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.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, June 21, 2010
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!
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!
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Polyester: Only for the Hardcore
Dear Elderly Lady,
Since it’s nearly 80 degrees and quite humid, and you are wearing a sweater, blouse, slacks and some snazzy hose, it’s clear you did not check the weather report today. I hope you don’t sweat to death while you wait for your Smart Bus to pick you up and take you to Bingo. Have a lovely time! I hope it's air conditioned!
Signed,
Over-Heating in Breathable Cotton
P.S. The 1970’s called and they want their synthetic fabrics back.
P.P.S. You really know how to rock an elastic waistband.
Since it’s nearly 80 degrees and quite humid, and you are wearing a sweater, blouse, slacks and some snazzy hose, it’s clear you did not check the weather report today. I hope you don’t sweat to death while you wait for your Smart Bus to pick you up and take you to Bingo. Have a lovely time! I hope it's air conditioned!
Signed,
Over-Heating in Breathable Cotton
P.S. The 1970’s called and they want their synthetic fabrics back.
P.P.S. You really know how to rock an elastic waistband.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
I SHOULD NOT BE LEFT TO CARE FOR A CHILD
I’ve been in a breakfast rut lately. I am not a mom who can skip breakfast. Actually, I can’t skip any meal, for that matter. I also don’t like to miss snack time. Huh. Anyway, I used to eat oatmeal (the old fashioned kind) every day. I got sick of it, and since then, I don’t actually like it anymore. Every now and again I make it just to try; Bread eats it daily so he’s constantly telling me to try it with apples or blueberries. Whatever the combination is, I haven’t loved it in a couple years.
This morning, while Bird was quietly enjoying her usual, I decided I would try oatmeal again. I have to make it on the stove. I hate the microwave. I almost never cook or reheat anything in it. So, I put my milk in the pan and turned on the stove. I stood there stirring and stirring because I hate when the milk burns and sticks to the pan. Being the multi-tasker that I am, I began texting Bread at work.
8:41 am
Me to Bread: Top o’ the morning!
8:48 am
Me: You ever heard of Grace Potter and the Nocturnals?
8:55 am
Me: Decided to try oatmeal today. Been standing her stirring for about 15 minutes. Think I may shit my pants.
9:05 am
Bread to Me: Put fresh blueberries in there w/some brown sugar…yum.
9:08 am
Me: I’m still fucking waiting. I feel like the milk is playing a prank on me!
9:10 am
Me: This is worse than making pudding and pudding tastes good, at least.
9:15 am
Me: OMG. I had the wrong fucking burner on. What a fucking jackass. I kept checking for that to be the case. Looked several times.
9:21 am
Bread to Me: I’m totally NOT laughing right now.
9:23 am
Me: I bet. Liar.
I swear that I repeatedly checked to see if I had the correct burner on. I could feel the heat and my milk was bubbly. Obviously, I was deluded. It took me 35 minutes to figure out I had the wrong burner on. That’s how my Tuesday began. No worries. I’m completely okay with being a complete moron. It does slightly frighten me that while typing this up I was laughing hysterically. But, I always say, if you can’t laugh at yourself you shouldn’t laugh at others. My friends, I’ve got all the right in the world to laugh at you. You better believe that was the best fetching oatmeal I've had in years!
This morning, while Bird was quietly enjoying her usual, I decided I would try oatmeal again. I have to make it on the stove. I hate the microwave. I almost never cook or reheat anything in it. So, I put my milk in the pan and turned on the stove. I stood there stirring and stirring because I hate when the milk burns and sticks to the pan. Being the multi-tasker that I am, I began texting Bread at work.
8:41 am
Me to Bread: Top o’ the morning!
8:48 am
Me: You ever heard of Grace Potter and the Nocturnals?
8:55 am
Me: Decided to try oatmeal today. Been standing her stirring for about 15 minutes. Think I may shit my pants.
9:05 am
Bread to Me: Put fresh blueberries in there w/some brown sugar…yum.
9:08 am
Me: I’m still fucking waiting. I feel like the milk is playing a prank on me!
9:10 am
Me: This is worse than making pudding and pudding tastes good, at least.
9:15 am
Me: OMG. I had the wrong fucking burner on. What a fucking jackass. I kept checking for that to be the case. Looked several times.
9:21 am
Bread to Me: I’m totally NOT laughing right now.
9:23 am
Me: I bet. Liar.
I swear that I repeatedly checked to see if I had the correct burner on. I could feel the heat and my milk was bubbly. Obviously, I was deluded. It took me 35 minutes to figure out I had the wrong burner on. That’s how my Tuesday began. No worries. I’m completely okay with being a complete moron. It does slightly frighten me that while typing this up I was laughing hysterically. But, I always say, if you can’t laugh at yourself you shouldn’t laugh at others. My friends, I’ve got all the right in the world to laugh at you. You better believe that was the best fetching oatmeal I've had in years!
Monday, June 14, 2010
The Way We Are
Back in the day when I was richer and thinner, I used to constantly buy new clothes. I read tons of magazines specifically for the fashion advice and loved any reason to dress up. I never really had a specific style icon; I tried lots of different looks. When I look back on it, I don’t know that I was ever really as fashionable as I believed I was. I have had many “what were you thinking” moments. I suppose we all have. I still love all that stuff. My current style resembles Jennifer Garner’s (and I don’t mean the red carpet Jennifer Garner-I’m talking the jeans and t-shirt version), if any celebrity. I’m okay with this because it’s comfortable and the older I get the more comfortable I want to be. Sigh.
My tot has become quite the little fashionista. I don’t believe I forced this on her. She has to have a choice from her wardrobe every day. This means: she has to approve of what I’ve selected for her. She always has to pick out her own panties. This is a huge deal. She likes me to polish her nails. She believes she puts make up on daily. She must have the final say in what shoes she’ll wear (did I mention she has nearly as many shoes as I do). She loves her sparkly Converse Mary Jane’s. I find it to be fascinating that, while she has many items she loves, she does not wish to only wear the beloved things. She isn’t demanding to wear the same shirt each day; it’s as if she knows that would be too much of a good thing.
She has her own style icons already. Until last week, when she got her first haircut, her hair was down the middle of her back. Her favorite hairstyle was twin braids ala Judy Garland in the Wizard of Oz, or Rainbow, as Bird calls her. She’s also a fan of every Disney Princess but specifically Belle, Cinderella and Tiana. There are many days when she requests a “beautiful gown and dress” like Belle or Cinderella or Tiana…
As I’ve mentioned before it’s great to see a little piece of yourself in your child. Raising children brings out the vanity in us all, I suppose. Like many women, I always wanted to have a little girl to do girlie things with. Now I do. This is one of the great parts of parenthood; the part you dream about before you have a kid. The type of thing you can envision when you think about what your life will be like once (if) you have children. What they don’t tell you is that the little fashion lover/hunter/sports fanatic you once dreamed of, may climb into your bed at 6 AM, on a Monday morning, proceed to throw up all over your bed and you won’t mind on little bit. Good morning!
My tot has become quite the little fashionista. I don’t believe I forced this on her. She has to have a choice from her wardrobe every day. This means: she has to approve of what I’ve selected for her. She always has to pick out her own panties. This is a huge deal. She likes me to polish her nails. She believes she puts make up on daily. She must have the final say in what shoes she’ll wear (did I mention she has nearly as many shoes as I do). She loves her sparkly Converse Mary Jane’s. I find it to be fascinating that, while she has many items she loves, she does not wish to only wear the beloved things. She isn’t demanding to wear the same shirt each day; it’s as if she knows that would be too much of a good thing.
She has her own style icons already. Until last week, when she got her first haircut, her hair was down the middle of her back. Her favorite hairstyle was twin braids ala Judy Garland in the Wizard of Oz, or Rainbow, as Bird calls her. She’s also a fan of every Disney Princess but specifically Belle, Cinderella and Tiana. There are many days when she requests a “beautiful gown and dress” like Belle or Cinderella or Tiana…
As I’ve mentioned before it’s great to see a little piece of yourself in your child. Raising children brings out the vanity in us all, I suppose. Like many women, I always wanted to have a little girl to do girlie things with. Now I do. This is one of the great parts of parenthood; the part you dream about before you have a kid. The type of thing you can envision when you think about what your life will be like once (if) you have children. What they don’t tell you is that the little fashion lover/hunter/sports fanatic you once dreamed of, may climb into your bed at 6 AM, on a Monday morning, proceed to throw up all over your bed and you won’t mind on little bit. Good morning!
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Will You Be My Friend?
I am working on making friends in my area. I do have friends, however, I don’t have any that live closer than a 30 minute drive (I felt the need to clarify that I am not a total loser). I decided that playtime at the local library is a good place to do this.
Being the introvert (translation: social idiot) that I am, making friends is not easy for me. I get nervous. I worry about saying the wrong thing and try to make jokes that are always misunderstood. I mumble. I perspire. Inevitably, I make myself out to be a complete nutter.
After these encounters, or any social activity, I recollect the events and berate myself for being a moron; thus, an explanation for my strong desire to remain a recluse. But, as most moms will tell you, you do just about anything for your kids. For my lovely tot, I am trying to make some local friends. That’s not to say this isn’t a bit self-serving; I would love having a friend close by, upon whom, I could call at random hours of the day when things are, perhaps, not going well. We could enjoy a cocktail whilst our young ones play in the road. Someone to hang out with at the local parks would be fantastic. Er, someone with a kid who would run tireless with Bird while we moms relax on a bench. I would love somebody to do my daily walk with (really somebody to make me move my big ass faster).
So, today, I forced myself out of my shell. I did myself up. This means that I did not wear Yoga pants and I put on mascara. We headed to the library. There were moms galore! And one dad but he was WEIRD. WEIRD. There were lots of normal looking people there too. The last time I tried this, a cross- eyed lady tried to befriend me! WTF does that say about me? Am I a freak show? Do not answer that!
Anyway, I tried to make a friend. A lady spoke to me! I was excited. However, she wasn’t my usual type. She was a bit of an older mom. This is fine. Beggars cannot be choosers, we all know this. We started to talk, she asked about Bird and I asked about her two kids. Well, as it turns out, she has five kids! Five! How do you even get out of the house with that many kids? But, then it gets better. It turns out she has five kids, she’s a fellow stay-at-home mom, she home schools, AND they only have one car. WHAT! You mean you’re trapped inside with your kids most of the long, long winter? No way! I mean, I can appreciate walking here and there but what about when you just need to get out? I suppose when you have five kids you don’t really need play dates. How do you get to Costco? This is the first thing that pops into my head! You cannot walk there. You cannot carry large cases of water, dog food and canned tomatoes. This would not work! She must shop there. How could you not shop there if you had five kids? I need to find her next week and ask! I need to know! I hope she knows about Costco! I could save her money! I will show her the way! And, if we’re going to be friends, I’ll bring the cocktails over to her house…Something tells me we probably won't make it that far!
Being the introvert (translation: social idiot) that I am, making friends is not easy for me. I get nervous. I worry about saying the wrong thing and try to make jokes that are always misunderstood. I mumble. I perspire. Inevitably, I make myself out to be a complete nutter.
After these encounters, or any social activity, I recollect the events and berate myself for being a moron; thus, an explanation for my strong desire to remain a recluse. But, as most moms will tell you, you do just about anything for your kids. For my lovely tot, I am trying to make some local friends. That’s not to say this isn’t a bit self-serving; I would love having a friend close by, upon whom, I could call at random hours of the day when things are, perhaps, not going well. We could enjoy a cocktail whilst our young ones play in the road. Someone to hang out with at the local parks would be fantastic. Er, someone with a kid who would run tireless with Bird while we moms relax on a bench. I would love somebody to do my daily walk with (really somebody to make me move my big ass faster).
So, today, I forced myself out of my shell. I did myself up. This means that I did not wear Yoga pants and I put on mascara. We headed to the library. There were moms galore! And one dad but he was WEIRD. WEIRD. There were lots of normal looking people there too. The last time I tried this, a cross- eyed lady tried to befriend me! WTF does that say about me? Am I a freak show? Do not answer that!
Anyway, I tried to make a friend. A lady spoke to me! I was excited. However, she wasn’t my usual type. She was a bit of an older mom. This is fine. Beggars cannot be choosers, we all know this. We started to talk, she asked about Bird and I asked about her two kids. Well, as it turns out, she has five kids! Five! How do you even get out of the house with that many kids? But, then it gets better. It turns out she has five kids, she’s a fellow stay-at-home mom, she home schools, AND they only have one car. WHAT! You mean you’re trapped inside with your kids most of the long, long winter? No way! I mean, I can appreciate walking here and there but what about when you just need to get out? I suppose when you have five kids you don’t really need play dates. How do you get to Costco? This is the first thing that pops into my head! You cannot walk there. You cannot carry large cases of water, dog food and canned tomatoes. This would not work! She must shop there. How could you not shop there if you had five kids? I need to find her next week and ask! I need to know! I hope she knows about Costco! I could save her money! I will show her the way! And, if we’re going to be friends, I’ll bring the cocktails over to her house…Something tells me we probably won't make it that far!
Monday, June 7, 2010
You Don't Have to Go Home but You Can't Stay Here
I am officially old. I just returned from a dinner and shopping date with a younger friend, Claire. Just take a guess where we went shopping…Costco! We went to Costco! She asked! This is so not my fault. I did not force this on her. I showed her the ways of buying in bulk and saving oodles of cash! I am a lunatic! I was so excited! I kept forgetting how dorky it is to get that excited about saving money on salsa.
She is getting married in a few weeks and she is a fellow saver. She mentioned wanting to go there with me. I was all over that! I am always eager to show others the way. I mean, it’s exclusive! You can’t even get in the door without your VIP card! Granted, you pay for that card but, nonetheless, you need a card. I am so important.
We were there for nearly an hour and a half! We just keep looking and shrieking with delight over the bargains. I felt better about my obsession once Claire started to get into it. She’s a good shopper; she knows the cost of everything so she was very impressed by the Costco value. Apparently, we were there too long. They closed! We were told we had to leave! They didn’t make an announcement or anything. An employee just came and found us. He told us they were closed and that we should go pay. WTF? Target tells me when they are closing. I get a warning. I can prioritize my final minutes. We didn’t even get to hit the dried fruit section! We missed healthy and beauty! Deals! I needed to show her the Del Monte Organic Tomatoes! Those bastards! They can’t just do that! We were talking! We were shopping! We needed a final warning. Don’t they know who I am? I’m a fucking member. I have a card! I spend a fortune there! Don’t they know me! I remember when I used to get kicked out of the bar. Now, I’m being forced to leave a retail establishment before I’m ready. I was kicking and screaming but I was not drunk. I was stone-cold sober and completely devastated. DON’T THEY KNOW WHO I AM?
She is getting married in a few weeks and she is a fellow saver. She mentioned wanting to go there with me. I was all over that! I am always eager to show others the way. I mean, it’s exclusive! You can’t even get in the door without your VIP card! Granted, you pay for that card but, nonetheless, you need a card. I am so important.
We were there for nearly an hour and a half! We just keep looking and shrieking with delight over the bargains. I felt better about my obsession once Claire started to get into it. She’s a good shopper; she knows the cost of everything so she was very impressed by the Costco value. Apparently, we were there too long. They closed! We were told we had to leave! They didn’t make an announcement or anything. An employee just came and found us. He told us they were closed and that we should go pay. WTF? Target tells me when they are closing. I get a warning. I can prioritize my final minutes. We didn’t even get to hit the dried fruit section! We missed healthy and beauty! Deals! I needed to show her the Del Monte Organic Tomatoes! Those bastards! They can’t just do that! We were talking! We were shopping! We needed a final warning. Don’t they know who I am? I’m a fucking member. I have a card! I spend a fortune there! Don’t they know me! I remember when I used to get kicked out of the bar. Now, I’m being forced to leave a retail establishment before I’m ready. I was kicking and screaming but I was not drunk. I was stone-cold sober and completely devastated. DON’T THEY KNOW WHO I AM?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Go Shit Yourself
Dear Readers,
I just sat down to work on a post for this evening. I was finishing up a baseball game; the Detroit Tigers versus the Cleveland Indians. I’m a huge Tiger fan. Armando Galarraga was robbed of a perfect game by a terrible call. I am pissed. Jessie Domestic is outraged! It was a terrible call. I’ve nothing to post due to my current sour mood. Bastards! I hope the umpire, who made that call, is struck with terrible diarrhea tonight. I hope he fails to make it to the bathroom. Thanks for ruining my day, asshat.
Signed,
One Pissed-Off Domestic Diva
I just sat down to work on a post for this evening. I was finishing up a baseball game; the Detroit Tigers versus the Cleveland Indians. I’m a huge Tiger fan. Armando Galarraga was robbed of a perfect game by a terrible call. I am pissed. Jessie Domestic is outraged! It was a terrible call. I’ve nothing to post due to my current sour mood. Bastards! I hope the umpire, who made that call, is struck with terrible diarrhea tonight. I hope he fails to make it to the bathroom. Thanks for ruining my day, asshat.
Signed,
One Pissed-Off Domestic Diva
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Lions, Tigers and Bears!
Something about the days following a long-weekend renders me completely useless. I have no ambition and no energy to do anything. This past Memorial Day weekend, is no exception to this. I am done. Bird took a four hour nap today and I did nothing but read and nap for three of those hours. I did the bare minimum of cleaning and laundry for one hour but that was it. It’s a good thing one of us GOT UP AND WENT TO WORK!
Holiday weekends, or pretty much any event, are completely different with a kid. For example, a simple trip to the zoo equals three hours of preparation. You have to pack a cooler. You need sunglasses, hats, sunscreen, extra clothes in case the child shits her pants (we were pretty safe on this front since she did, indeed, shit her pants prior to our departure but you can never be sure). You need beverages. You’ll want your camera. You may need Neosporin. You definitely want to bring the anti-bacterial lotion. Don’t forget wipes. A good variety of snacks is a necessity. You never know what your over-tired, over-sunned Little-Shit will want to eat. This could be crucial to the level of fun you’ll have at said excursion. Don’t forget the EpiPen and remember what bag it’s in because God forbid she be exposed to a fucking peanut and ruin the whole day by having her body swell. Oh, and we can’t leave the EpiPen in the sun. It can’t get warmer than 86 degrees or it will no longer work. That would be really, really bad. What about the stroller? Or, should we bring the wagon? Do we need a picnic blanket? Should we bring paper plates and cutlery? Is there a need for band-aids? Do we have books for the car ride there? Is it supposed to rain? Do we have a poncho? Who owns a fucking poncho?
The list is endless. It goes on and on and on. Then, once you arrive at said destination, it’s imperative that you find the restroom. Once that is done and the child (or children--how do you people do this?) has to get strapped back into their stroller, which they won’t want to ride in, but damn it, we came to see some animals and if you don’t get into the stroller we are never going to have time to see any animals so get in the stroller before I hit you with it! Ahem.
And, let’s not forget the part where we brought along my brother and his girlfriend, both of whom are legends to Bird. These two have no kids but love to hang out with our tot. We like them, so, of course, we’re glad they want to come along. Anyhow, they have no kids and probably are not prepared for all that having kids entails: the whining, the fits, the need to be forced to use the restroom every time we pass one, the scheduled meal times and the need for independence. They showed up with water and chips. We showed up with enough to feed an army and then some. A round of juice boxes for everyone!
Did I mention we went to the zoo? Ah, yes, the zoo. We went to the zoo. It was only supposed to be 82 degrees. Yes, but here in the Mid-west, we have this thing called humidity. That makes it feel really hot. So a pleasant 82 degree day becomes hotter than two mice humping in a wool sock. That’s the kind of day we had. A round of swamp crotch for everyone!
We paid $5 to feed the giraffes. This entailed getting to the giraffe exhibit at precisely 1 PM, waiting in line with a bunch of people who also shelled out for this “experience,” receiving a lecture by someone official, who was overly excited about the giraffes about not actually touching the giraffes or making any noise and spending exactly 27 seconds feeding said giraffe. You are welcome for that. I don’t think $5 is a lot of money. I just thought it would be different. I’m not sure what I was envisioning, me, Bird and the giraffes frolicking in the meadow with happy music playing in the background?
Overall, Bird had an exceptional time which is why we spent 14 hours packing and preparing for this adventure. If you ask her, she will tell you all of the animals we saw and she can also list random facts about them. For example, she is now proudly informed that giraffe can’t bite you because their teeth are really far in the back. She’s so smart. A round of tears for everyone!
Holiday weekends, or pretty much any event, are completely different with a kid. For example, a simple trip to the zoo equals three hours of preparation. You have to pack a cooler. You need sunglasses, hats, sunscreen, extra clothes in case the child shits her pants (we were pretty safe on this front since she did, indeed, shit her pants prior to our departure but you can never be sure). You need beverages. You’ll want your camera. You may need Neosporin. You definitely want to bring the anti-bacterial lotion. Don’t forget wipes. A good variety of snacks is a necessity. You never know what your over-tired, over-sunned Little-Shit will want to eat. This could be crucial to the level of fun you’ll have at said excursion. Don’t forget the EpiPen and remember what bag it’s in because God forbid she be exposed to a fucking peanut and ruin the whole day by having her body swell. Oh, and we can’t leave the EpiPen in the sun. It can’t get warmer than 86 degrees or it will no longer work. That would be really, really bad. What about the stroller? Or, should we bring the wagon? Do we need a picnic blanket? Should we bring paper plates and cutlery? Is there a need for band-aids? Do we have books for the car ride there? Is it supposed to rain? Do we have a poncho? Who owns a fucking poncho?
The list is endless. It goes on and on and on. Then, once you arrive at said destination, it’s imperative that you find the restroom. Once that is done and the child (or children--how do you people do this?) has to get strapped back into their stroller, which they won’t want to ride in, but damn it, we came to see some animals and if you don’t get into the stroller we are never going to have time to see any animals so get in the stroller before I hit you with it! Ahem.
And, let’s not forget the part where we brought along my brother and his girlfriend, both of whom are legends to Bird. These two have no kids but love to hang out with our tot. We like them, so, of course, we’re glad they want to come along. Anyhow, they have no kids and probably are not prepared for all that having kids entails: the whining, the fits, the need to be forced to use the restroom every time we pass one, the scheduled meal times and the need for independence. They showed up with water and chips. We showed up with enough to feed an army and then some. A round of juice boxes for everyone!
Did I mention we went to the zoo? Ah, yes, the zoo. We went to the zoo. It was only supposed to be 82 degrees. Yes, but here in the Mid-west, we have this thing called humidity. That makes it feel really hot. So a pleasant 82 degree day becomes hotter than two mice humping in a wool sock. That’s the kind of day we had. A round of swamp crotch for everyone!
We paid $5 to feed the giraffes. This entailed getting to the giraffe exhibit at precisely 1 PM, waiting in line with a bunch of people who also shelled out for this “experience,” receiving a lecture by someone official, who was overly excited about the giraffes about not actually touching the giraffes or making any noise and spending exactly 27 seconds feeding said giraffe. You are welcome for that. I don’t think $5 is a lot of money. I just thought it would be different. I’m not sure what I was envisioning, me, Bird and the giraffes frolicking in the meadow with happy music playing in the background?
Overall, Bird had an exceptional time which is why we spent 14 hours packing and preparing for this adventure. If you ask her, she will tell you all of the animals we saw and she can also list random facts about them. For example, she is now proudly informed that giraffe can’t bite you because their teeth are really far in the back. She’s so smart. A round of tears for everyone!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)