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!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
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.”
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.”
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
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!
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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.
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!
.JPG)
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.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
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.
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.
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