little girl growing up thinking she has to find a man to make her happy and her only goal in life is to be married. I am happily married and all but I also went to college and had other goals as well. Those are the things we want to teach her. We want her to be self-sufficient and fulfilled. We don’t want to teach her that finding a man will make her happy and be the only way she’ll be valued in society. Obviously we might be a bit ahead of ourselves but best to keep an eye on the situation before it gets too out of control. AND, the child is really, really obsessed!

Yesterday, Bread and Bird were reading a book of nursery rhymes on the couch. I was casually flipping through a magazine, half listening to them. Bird was reciting the nursery rhymes to Bread as she remembered them. She was getting most of them right; it was impressive! She knows all of Mary, Mary Quite Contrary! They got to Jack and Jill. She said, “Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came up with a plan!” A plan, really? Really? Where did she come up with this? Bread and I both started laughing. I think we figured it was a fluke. Throughout the day we kept testing her by asking her to recite it again. It was always the same. Jill was making a plan!

Any notions about Bird being boy crazy and seeking some prince charming to make her happy have been completely put to rest. The girl is smart! She knows that Jill shouldn’t just fall down after him! She needs to make a plan! The plan. The girl is going to figure it out on her own NOT going rolling down the hill after Jack! I love this! I love her. She is a genius! And now, this girl needs to go make a plan and get her Monday started! Happy Monday, y’all!

Don't Ya Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me?

We are driving in the car when, Bread turns to me and says, “By the way…” Of course my brain starts going a mile a minute. Is he going to tell me we’ve won the lottery? He got a raise at work? He has scheduled a date night for us? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. His question was actually this-“By the way, did you have gas last night while we were sleeping?”

Many things go through my head. I’m disappointed because he’s not telling me some grand news. I’m confused as to why he would ask this question. Where is this coming from? I’m wondering if I should be embarrassed because I was passing gas loudly in my sleep. That’s sexy! Way to go me! So I tell him no, not that I’m aware of and inquire as to why he was asking.

He proceeds to inform me he had a dream that he was at work, with one of his coworkers who was, well, pooping. He said it smelled repulsive. He then asked me if I ever recall smelling anything in a dream. Nope. Never.

That was pretty much the end of the conversation. But, thinking back, I don’t know if I should be proud or extremely embarrassed that my husband thinks it would be possible for me to create an odor (in my sleep nonetheless!) that would not only wake him, but cause him to dream about being in the same room with someone who was taking a shit. Impressive.  In fact, I'm pretty sure there's someone beating down the door right now trying to steal my heart. 

Happy Monday

My eldest “child,” Cole, is of the four-legged variety. I adopted him, as a single mother I might add, nearly ten years ago. He is the smartest dog, ever. And, I’m not just saying that because, as a dog owner, that’s what I’m supposed to say. If you read this blog, or know me in real life, you know I’m not a huge fan of saying what is expected versus what actually comes to mind…

So, Cole is a genius. He knows how to work the system. He knows the proper, polite way to beg garnering himself some tasty scraps. He is certain that the plaid bone matches his bed and when asked to retrieve that specific bone, he will do so. He knows, when I open the door and he’s been rolling in driveway debris, that my frown means he best hightail it back outside and shake that shit off. He knows if I get a blanket out to sit on the couch, I might be allowing him to come up. He can tell when I’m sad; he’ll sit by me and follow me around. If I put my gym shoes on he runs and hides because he doesn’t want to go for a walk. Or, if he’s feeling particularly energetic that day, he’ll run to the door. If I pack a bag, he becomes frantic because he thinks we’re going to grandma’s house. This dog speaks English and some Spanish because I used to have spare time and using that spare time to teach my dog to be bilingual seemed like a stellar idea. Oh, what I wouldn’t do to have that much leisure time again. Sigh.

The genius dog also has allergies. This means, he will spend hours upon hours upon hours licking. We’ve tried vitamins and Benadryl and baths with oatmeal soap but nothing really helps. It’s best to just let him have his way. So, the crazy animal lies around licking his paws and, well, his rectum, if nobody stops him. I draw the line at the rectum. That’s just disgusting. And, we aren’t talking about a simple lick. We are talking about an all out love affair complete with slurping. I realize there are many people on this planet who would be extremely happy if they had the ability to actually lick their own butthole. For clarification, I happen to NOT BE ONE OF THEM. In all caps, people, do not miss that.

So, this happy Monday (insert sarcasm here), at six in the morning, I am awoken to slurp, slurp, slurp. Now, this is not how I want to begin my week. While I am a stay-at-home mother of only one child, I still have needs. Sleep is very high on my list of needs. I do not wish to wake at that hour, to that noise. The events unfolded something like this:

Dog: Slurp, slurp, slurp.

Me: “Cole! That’s disgusting! Stop!”

Dog: Slightly raises and eyebrow. Continues licking.

Me:”Stop!”

Dog: Lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick…

Me: Throw slipper at dog’s head.

Dog: Looks startled. Stops the licking.

Me: Sigh. Roll over. Try to go back to sleep.

Elapsed time: Three minutes.

Dog: Lick, lick, lick, lick, slurp, slurp, slurp.

Me: Screaming, “I’m going to kill you!”

Dog: Calls bluff and continues voracious tongue jacking.

Have I no authority in my home? Why isn’t he taking me seriously? The glue factory is not that far away! I would so do that! WTF? That was not how I wanted this week to begin. That’s a blatant lack of respect for me! I gave him life! Well, not technically but what if I had not saved him from the pound! Doesn’t he think of these things! Bastard.

Free to one good home: an extremely flexible dog.

I Vant to Suck Your Blood

Actually, I don’t really want anything to do with your blood. Unless, I'm dying and I need a transfusion or something, then we’ll talk. Alas, the inevitable has occurred. I have joined the vampire-loving band wagon. I heart True Blood! I’m just sorry that’s it’s taken me two years to get involved in this shit. It is some good shit, yo.

Bread and I have religiously been watching episode after episode. He likes it too. Personally, I think he likes the plethora of boobs. I mean, there are lots of boobs! I’ve yet to see any penis and we’re at end of season one. WTF? How is this fair? Boobs are all over the place! I understand it’s the privilege of HBO to show all the nudity and use all the profanity their little hearts can handle, but, seriously, how about some male frontal nudity for the ladies? It’s like every semi-decent looking female character is ripping her top off for every occasion? I can cook topless! Look! No hands while riding a rollercoaster- with no shirt!

I joke. I joke. I’m not there for the boobs (obviously) or for the hope of seeing some random dude’s package. But, I will say, thanks to our giant television screen which is easily visible from our street, our nosy neighbors probably think we’ve been watching a lot of porn these days. I know nothing about being a nosy neighbor and making false assumptions…

Honestly, I have no idea why we watch this program. The acting is terrible. I suppose it’s just nice to have a non-reality program to watch together. Bread despises reality programming because it’s so unrealistic (just realizing the irony in that he hates reality programs yet will watch a vampire show). Yes, reality TV is fake, but that is the glory of it. That shit makes me feel normal. It makes me think I am sane! I’m not, but it’s all about in comparison to others, you know? Let’s talk about the crazy that is The Bachelor. I met a nice boy in a normal way and married him. These men have twenty five scantily clad (I am so elderly) women fighting over them. All these women are pulling out the claws to win the affections of some cheesy guy who probably isn’t as rich or well-mannered as the show’s producers are asking him to be. The thing that boggles my mind about this show is that the women are mostly seemingly intelligent and good looking. Why is it that they’ve lowered themselves to this? WTF? The guy is not taken in a world of full of single women begging for the affections of some great guy. News flash: He’s either not as cute/great/smart as you think, or he, and we’re back to this again, has a tiny peter. Move on.

What about The Real World? How unreal is that? A network television station hand selects some beautiful people to live and work together in the “real world.” WTF? No! You don’t get to have some cool job and live in a fabulous apartment while somebody else pays the bills. It’s not effing real! No! Nothing about this situation is real! In the real, real world, people don’t get to leave their jobs for months at a time to go on TV and binge drink and bang the hell out of their roommates. Have some class! I always think how do these people do this? Don’t they know their grandmas are watching, having no idea what the show is and telling all their friends to watch too because their grandson or granddaughter is on TV. Hey, granny, look at me! I can facilitate a gang bang! Oh, how proud she must be!

What about all these Real Housewives’ shows? Let’s discuss! I know quite a few actual housewives, I mean, I am one myself. I am not shopping every day. If I do go shopping, it’s for food and toiletries, not Luis Vuitton. I do not have a nanny. There is no hunky personal trainer coming to my door. I’m not rolling up in a Range Rover or a Mercedes. I’ve never been in a screaming match with someone in a public place. If I get to “do lunch” it’s at McDonalds or some hole-in-the-wall. I do not apply an entire face of makeup each morning. I make Crock Pot meals! I help my child use the restroom! I do not get weekly massages/facials/Botox/Liposuction. Although, I believe this is an injustice, who do I talk to about that? Point being, I am a real housewife. WTF? Nobody wants to follow me around? Nobody wants to watch a show about my life? I do very exciting things! I walk my dogs and scowl at people who fail to stop BEFORE the stop sign! We play Barbies! I pretend to listen to my husband talk about politics! I reassure my husband that I am listening when he talks about politics! I do laundry! I Swiffer like a mad woman! I talk to myself! I get the mail! I can rock a pair of Yoga pants-ALL day long! Admittedly, I’m sad that nobody wants to follow me around with a camera and film my REAL life! I mean this is the stuff people need to see! I am exciting! Somebody needs to represent the real, real housewives. I’ll take my crazy there! If you’re in the biz, call me! Have your people call my people!

Childhood Dreams Come True: One Inflatable Pool at a Time

The past couple days have been rather hectic around here. Sunday, I may have been recovering from a night of binge drinking (I have reasons for this, and, yes, I understand that consuming mass amounts of alcohol does not solve problems, thankyouverymuch). So needless to say, I didn’t get a lot done.  Normally I could have because Bread was home. But, I did consume ice cream for lunch and Pei Wei for dinner, so life that day was extremely spectacular. Did I mention that we fed our tot ice cream for lunch on Sunday? Yep. Totally did that. Do you have a problem with it? Judge me. I’ll judge you right back. So there.

That brings me to yesterday, trying to catch up from having spent most of the day Sunday lounging and shoveling carbohydrates into my mouth. Contrary to popular belief, we SAHMs do have things to do. The top item on my list, you ask? Laundry. I find it rather trying to do laundry without actual laundry soap so off to Target we went. I had a rather large list, so I packed a lunch for Bird and we left the house around 11:30 in the morning. Little did I know that this was going to be an even longer trip then I anticipated.

We arrive at Target. First stop was the rest room. I had coffee so, there’s that. Next stop, of course was the Dollar Spot! Woot! Woot! I love the little notebooks and notepads! Next we hit the women’s clearance section followed by workout clothes and pajamas. We always have to peruse the shoe section and toddler clearance. I scored Bird some shorts for next year at the low, low price of $1.50. Now it was on to things we actually needed such as: toothpaste, pantry items, deodorant, Febreeze and oh, yes, laundry soap. Somewhere between the pantry and the Febreeze, Bird announced, first with a very loud passing of wind, and then vocally, that she needed to poop. Balls. Of course the bathroom is all the way across the store. After this was taken care of, and my child was about five pounds lighter, we finalized our purchases and made our way to the checkout.

Somehow, because this always happens despite the fact that I swear this is not going to happen, things that were not on the list made their way into our cart. Yesterday, it was a Disney Nemo Pool. I should say there is a back story to this. My crazy Uncle Ed took a picture of his neighbor’s Disney Princess Pool. I’ve seen them in the store and, believe me, so has Bird. But, you can’t always have everything you want, now can you? Unless Grandma is buying! Grandma wanted to get Bird the pool. I said okay but Target was out and she was enamored with the Nemo one. Also, it was on sale! Done! I suppose most people don’t wait until the middle of August to fulfill their summertime swimming needs, so a sale was not really unexpected. I feel the need to explain that my child is not deprived; she has a nice plastic pool from last year that has been meeting her needs just fine thus far. I don’t feed her ice cream for lunch and deprive her of the childhood glory that is a teeny tiny swimming pool! God!

We take all our shit home. The child is in need of a rest. She is on the brink. I’m not against her skipping a nap, but I could tell she really needed one yesterday. We arrive home and, amid promises of her getting to use the pool when Daddy gets home (after dinner, which was NOT ice cream), Bird agrees to a “rest.” She actually asked twice if she could sleep with her pool (suffocation hazard or else why the hell not). When, she yelled down the stairs about using it later, I told her, “SLEEP. PLEASE.” Why did we have to wait for Bread, you ask? I don’t know how to use the air compressor. Rather, I don’t know how to find the proper attachment among the mess that is our garage. Ahem.  And, while I certainly am windy, I'm not that windy. Where is this post going you ask? It’s going. It’s going! I swear there’s a point.

Two hours later, I wake the child! “It's time to wake up! Let’s make dinner,” I shout up the stairs like a proper mom would. “I want my pool,” proclaims the child. I remind her that Daddy will have to blow it up when he gets home and we have to eat dinner first. I’m proud of her for her patience and understanding. Personally, I think she understands my plight that is our horribly over-filled, dirty, yuck garage.

The first words out of her mouth to Bread once he arrives home were about the damn pool. I’d warned him; he was prepared. So, immediately after we finish our fine meal, I send them out to fill up the pool! My child is yelling and screaming, “I’m so excited! My pool!” Minutes later, Bread returns, looking dejected, to tell me that the pool is indeed missing the slide! The slide? No way? You're kidding me? That’s the best part! So, we explain to our child what has happened and decide to go back to another Target in search of a replacement. Again, she handles this very well.

We load up the family sedan and head to our least favorite Target. Nobody there is friendly, apologetic or helpful. I don’t want to waste time with the morons asking for help so I go check the shelves to see if they have another one, or ideally, since she’s now begun asking for it, a princess pool. No, they do not! We decide to drive to yet another Target (yes, I tried to look online but they didn’t have any of the Disney pools on their site because it’s August).

So, Target number three for the day. They have it! God bless, Jesus! They have the Nemo Pool! Oh! Wait! What’s that I spy? It’s the Disney Princess Pool! Which one does she want? I’ll give you one guess. Yes! It’s a giant blow up castle with Belle, Sleeping Beauty and Snow White on it, and it’s going in my backyard!

By the time we pay for it, drive home and get her suit on, it’s now nine o’clock at night. Yet another reason I’m a terrible parent-of course I let her swim. Who wouldn’t? The child’s hopes and dreams were dashed by some asshole who decided to purchase a pool, take out part of it, or fail to mention when he returned it, that the best part was missing. I’m going to let her swim!

I come outside, after Bread has blown it up and am, despite the measurements on the box, completely shocked at how small the thing is. I mean, the picture on the box had three girls in it! There was a mom, in the pool, with a cocktail! I saw it! Oh, wait, that was me after this day finally ended! That thing looked spacious! Relaxing!  Refreshing! The towers on the castle look like giant, pink phalluses! I love you, Disney! Thank you for making ugly paraphernalia for my backyard!

Tuesday Confessional

I had a list of things in my head as options for this blog post. Then I decided I could just write about them all. A little bit of a confessional, if you will. I did talk about Jesus last week so to carry on with my, um, religious theme is just about right. So, here goes:

1) My friend, Jackie is my television soul mate. She knows what it’s like to love a good show. That said she is the only person who understands the utter excitement of tonight’s Teen Mom season premiere. I can hardly contain myself! She’s at work right now so there isn’t even a chance for us to discuss it. If you’ve never seen this show, you should watch it. I am truly fascinated. We are also eagerly awaiting the season premiere of Mad Men on Sunday. God Bless Jesus for some good summertime TV!

2) I hate summer. You think, no you can’t. Yes! Yes, I can! I hate that twenty minutes after I’ve left my house in the morning I’m feeling the little trickle of sweat run down my back. I hate that my hair is frizzy all the time. I hate that it’s too hot/sticky to bother with makeup. I hate that at some point in summer, I am forced to wear a bathing suit which doesn’t fit right because I have giant boobs among other body flaws that I’ll fail to mention. I hate that I have to either exercise first thing in the morning (not ideal because Bird likes her Sesame and this is the only time when it’s cool enough for her to play outdoors) or at night when there are a million swarms of mating gnats (yes, that’s what they’re doing Bread Googled that Shit). I think, right about now, 20 degrees outside, toasty cozy inside, a Snuggie and a mug of hot chocolate sound delightful. Shit!

3) I like my current size. This is a lie. If you know me, you know this is as far from the truth as anything. But, in the hopes of one day believing this falsehood, I’m going to keep saying it. This will be my mantra. “I like my size! I like my size!” I will believe! Bread thinks I am lovely. I have curves! I am representing the “average” woman! I don’t have any rolls when I stand up! Perhaps a bit of a muffin top but no actual rolls! I am blessed! I can run! I can do aerobic activity! I lift weights! I am healthy! I can eat whatever I want and maintain my size! Plenty of women would love to be my size. “I like my size!” Lies. All lies. Maybe I should look at it another way. I do not have any of the following: a third eye, too hairy of an upper lip or a peg leg. Yes! Yes! I am lovely!

4) My inner Domestic Diva really wants to take advantage of our seasonal produce and can some shit. I’ve never canned anything in my life. I’m scared. WTF is wrong with me? Who worries about this? I want to make pickles, jam and salsa. Please help. What do I do?

5) I am scared to go to the gym because I gained some weight. Fucking ridiculous. I know this.

6) I am obsessed with baseball. I watch every game and DVR it if I’m not home. I don’t like to miss a game. Have you ever seen Johnny Damon? Beautiful specimen of the male species. I swear. Bread knows. He doesn’t mind because it means he also gets to watch baseball. I’m happy! He’s happy! Everybody is happy! It’s a win win situation!

7) Don’t these little bastards sound good?

8) I’m going to write a book. I’ve got the feeling. I am getting closer.

9) I am glad I no longer have a “real” job.

10) I’ve taught my two-year old the Star Spangled Banner and I’m quite proud of this. She’s a really good singer! And smart too! And cute!

Things They Don't Tell You: Volume 2

I’ve mentioned before, that there are, indeed, many things people don’t tell you when you have a child. Something I never heard much about prior to childbirth was the nature of your child to gravitate to any and everything you find annoying. By annoying, I mean worse than nails on the chalkboard; let’s say I’m going to down an entire bottle of ibuprofen with a gallon of Vodka if you don’t cut that shit out. NOWSTOPITASSHOLE!

One of those types of things for me is Barney. I cannot stand that stupid, purple fucker. I can’t hear his voice. I can’t look at him. He is Satan in this household. I used to be one of those moms who swore their kid wouldn’t watch TV. Then, I realized I needed to do things like shower and make dinner so that went out the window. Once we began embracing the TV, I was very careful to select educational programming. Sesame Street is welcome with open arms as is pretty much any PBS program. Barney may actually be educational; I don’t know as I’ve never seen it. I CANNOT GET PAST THE PURPLE SUIT AND THAT VOICE! So, I just decided that Barney would not exist in our household. If we didn’t talk about him or turn him on, Bird just wouldn’t know. Right.

The first time Bird saw Barney, she had climbed the stairs to our bedroom and turned on the TV. I knew where she was, and what she was doing. But, I did not know what was on! After a mere two minutes, I went to check on her and low and behold she was absolutely glued to the damn TV. She was completely mesmerized by that rotten SOB. No! No! No! You would have thought she’d found the Playboy Channel or something. I was completely devastated.

For the next couple weeks, she asked for that show. I pretended like I didn’t know what she was talking about and eventually she stopped asking. I know, I’m a terrible person, but I had to draw the line somewhere. I figure now, before she goes to school, is the only time I’ll be able to control this. Once she goes to school, it’s over. It’ll be the newest Hannah Montana or Justin Bieber all the time. Then I’ll really want to cut myself.

So, Wednesday night, due to inclement weather (in summer for me, this equals anything over about 85 degrees with humidity-I do not like to perspire if I’m not trying to do so), we went to the library. I took Bird to her section and what did she find? You guessed it! A giant Barney storybook! That thing is brimming with all things purple and nauseating. I tried to distract her by showing her other books. It did not work. She was smitten. I even went so far as to tell her that if she got that one, since it was so big, she wouldn’t be able to get anything else. Her mind was made up.

Bread came along to find us when he was finished with his book selecting and immediately sensed my displeasure. He raised his eyebrows and I nodded toward the contraband. He took the same route I did by offering up a super-cool polar bear book. Alas, our stubborn child could not be deterred. Shit.

As we were checking out, I was still traumatized and shaking my head thinking about how life was ended as I’ve known it. Barney! No! No! No! I can’t! I will do all kinds of crazy shit. I swear. But this is terrible. I frowned, looked at Bread and, with a pout, I said, “I’m not reading that book to her.” He gave me is best sympathetic look and said, “Oh?” I said, “No way. I’m telling her it doesn’t have any words.”

Bless Me Father, For I Continue to Sin

Back in the day, when Malbie and I were young and dumb, we lived together (not because we were dumb but because we were friends-felt the need for clarification here). We did lots of stupid things; we were in college, what would college be without ignorance? We used to stay up late, skip class, drink, some of us tried smoking (ahem, not me) and of course we dated, and wasted countless hours on stupid boys (definitely me). She used to get drunk and climb the fence to our apartment pool for a midnight swim. I never did this for a couple reasons: I’m not very agile and I was afraid of being caught.

Somewhere, in the four years we cohabitated, we began collecting Jesus items. It started with a Jesus figurine, purchased on a random, midnight trip to Meijer. His hands fell off at some point; neither of us can recall why or how but he became our mascot. When I got my first real, college-degree-required job, she took me out to lunch. As she dropped me back off at my office, she said she had a present for me; I was gifted the handless Jesus. He lived with me for the next five years. We never spoke of him, ever. I never even acknowledged her gift to me; I opened it after she drove off, per her instructions. I gave him back to her at her bachelorette party, after a brief absence (I lost him somewhere in my home-strike one). He partied with us the night of her shindig! Despite his lack of hands, Jesus knows how to roll.  Please note how happy Jesus apears to be riding on our cooler full of booze!

Somewhere in there I also received a dangerous looking Jesus clock. It was purchased at the dollar store so you can imagine the exquisite beauty. It’s glass, and pointy, and sharp. But, the ultimate Jesus gift was bestowed upon me two weekends ago, while Malbie and Matt were in town. I received the Jesus Saves Mug! It shows Jesus holding scissors and coupons. When you pour hot liquids in the mug, his beard, and the scissors, disappear and the coupon turns into a razor! This is awesome! Jesus Saves! No! No! Jesus Shaves! We all know shaving is a necessity. It’s easier to find a job with a clean shaven face. Especially in this economy! Nobody can afford to hire a custom carpenter right now!  Jesus may need to seek some supplemental income! Or, was that Joseph who was the carpenter? My Catholic upbringing escapes me…Strike Two!

I decided it would be best for me to drink my beer out of my new mug that night. Malbie has a, um well, rather loopy relative. She’s the person that nobody wants to talk to. The person who engages you in a conversation you don’t want to be part of and you don’t necessarily understand. At some point, Bread was filling my mug at the keg and Loopy Relative caught him. From what I understand, she shouted, “That mug is sassy!” Confused, as to whether she was kidding or not, Bread asked exactly what she meant by this. “You will burn in eternal hellfire for this!” Yikes. So, our good friend, Chris decides to sell me out by telling her, “It’s Jessie’s mug!” WTF? I don’t know about your Jesus, but my Jesus totally has a sense of humor. Jesus Saves! Jesus Shaves! Jesus laughs! Jesus plays pranks! Jesus likes wine! Beer is like wine; therefore, it is okay to drink beer from your Jesus Saves mug (strike three). And, straight to hell I go.

Self Discovery, Complete with Blue Hair and Dentures

Sorry for the absence, you dedicated blog followers, you. Admittedly, the summer is not the best time for blogging; we have limited outdoor time here, so I have to take advantage of it. I apologize for making your work day approximately 5 minutes longer because of my inability to post my crazy thoughts online…

The last week and a half has been filled with friends, family and parties. My BFF, Malbie and her husband, Matt, were in town over the 4th of July weekend. That equaled two parties (back to back) and maybe, just maybe, some alcohol. Yes, definitely alcohol. Bread challenged me by saying he’d never seen me drink two nights in a row. This, is because I am a binge drinker. Indeed. I’m very well past my college years but I still binge drink. So, more than likely, I’m too ill from the day before and just the smell of alcohol alone is enough to send me running to the bathroom. Hence, Bread has never seen me drink two nights in a row.

I took his words to heart and I really tried to pull a two-nighter. Alas, I failed. Come Night Two, I could not catch a buzz. I wasn’t feeling it. I gave up and ended up staying up way too late anyway, rendering myself completely useless the Sunday after. I couldn’t formulate any complete thoughts. I need sleep. I looked like shit.

This past weekend, a good friend, Claire, got married. What did I do to help her and her groom celebrate this momentous occasion? I hit up the bar! They paid for this! I wanted to ensure they got their money’s worth! Luckily, the wedding was close to our home so I was home and in bed by one in the morning.

After two consecutive weekends of drinking (almost unheard of for me) and partying, I came to a very important realization: I’m fucking old. I can’t hang. I can’t do shots. I cannot, under any circumstances, play drinking games. I need to get seven or eight hours of sleep per night. I can handle a few less hours if I haven’t been drinking. But, drinking and lack of sleep is not a good combo for me. I get too blown out and can’t even function the next day. I have to nap.

Why else am I fucking old, you ask? I can’t wear heels so much anymore. Given my current, ahem, career, I don’t really need to wear heels anymore. If I go out, I usually do. The next day my feet hurt. WTF? I exercise. I am healthy. Why is this a challenge? Elderly!

Also, when packing my “fancy” purse for Claire’s wedding, I found I had the strong desire to pack my ID. This is logical, you think because I’ll be drinking. Oh, no! I knew there was no way in hell that I was going to be carded. I wanted to be sure that if we were in an accident, the police could easily identify my body. I also was sure to wear clean underwear…

Today, while my mom watched Bird, we rode our bikes on a trail. I was so afraid, the whole time, that our bikes would bump tires, or one of us would lose it on the gravel, knock the other out and I would end up in the hospital with a broken hip. We traveled nearly 13 miles! Then, I thought it was a good idea to come home and lift some weights. I am fearful that I will not be able to get out of bed tomorrow. Who will care for Bird!

I’m old, people. I just can’t hang like I used to. I need a girdle. I want flat, orthopedic shoes. Excuse me, my Jitterbug is ringing and I have to go drink my prune juice.

Potty Mouth

The other day, as I was making dinner with my child as close to me as she could possibly be, I opened the refrigerator and knocked the door to the butter (why do fridges have a special place for butter) on the floor. I didn’t say a word; I just bent down to pick it up. Bird asked, as serious as all get out, “Can I say shit?”

I wasn’t really sure what to say. I wanted to burst out laughing. I was mad at myself for probably being the one to teach her that word. In a way, I was proud of her for asking. She definitely knows how to use the word. She was being helpful. In the end, I told her, “No, that’s an adult word. You can’t use it.” Then I went into the bathroom, turned on the fan and laughed until I cried. I’m so not an adult.

If We Had a Gazillion Dollars

I was having a nice conversation with my friend, Jackie, this evening. Basically, her job gets in the way of her leisure time and my “job” forces me to do things in the evening when Bread is home. These things include: exercise, showering and meal plans. We began discussing what we’ll do WHEN we win the lottery.

I believe I’ve mentioned this before, but, my friends and I actually have a lottery pool. I’ve always maintained that I don’t need millions of dollars. I just want say, $100,000. Or, $40,000??? Hell, I will take $50 and this point…

Anyway, it’s fun to dream. With the help of Bread, Jackie and the Lottery Pool Friends, I’ve created a little mental list of things we would do/buy/need if we hit it for gazillions. Here is the current list in no particular order:

1. Book a trip somewhere tropical, with a swim up bar, friends and no kid (we’ll have plenty of time to spoil the shit out of her after we are, ahem, “rested”).
2. Boob job! Not bigger just perkier. Perhaps smaller.
3. Buy a ranch, with real live horses, cows and lots of acreage somewhere in Montana.
4. Pay someone to show us how to work a real, live ranch.
5. Realize that ranch work is extremely difficult and pay folks to work for us.
6. Ride horses and relax on ranch.
7. Take our tot to Disney so her dreams of meeting every fucking Disney Princess can be fulfilled.
8. Hire Jillian Michaels to get my ass in better shape.
9. Fire Jillian Michaels when I realize that she really means business.
10. Rehire Jillian Michaels when I realize she knows exactly what I need.
11. Give some money to charity. Probably an animal charity. I need to do penance for this.
12. Buy a huge ass house, here in the Mid-west, complete with an amazing kitchen, a huge master suite, a library, a theatre room, in-ground pool, tennis court and a bowling alley in the basement (not because I’m an avid bowler, but because it would be awesome to be able to say we have a bowling alley in the basement).
13. Purchase a larger family vehicle. I love Ranger Rovers!
14. Get my hair done as often as I actually need to in order to cover the grays. No more stretching!
15. Stop making meal plans based on what is on sale. We will eat whatever we feel like having! Steak? Chicken? Who cares? We’re loaded! Who cares if you want to buy the five-pack of avocados from Costco because they taste better and we’re not going to eat them all? We’re loaded!
16. Give money to an organization that feeds the hungry.
17. I think I’d like an RV. That would be fun. So long as I don’t have to drive it. Also, so long as I don’t have to empty the shitter when it’s full.
18. Detroit Tigers. Season Tickets. I’m a fan! I heart Johnny Damon!
19. Give money to family. Well, some family. You better be nice to me. You know who you are. Guilty conscience?
20. Get bored and start a blog about what it’s like being filthy rich.

Can't We All Just Get Along?

Since we moved into our house, five plus years ago, we’ve had a bit of a bird problem. They love to build nests in the vents on our roof. Bread can fix anything; he’s a super-handy dude. However, our roof is very steep so therefore, he is not going up there. We have intended to hire someone to fix the vents so the birds will be forced to live elsewhere but, well, we just never get around to it.

So, because of this problem, occasionally, we get birds in our house. They fall in and end up in the basement. This happened just last week. They enter through the hole in the wall that was brought to us by our dog when she was a puppy. I suppose it might be a good idea to fix said hole, but, I guess we don’t excel at repairing holes in our home. I’m totally giving all my readers the idea that I live in a pit…

Anyway, I knew there had to be a bird; there was debris on the floor. I brought my dogs with me. I don’t know why I thought they were going to help. Olive, the female and younger of the two (also the creator of the hole in the wall) is, put simply, dumb. She means well; she’s really sweet but she does not excel in the brain department. She wanted to play with the bird. She once caught a squirrel, spit it out and looked at it like, “Okay, now YOU chase me.” The other dog, Cole, the male, is 10 years old and cares only about eating, licking, the occasional walk (if he does not think it’s too hot out) and playing ball or Frisbee. Cole by far surpasses Olive in the brains department. I could probably direct him to go upstairs and select a matching outfit for Bird to wear.

Despite the debris, I thought the bird would be scared of me, with my two ferocious animals, and hide somewhere while I quickly threw in a load of laundry (critter removal is strictly handled by Bread around here-that’s a man’s job-it’s 1955 here-at least when it works in my favor). I was wrong about the bird. The little asshole tried to attack me! Flew at my head! I ran, screaming, from the basement with Cole at my heels. He looked at me like, “I’m over this shit. You don’t give me enough treats to deal with this.” He’s smart. Olive, on the other hand, stayed down stairs, doing God knows what. She finally gave in to my screaming for her and came upstairs. Needless to say, the basement was “shut down” until Bread came home from work.

That brings us to Sunday morning. I open my eyes. I realize it’s early because it’s still dark in our room. I look at the clock 5:58. Oh, hell no. Then I hear it. Peep. Peep. Peep. Peeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeep. Those fuckers have built a nest on our window sill, underneath our room air conditioner, again (they also did this last year). Apparently, they like to rise early. We do not. This is our house. If you want to reside with us, you must play by our rules. What terrible hosts we are! Bread gets out of bed, opens the window, and sticks himself half way out, pounds on the air conditioner and shouts, “Shut up you little bastards. It’s too early for this shit. Shut up! You’ll be sorry!” Keep in mind this is all while he is wearing ONLY his boxer shorts. Bread is a tall, thin guy. Those birds were definitely scared of Skeletor and his threats. I could tell. He gets back in bed with a sigh.

Me: “Thank you. Now let’s go back to sleep.”

Bread: “You do realize that they’re only going to be quiet for a few minutes.”

Birds: “Peep. Peep. Peeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeep.”

Both of us: Hysterical laughter.

Bread: “Those bastards are being evicted today.”

Me: “No! There are babies. They won’t live! At least wait until they can fly.”

Bread: “You do realize they are dropping mass amounts of bird shit into our windowsill.”

Me: “Get rid of those sick, filthy animals.”

Bread: “That’s what I thought.”

This morning I woke up to complete silence. I felt bad. I still feel bad. I keep thinking about what we could have done differently. Maybe I should have posted a sign. Attention Birds: No Nest Building. Thank You, Management. We should have given them a warning or at least a notice. People get notices before they’re evicted, right? Those poor animals. I am going straight to hell.

All that's Missing is Bing Crosby Tap Dancing with Danny Fucking-Kaye

I’ve spoken before about my extended family and their quirks. My Grampy and Grandma are basically the center of most things. Grampy has been a bit under the weather; as I mentioned before he has a pacemaker. He has been in the hospital for the past five days because his ticker wasn’t quite working right. He’s feeling much better now (he had a very rough night on Thursday) and should be coming home later this week.

Grampy is a very active man; he doesn’t sit still for long. He has a garden, a barn and he loves to tinker. Being cooped up in a hospital is, needless to say, not his cup of tea. Yesterday, Bread, Bird and I headed out for a visit. Coincidentally, my brother (Uncle H), my Grandma (she and Grampy have been married for 55 years) and my mom were also there.

I don’t know if I can do this scene justice but I’m going to try. We walk in. Grampy is sharing a room with some other guy. The room is divided by a curtain. Oh! How private and lovely! Not really. Immediately, Bird runs for the bed, climbs up and starts jumping. Boing! Boing! Boing! The man, sharing the room, behind the curtain, is coughing. I mean, really coughing, as in, don’t look under the curtain because I’m about 95 percent certain there’s a lung on the floor. Cough! Gurgle! Cough! Boing! Boing! Boing! Grandma starts asking Grampy if he needs his oxygen. Grampy says not now. Grandma keeps pushing until Grampy tells her, “I don’t want to be too reliant on that.” Yeah, oxygen? Totally overrated. Boing! Boing! Boing! Cough! Gurgle! Cough!

Meanwhile, Bread, my mom, and Uncle H are holding a conversation over Bird and her trampoline. My mom turns to my Grandma to ask her about the local fireworks, which are scheduled for this Friday. She wants to know if they’re really going to happen. My Grandma sort of rudely shouts at her that, “Yes, they’re happening and I don’t really want people to come over and I don’t want to cook hotdogs.” WTF? Boing! Boing! Boing! Cough! Gurgle! Cough!

Uncle H then says, “I think I have hemorrhoids.” Boing! Boing! Boing! Grandma “whispers” in a voice that could wake Elvis,”What happened to?" (jerks thumb over shoulder at empty bed in the room across the hall). “Did he die?” Grampy, without skipping a beat replies, “I didn’t know it wasn’t my turn to watch him.” While the rest of us, chastise Grandma for being so blunt and loud (she always is), she then feels the need to explain that, “he was old, I mean really old.” Boing! Boing! Boing!

To change the subject, I tell Grampy that he looks a lot better today. He decides to tell us that he feels much better than he did on Thursday. His words exactly, “When they first sent me here, I was afraid I was going to die. Then, that first night, I was afraid I wasn’t!” while laughing. Of course, the rest of us are laughing. Jokes about death are always humorous! Boing! Boing! Boing! Cough! Gurgle! Cough!

At this point, I kind of realize how loud we are. There are seven of us squeezed into a very tiny, curtained area. Bird has moved on to trying to “tickle” the baseball players on the world’s smallest television. Grandma starts in with the oxygen again. Grampy is rolling his eyes. The man next store has proclaimed, to whoever is visiting him, “The doctor says if I lose some weight and quit the booze, I’ll be doing good. Haaaaaggggkkkk.” Um, I’m not exactly a doctor, but, based on your size (he was massive) and that cough, I think you may need to lose more than a few pounds (perhaps a person or two) and perhaps see about getting a lung transplant. I’m just saying. Bird resumes jumping. Boing! Boing! Boing!

A nurse stops to look in our room. I take that as a hint. Okay, ‘tis time to depart. We are saying our good-byes. Grampy asks Bread if he’s still working a lot of hours. Grampy, obviously now retired, was in the same career field as Bread, so he has a vested interest in Bread and his workload. Bread tells him that he is still working lots of hours. Grampy, with a twinkle in his eye, replies, “Good. And, keep paying that Social Security!”

We left, and I suppose, I didn’t think much of this visit. It’s normal for me. But, then Bread and I were replaying the events of the afternoon and we laughed so hard we cried. Reliant on oxygen! Yelling about fireworks! ‘Rhoids! Coughing! Jumping! It was, in actuality, a scene straight out of a Griswold movie. My family is the Griswold’s! All we need is an RV, with an over-filled shitter, and an asshole in a bathrobe to empty it! OMG! Next time I’ll film!