Turtlellini

Droop

2006-09-15T14:00:00.000-07:00

I have left Blogspot for Myspace. My boner has gone completely flacid for blogging since March. I don't know what else to tell you.

I love you, Lordy Lord!!

2006-03-27T10:56:00.000-08:00

Hi. Long time no update. Sorry. I just ain't had the boner for writing lately.

But right now I feel a chubby coming on, so I am taking advantage.

Check this out. This is religious satire at it's finest. Sorry to all you believers out there for poking fun at the man, but this shit is just too good.

The lead "singer" is the younger brother of an old friend of mine. Isn't he a peach?!?!

http://youtube.com/watch?v=hiS2ze4q9xE

My favorite parts: Josh's cheezy rocker moves at the mic; The keyboardist head banging goodness, and the scene where he rips off his shirt; Three fags holding hands outside of the church, and the lyrics: "You came from nowhere....just to be here. Coincidence had it that you landed on earth, and nowhere else. THAT's COOOool!"

SHOW THAT YOU LOVE JESUS BY PASSING THIS ON!!!!!

Two Years of Motherhood Under My Belt (I'm counting my pregnacy!)

2006-03-03T06:35:00.000-08:00

So we pulled it off. We threw Buck his first birthday party and as far as I'm concerned--it was a success!

Ross made him a giant Puppy Dog birthday cake for the day of his party.

Though after he was finished with his very first personal chocolate cake given to him by his Aunt Kate on his actual birthday, he could have passed for a black baby because he somehow managed to coat his entire face with the chocolate icing, (*picture to be inserted here at a later date*), both times he had access to his very own whole cake was very polite about it, just taking tastes of it from the tip of his finger. No gouging, hugging, throwing or smashing the cake for him! (darn!)

He raked in a good half year's worth of clothes, more toys than we have room for in the house, and $617.00 in birthday money going straight into his college fund. I'm currently researching a good, agressive mutual fund to invest it in.

Phew!

Anyway. I really don't have anything to share with you except an email conversation that I've been having with a girlfriend of mine. She doesn't have any kids, but she fell in love with a little girl who lives in an orphanage in Romania when she was visiting recently and is desperate to adopt her, but is bound by international law that prohibits it. So she is heart broken.

Funny how life changes us. She and I used to commisserate together on how annoying people with kids were. We had no desire whatsoever to be puked on, shit on, pissed on, wore out, tied down, etc, etc, you know....all the "joys" of motherhood. We totally got the humor delivered to us by Seinfeld in the "Ya gotta see the baby!" episode.

Well, I didn't take as long as she did to succumb to the tick tock of the biological clock. The alarm went off on my 29th birthday, and it wasn't the soothing sound of smooth jazz. It was that annoying BEEP BEEP BEEP, ANGT! ANGT! ANGT! of a fucking clock going off at 5 am when you feel like you just laid down.

I had to hit the snooze button so that I could hurry up and divorce my husband at the time who was ugly and had a vasectomy. Badda bing, badda bang, here I am. Happily remarried, (for the most part) and blessed with a beautiful, healthy and robust son.

I was just recently telling her how different my body feels lately. I'm tired, man. I now have dark circles under my eyes which, up until NOW I've been able to somehow avoid, despite my genetics, (my mom carries some serious luggage under her eyes), my stomach is now an empty, wrinkly sack of flesh, my face has deep grooves in it and my skin looks like fried chicken due to the excessive tanning I've recently subjected my grill to, you know--like a responsible mother would, of course.

Pregnancy permanently changes things in you. Sometimes the changes are drastic, but I am one of the lucky ones who has only had to endure the subtle changes. Like the fact that my nails won't really get past a certain point anymore. I used to have naturally long, strong and healthy nails. They're still healthy, but they are not long anymore. They are constantly breaking and snagging.

It's difficult, sometimes, to tell whether some of the permanent changes your body undergoes is due to maternity or aging. I think my face is an example of both.

Anyway, I'm digressing again, as is my M.O.

She was busy telling me how she can now understand the appeal of motherhood now because she knows what I mean when I say, (after all the complaining about how tired, exhausted, broke down and busted I've become), "Hot damn if after a long, exhausting day I look into my back seat and see my "big" boy sitting up in his new "big boy" car seat, staring out the window, babbling to himself, I don't want to slam on the brakes, pull over, crawl back there and EAT HIM ALIVE!!!!! "Oooh, munchy munchy gobble gobbley gobble munch yummy oomph yumph smooch!"

I told her that you know you love somebody like a mommy loves somebody when you react to temper tantrums with empathy and kisses.

Just last night, Buck was acting like a total pill. He was tired so he was crying, screaming, thrashing, throwing his head back, (to the point where, if I didn’t CATCH him, he’d have slammed the back of his head onto the floor. HARD. ) -- writhing, squirming, tears, purple face, open mouth--it was SO DIFFICULT trying to get his clothes on! Everything I did just pissed him off more.

If he wasn’t my kid, I would have probably desired nothing more than to drop him straight into the kitchen trash can, set the can out on the patio, go back inside and wipe my hands together after slamming the door shut.

But since he was MINE, and I LOVE him so much, I just kept kissing him and sympathizing with his terrible woes.

You know….cuz it must be SO HARD getting a warm bath, being dried off with warm air from a hair dryer, having your teeth brushed with an electric Elmo toothbrush, being lotioned up, having your ass powdered and diapered and then zipped up into some pj’s with footies when all you wanna do is just play play play and then go to bed!!!

Four Memes Part Dooks!

2006-02-10T13:53:00.000-08:00

Four jobs I’ve had:

1) Paper Girl.

My first job was a paper route and I had 75 customers. I started doing it by myself at the age of 10 to 14. The fact that I was a teeny, tiny, 55 lb soaking wet little squirt of a kid proved to be quite profitable in the tip department come collection days.

However, Sundays and Wednesdays were a bitch, because all of the papers squeezed into my big ol’ double pouched paper bag with a hole in the middle for my head weighed about twice as much as I did.

I once got knocked over in the snow by a dog and was stuck there like an upturned turtle until I burrowed a hole for myself and weaseled myself out of my bag. I'm sure the neighbors got to hear some pretty colorful language coming out of a tiny little 12 yr old mouth that day.

Even today I attribute my status as a chronic early riser to my first job as a paper carrier. Also, I still find myself explaining to people that the reason I walk so fast is because I used to have a paper route.

2) Movie Theatre Cashier / Concessions.

I won’t tell you where, but here’s a hint: I served diet cokes to Robin Zander and his wife one night. It was probably the funnest job I've ever had.

Besides getting to see all the movies for free, (and some more than I ever wanted to see, like the abominable fact that I can recite every corny line in Rodehouse), I got to sneak all the friends that I had who weren't employed by the theatre in too.

Also, here's just a short list of antics that I, along with the friends who did work there with me, were responsible for:

Staging falls down the aisles with the largest bucket of popcorn
Dumping same said buckets o’ popcorn over each other’ heads in staged fights
Daring each other to sit in the front row of Pet Cemetery and run out screaming when Zelda came on the screen
Making announcements telling everyone to remain calm and stay seated whenever The film for Revenge of the Red Baron would break down.
Dipping Q-tips into the "butter flavored canola oil" that the popcorn was cooked in and leaving them sitting out in conspicuous places, like the concession counters and bathroom sinks.

But the BIGGEST reason of all why that job rocked? Because despite the “just above minimum wage” pay that we earned, we also brought home wads of cash many a night because of a sweet ass scam we had going.

You see, the movie tickets were sold using a computer. We would type in the number of people, and what movie they wanted to see, which showing, etc, and the computer would then spit out a little digitally printed “ticket” that more resembled a receipt than a movie ticket.

Back then, admission was $5.50 per person. People typically attend movies in pairs, so each couple was worth $11. Well, whenever a couple came in and bought two tickets, if they left their tickets sitting on the cashier’s counter, (because the ushers were too busy smoking pot out back to actually COLLECT any tickets before people entered the theatre) we’d just re-sell it to the next couple in line w/out entering it into the system.

Often times we'd "help" them forget by just not handing it to them with their change. It would be sitting right there in front of them, but we wouldn't say anything.

30 couples a night yielded over $300 in cash in one night!

Just figure: We had about 5 theatres. Over the course of one shift, each movie played about three times. That’s 15 movies, only two couples per movie! Easy!

You might be wondering how we could get away with this right under the nose of our manager, even when one of the usher’s jobs was to count the number of people sitting in each theatre after each of the movies started. Well, they’d write that number down in pencil, folks. And everybody knows that pencils have erasers. (*ooh and nice points to fondle!*)

Besides. One of our managers was a coke head, one was a wall flower who never came out of her little cubby hole, and the other was a big, fat fastfood-hamburger-frenchfry-candy-popcorn-pop addict who was constantly warding off personal attacks from us.

You could also make a little extra cash at the concession stand by pressing an extra button or two on the cash register, (thereby allowing a customer to buy you an occasional box of sugar daddies or a coke that would then be returned later for a refund), or by short-changing them , (which was easier if you asked me) .50 cents here, a buck there. But it wasn’t possible to get away with WADS of cash the way you could as a cashier.

Not only did I use some of that $$ to have myself bailed out of jail at 17 (busted for “possession as a minor”...--god, wasn't i a good kid?) but I also dressed myself to the nines, took my friends out for fancy dinners and funded a couple of vacations for myself, the last of which was the end of my cashiering career.

When I returned home, I checked the schedule and did not find my name anywhere on there despite having told my manager when I would return! She just shrugged her shoulders and said “tough luck”.

Hm…. I remember thinking, “Shit. How am I going to sustain this lifestyle?!”
Which leads me to the next job.....

3) Cocktail Waitress / Bouncer (I.D. checker / Cover Charge collector) at a local titty bar.

I worked there off and on for five years. I was majoring in Anthropology in college at the time and considered it one big field project. I had a ball, got to drink on the job for free, got to disrespect men, deny entrance to stupid young bucks that couldn’t tell me their astrological signs, and paint my nails while I did it.

But the best reason of all for working there is that I raked in ass loads of cash just sitting on my ass in a doorway two to three nights a week. I worked Friday, Saturday & Sunday nights and spent the rest of my days going to college.

Whenever I reveal the fact that I used to work in a titty bar to people, they seem to automatically assume that I used to be a stripper. (Or, a “dancer” as the strippers like(d) to be called.)

But, no, I never worked as a “dancer”, walked around in a g-string, removed any clothing or did anything indecent for $$. (Unless you count letting some guy play with my hair for $50, or drink a beer out of my shoe for $75.) Is that indecent? I don’t think so. I'd have let that guy play with my hair for free!

Anyway, I like to watch people’s reaction when I tell them where I used to work because it gives the illusion that I am a little more exciting than I really am.

4) CarQuest Car Parts Delivery Person, Sycamore, IL.

I was one of only two girls on the team and the other girl didn’t count cuz she was ugly and had a terrible potty mouth. All the old men that I worked with would tell me about her foul mouth and tell me how much purtier I was cuz I was clean. Ha! Unfortunately, there were no tips—or I might’ve retired there.

Four movies I can watch over and over:

1) Sideways. With particular emphasis on the scene where Jack tells Miles that he'd like to drive, then makes sure that Miles is buckled up for safety before heading straight for a tree so as to make Miles' car appear as though it had been in an accident, to explain the broken nose he received from his jilted lover to his fiancee. Best line in the movie: Miles, "WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?! WHAT THE FUCK!!!???" ahahahaha!!! I die laughing every single time. I can't tell you how many times I've rewound that entire scene and watched it over and over again.

2) Amélie. Great story, great characters, awesome cinematography. The colors are amazing and Audrey Tatou is just a doll.

3) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind - You'll discover new things each and every time you watch it. A real mind bender.

4) I would say “Life is Beautiful (La Vita è bella)” like Shawna did, but I'm afraid my heart could't take it. I seriously dehydrated myself watching that movie. Instead I choose "National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation" I know every line.

Four places I have lived:

1) Rockford, Illinois

2) Chicago, Illinois

3) Sycamore, Illinois

4) Tempe, Arizona

Four TV shows I love:

1) Everyday Italian on the Food Network. Every night before I go to sleep, I pray that I’ll be Giada De Laurentiis when I wake up.

2) The Daily Show with Jon Stewart

3) The Colbert Report

4) Friends

Four places I’ve vacationed

1) Stateside: FL, CA, LA, MS, OK, NC, VA, PA, & AZ

2) Quito, Ecaador

3) Okinawa, Japan

4) Runaway Bay, Jamaica

Four of my favorite dishes:

Mugs, plates, bowls and salad pl--.....oh. nevermind.

1) Smoked Chicken Chille Relleno at Z-tejas. Orgasmic.

2) My mother-in-law’s Beer Stew.

3) Chicken Enchilada Soup, Chili’s.

4) Vegetable Koorma Curry & Chicken Tikka Masala, Pasand Indian Restaurant, Tempe AZ.

Four sites I visit daily:
(The only site I TRULY visit on a daily basis is the first one. The others are close runners up.)

1) Wells Fargo Banking Online

2) Blogsà Dooce / White Helmet / Barkside (I would have married Arj Barker if only he would have asked!)

3) Google

4) Dictionary.com. Because I’m not as smart as I look.

Four places I would rather be right now:

1) Getting a massage/facial/pedicure

2) Snorkeling in the Caribbean

3) At an outdoor rock show drinking beer w/my hubby

4) On vacation. Anywhere. (I guess that kinda duplicates #2, huh? Whatever. Kiss my ass.)

Five people I am tagging:

1) All FIVE of my imaginary friends!!!

Watch out you bitches!!!

MememeMememe ME; Part UNO

2006-02-09T12:42:00.000-08:00

I’ve been tagged for a Meme by Shawna, who basically tagged herself using Dooce’s arm.

Nah girl, I don’t mind. Since when DON’T I enjoy talking about me?

Although, I was kinda hopin’ to be asked about the five weird habits I have, rather than that other stuff. So, I’ll just combine all of it starting by tagging myself using Shawna’s arm with the 5 wierd habits thing.

Just as an aside…I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told that I am weird, "eccentric", quirky, etc. I don't really agree. I think my normalcy is exceedingly boring.

However, choosing only 5 of my wierd habits is extremely difficult, since it seems as though my entire existence is made up of wierd habits. But I’m doing this for you, my reader(s?). I'm sure that by "page two" you’ll be begging for it to end. Heh!

Weird habit #1:

Starting from the moment that my alarm clock jolts me out of my glorious slumber, (if the baby hasn’t already done it).

I must, must, must rub my legs all over my husband’s legs and then turn over so that I am facing away from him so I use the arch of my foot to cup his sweet ass. I then rub my feet back and forth over his soft bottom, occasionally smacking it lightly with my foot.

Ooh, I am gritting my teeth just thinking about it! He has the nicest, sweetest, spongiest, mooshiest ASS ever. Not only is it the perfect SHAPE, but it’s also nice and soft, and pliable and lusciously full. Just this morning I gave him a new nickname. “Sponge Butt Round Pants.” I love to grab big hand fulls and squeeeeeeze it.

I like to rub it with my feet, tuck my feet into it, and then back my butt up against it too.

Occasionally I will turn over to spoon and/or hump his butt. I really do not feel right getting out of bed unless I’ve molested his butt thoroughly. Consequently, he is not so happy about this habit, because it usually wakes him up. But I cannot resist getting my daily fix of BUTT.

Weird habit #2:

Crackin’ m’self. I have a habit of cracking all parts of my body. My knees, my feet, my toes, my fingers, my knuckles, wrists, elbows, neck, and back. Basically, wherever two bones join together anywhere in my body, I will try to crack it. I’m still trying to figure out how to crack my Malleus, Incus and Stapes. Snap, Crackle, Pop, yo!

I’ve done it ever since I can remember, but when I was younger—the cracking was much more elaborate. I used to be able to place the palm of one hand on either side of my lower back, bend backwards and “CRRRRRACCCK!” my whole spine would pop. T’was a glorious thing indeed. I truly miss it.

But old age and motherhood has changed all that. Now, only one side of my UPPER back will crack and it requires me to take my right hand and push forward on the back, right side of my head while using my neck muscles to hold my head in place. But only on the right side. It doesn’t work at all on the left side.

I get a good, solid and satisfying crack out of that and I’ll do it anytime, anywhere. People sometimes witness this and make faces to express their nausea.

I was recently told by someone, (can’t remember if it was a colleague or my husband who said it), but they watched me do that and said, “You know….that is a total GINGERism right there.”

Only my silly ass has strange bodily cracking rituals that I refuse to keep to myself. In moments of desperation, I’ve been known to use the receptionist’s front counter to bend over backwards, with my hands clasped behind my head and thrust my back against the counter for a quick crack fix.

Additonally, one of my husband’s “nightly duties” is to crack my back. I lay on the ground, exhale and *grin* as he mounts me, he pushes on my back until all the crunching stops.
My back is quite crunchy.

Consequently, Buck has inherited my crunchy back. All you have to do is pick him up the right way and you can hear and feel his little back popping. He likes it. Ross will even do it ON PURPOSE sometimes, while holding the boy up and saying, “Eww! Crunch baby!”
Buck just looks at me and smiles about it.

Weird habit #3:

Every time I see something cute, (like a baby, or a puppy, or a cute little squirrel or something) more than likely the first thing out of my mouth is, “Ooh, Woodjoo djust wook?!” with special emphasis on the word “DJUST”. As in “Woodjoo DJUST wook!!”

Translastion: “Would you just look?”

But I have to say it in my “doggie” dialect. My husband got a kick out of it when we first met and he heard me talking like that for the first time, so now he says it too. He knows that’s what must be said when there is something adorable to see. In fact, he has recently turned the entire phrase into a noun. He’ll say, “Look over there at that woodjoodjustwook.”

Also, special emphasis can also be made by gritting your teeth and preceding and/or following the phrase with “Ewww!!” i.e. “Ewww! Woodjoo DJUST wook!?!? Wewww!!”

That means that whatever I am looking at is EXTRA friggin cute! And if whatever I’m ‘woodjoo djust wook’ing at is within reach, I must grab it’s head, squeeze and shake it.

I have a lot of phrases that I say, but I don’t consider them “separate” weird habits, because these silly and strange phrases that I say are all within the same context. Retarded animal speak.

Another example: “Doo dee doo, son. Doo dee do.” All serious like. I guess that’s just my way of telling my canine son that he is “verr goo wooking”.

Oh, yes—let’s not forget “goo rooking”, (good looking). Or, “Grooking”. And “Eww Eww Eww” is another thing that can be said whilst grabbing an animal head, and simultaneously shaking/squeezing it.

“Droomied” = Groomed. “Dunn dooeet” = Don’t do it. "Mon wunn" = C'mon one. (One schunn)

My husband and I have an entire separate language that we speak amongst each other and it is a combination of our own private language and "doggie" speak. We also have the same pet name for each other. We are both “It”.

i.e. “Worst” = Where is it?
Translation: “Where are you?”
Howsit? Whatsit? Whirsit? Worst? (How are you, What are you doing, Where are you?)

And on and on.

Weird habit # 4.

Anal Retention / Rotation issues. I am obsessed with rotating things. Plants, towels, sheets, cleaning rags, tires, shampoos, cleaning products, even DISHES must all be properly rotated.

Rotating plants is self explanatory. Can’t have one side of the plant always getting’ all the sun. It’s also fun to see how the leaves reach for the sun whenever you rotate them too, so that when you turn your plant and the leaves are facing the middle of the room, they will soon turn towards the window and go the other way.

I would love to put a time lapse camera on them so I could watch my plants move and sway toward the sun. Woah, man. Maybe then I could see how they scream in fear, move and sway away from Buck as they see him approaching.

Towels. If you rotate your towels, (ie. Place the freshly laundered ones on the BOTTOM of the pile and only take towels from the TOP of the pile) you will prevent certain towels from becoming more tattered and used than the rest.

Nothing makes my arm hairs stand up more than when my husband “puts towels away” (of both the bath and dish variety) NOT folded into thirds, with the clean ones on the top of the pile. *gasp!* What the?

Same goes for cleaning rags, etc. The purpose of rotating things is to extend the expiration dates of the items. For example, if you bought four brand new towels, stacked them in your linen closet and always put the clean ones on top, and always took from the top of the pile, the bottom two would stay new and the top two would become faded and tattered twice as fast.

This way, you use everything evenly. Makes sense to me! Some could argue that you can use the new stuff till it gets old, then you have other new towels, etc to use! However, that goes against my obsessive-like tendencies. I feel as though everything should be used evenly. There can’t be an imbalance.

This whole practice of mine makes sense for most everything except for the dishes.

Plates, no matter how many times you use them, do not show signs of wear and tear unless you chip them. So, it is here where I KNOW that I am being a little “unreasonable”. But so what.

Mine are thick, heavy plates—so they do not chip easily. NONE of my plates or dishes are chipped. But I must rotate them just the same. AND…… the colors must be alternated.

I have yellow and green dishes. No two yellows or greens can be next to each other. If I find two of the same color next to each other, I quickly correct the problem. If I had more than two colors, they would have to be alternated accordingly.

Thankfully, my loving husband accommodates me on this “quirk”. I still have yet to get him to rotate the towels & rags, though. But then, he really doesn’t do much laundry, so it’s not really a problem most of the time.

Weird habit #5.

Pencil Molestation. There’s almost nothing better than a long, sharp pencil. And whenever I see one, I am absolutely COMPELLED to rub the pointed wooden part of the tip against the webs of skin between my fingers.

I slide the pencil back and forth, and twist the pencil and move it from one web to the next. I don’t have any finger web preference, any of them will do. I also like the feeling of that wooden part of the tip twisting and rubbing on the corners of my cuticles. The part closest to the end of my nail bed nearest the knuckles.

The bottom line here is that I cannot resist the urge to fondle sharp pencils whenever I see them. Sometimes I will sit at my desk with or even two of them, rubbing them between my fingers.

Note: This also works with those frosted plastic Bic pen caps affixed to the end of the pen. They are smooth and soft and I love them. I pilfer them from everywhere I can. Hotels, restaurants....you name it.

Occasionally I catch people watching me molest pencils or pens and I get a little self conscious about it, so I’ll stop until they quite looking. But them I’m right back to it when they look away.

Ho Hum

2006-02-07T13:59:00.000-08:00

Obviously I have not been much in the mood for writing lately. Just thought I'd pop in to change the scenery. So here ya go. Here's a gorilla eating a slice of pizza.

We went to Flagstaff to "relax" this weekend. Buck ended up getting sick and pretty much destroying any sort of relic or semblance of any kind of good time for us. Not his fault, I know. My heart went out to him at 2:30 a.m. when I was awoken to the sound of vomiting.

My mothering instincts woke me up just in time to hear the release, like when that dog, (Snots) on National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation barfs on a chicken bone under the dinner table on Christmas Eve. All that was missing was the preemptive warm up gags that dogs have.

That was the first time I've ever witnessed my son blow adult- like chunks. Until then, it was only large and small amounts of spit up. But this was no spit up. It was a straight up Ralph. And it was all over him, his pajamas, his pillow, the blanket he was on, everything. I was up for over an hour cleaning everything up and holding back my own gag reflexes every time I caught a wiff.

Horrible.

He also had a fever of 101.5, so after peeling off his barfy pj's, I left him in his diaper only and layed him down next to his papa. Then I gave him a sippy cup of Apple Juice & water and put fresh clean bedding in his crib. He went right back to sleep. He slept all the way home and then took another 2.5 hr nap after we arrived.

Oh, and my boss was HIGHLY annoyed when I called to tell him I was going to be a SAHM for a day since my babysitter has a policy that no kid can come to daycare unless they've been 24 hrs without a fever.

The policy where I work is that if you take a Friday and a Monday off, then you have to use your accrued vacation days to cover Saturday and Sunday as well. I guess it's to deter people from pulling the ol' Four Day Weekend trick. I have Mondays off, so hip hip hooray, niggas! I got one day off for the price of five! Fuggin Yay!

Mr. Clean Ahould Advertise during the Maury Povich Show

2006-01-30T10:15:00.000-08:00

Oh my god you guys, I feel SOOOoooo dirty. NOT because I haven't had a shower yet today, but because I happened upon the Maury Povich show when I was flipping through the channels looking for some background t.v. while I windexed the coffee table & plant stand free of banana and strawberry baby drool and hand soot along with some fresh plant spew for the 786th time this weekend.

There are 14, 15 & 16 year old girls who claim they'll do anything to get pregnant. They were all convinced that whichever lucky stick out of the four or five that they were currently humping, would be more than happy to help out and take care of them and their babies.(Probably because the guys told them so before she would agree to hump.)

Not that it would matter, though. I'm sure each and every guy they've been with could tell them to their face that they are just a receptacle and they'll do nothing of the sort if she gets pregnant and she would still do it.

Just then I caught myself. "What the HELL am I watching this for? This is horrifying and I don't want to believe that it actually goes on! This all has to be staged, oh-jesus-just-shut-the-t.v-off!!

I huffed. It's SO OBVIOUS that these girls are mentally retarded, I felt like Maury Povich should be ashamed of himself exploiting the retards like that! That is SO not P.C.

Just watching these girls makes me want to curl up in the fetal position in the shower while scalding hot water rains over me for a good hour or so. And THEN shave a few layers off my entire bright red epidermis with a fresh razor.

But I have too much to do today, so I'll just go have a hot shower and shave my legs. I have to call a spa and see if they have an opening today to give me a facial.

OH, La dee, dah, huh? Yeah, well the only reason I get to do that is because I have two gift certificates there to redeem, one from my birthday, the other from Christmas. So, I might as well use themkissmyass.

They don't open until noon, though, so I won't know if I'm getting one or not today. I can't imagine they'd have an opening. Oh well, I guess I'll deserve a facial more when I can plan ahead for it.

I also hafta meet my sister for lunch and give her back the photos I gave to her yesterday, (but she forgot and left sitting right there on the glass-topped coffee table where she found them).

So, I bid you farewell. But first, I must step on Lance's head and tell him what a dumb varmint he is!

Ciao!

Gubment ASSistance

2006-01-28T16:34:00.000-08:00

Has anyone who reads this blog on a regular to semi-regular basis ever collected some kind of government/public assistance? As in: welfare / link card / w.i.c. / etc?

Just curious.

Please leave your answers / thoughts on it. I'll explain later.

Thx.

Little Miss Muffett

2006-01-25T13:15:00.000-08:00

Surprisingly, it took me 11 months to finally traumatize the shit out of my son with my own neurosis. I thought for sure I’d have scarred him for life much sooner.

Yesterday when I went to pick him up, I was standing in my babysitter's kitchen chatting with her. I looked down to find Buck on his belly, underneath the kitchen table, playing with a cricket. He was trying to grab it and it kept hippity hopping out of his grasp. It was like a slow motion cat and mouse game, but Buck was gaining on him.

It took about two millionths of a second for me to figure out what he was going to do with it once he caught it and about half that time for me to freak the fuck out.

I have a thing about bugs. They don't even have to be on me or in my hair for me to feel them in my hair and all over my body, tickling me with their nasty bug legs and their hairy bug antennas.

I feel them looking at me with their 500 eyes and it creeps me out to no end. Well, my sitter reacted to my psychotic seizure assuming that I must’ve been freaking out because it was a scorpion or something. She wasn’t aware that it was only a cricket.

So, as my sitter and I are both freaking out simultaneously, I bend down and scoop my son up, yanking his left arm in the process. He then freaked out, probably shit in his diaper and started to cry so hard that he fell silent and turned purple. Then, the floodgates opened and he proceeded to dump a bucket of snotty and salty goop all over my shoulder while screaming in my ear.

As all of this is going on and I’m guiltily trying to console my poor baby, the sitter’s 7 year old daughter comes in from the living room, kneels down and gently scoops the cricket up into her bare hands and calmly walks toward the sliding glass door to the backyard as I looked on in horrified astonishment.

I felt like such an asshole. If I had only kept my cool, I could have accomplished the same thing, (getting him away from the bug), but without traumatizing him and myself to epic levels.

Too Many People In Arizona

2006-01-19T08:45:00.000-08:00

Yo yo yo, I’m back. If it wasn’t obvious by now, I haven’t felt much like writing lately.

The only thing that I think bears mentioning right now is the fact that every morning on my way to work, I seem to inadvertently piss someone off by pulling out in front of them. Usually by changing lanes right in front of them when the situation calls for it. For example, take an early exit where I don’t need to be, or switch lanes in front of someone.

In my defense, however-- If you saw the kind of traffic I deal with at 6 o’fucking clock in the morning—you’d realize that you can either be an aggressive driver, or you can sit your ass on the shoulder of the road until traffic clears somewhere around 10 o’clock. Take your pick.

Anyway, so every day I drive to work in the morning while it’s still dark, and every day I piss someone new off. Then they go and do something stupid like honk at me and then pull around me to get in front of me as if to teach me a lesson or something.

Then THAT pisses me off, I have instant hatred for that asshole and I make an instant short-term goal to either cut them off AGAIN, or at least get ahead of them before I reach my exit. And when I can’t do it—I get irritated.

I end up carrying this little scenario on in my little head all the way to work. Today I was especially pissed off because I changed lanes again to get in front of this fucker only to come to a screeching halt.

So I wait for my chance, dart into a different lane that is moving, (there are 6 lanes to choose from!), only to hit the breaks and come to a full stop again while the lanes on either side of me, once again, start whipping past me—just like in Office Space.

DEATH!!!!!! WHY CAN’T ALL THESE MAW FAWS JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY?!?!? Why does everyone have to move HERE?

Christ on a cracker, people-- DON’T move to Arizona! We have too many people here as it is, and most of them are dumb! All ya ever do is stand in line! Do you have any idea how long you have to wait at the grocery stores, any store, (god forbid if it’s a really popular one), or at the post office?!?! The last two times I went there, I pulled out a number in the 80’s and they were still calling numbers in the 30’s. Seriously.

And speaking of that. I have some interesting “people watching” stories to tell from my time at the Post Office and the waiting room at my car dealership just before that. But that’s for another day when I’m not so busy and irritated.

Over.

The Fruits Of Our Back Yard

2006-01-09T07:42:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, at approximately 3:34 in the afternoon, I decided it was time I went outside to finally pick up the past 3 or 4 month's accumulation of rock solid Chihuahua cigars and tootsie rolls. My husband finally hit the limit of complaints that I will allow on the subject.

I decided since the boy was crabby, I would just take him with me and put him in the middle of our big back yard. I figured that would give me two or three minutes to start picking up all the poop with two plastic grocery bags before he started to crawl to any part of the boundry of bricks outlining the yard, beyond which are rocks that he will most surely be taste testing as soon as he gets there. (Along with leaves, twigs and animal smudge.)

The dogs tend to shit close to, if not directly on the patio, so I would run back and forth from the patio to whichever part of the yard he got to the boundry of and bring him right back to the center, placing him in a different direction each time.

We had record highs yesterday--it was 81 degrees out and I was sweating my balls off because I was wearing a long sleeved T-shirt.

We had every stage of decay going on throughout the yard. It was a vast wasteland, raped by the four animals who live here. (Our cats are doggie door trained. We do not use a litterbox.) So two dogs and two cats. All using the back yard as their own personal latrine.

I tried to make sure that Buck stayed in the part of the yard that is not quite as savory a location for the animals, but you could never be too sure how many landmines were hidden in his path.

At one point, he got to the patio and pointed to a turd. He went for it, and I snatched it up with a plastic bag just in time. Phew! Now he was onto the next one. There were about six or seven turds on the patio, thankyouverymuchyoudumbdogs.

I bring the boy back to the center and hit the reset button and continue on with my turd gathering quest. Stooped over, walking back and forth, picking up poop after poop after poop after poop.

Jesus Christ! I was filling up an entire grocery bag! I get to the end of the yard, right underneath our grapefruit and orange trees. I find a severed bird head. I pick it up with one grocery bag and throw it on top of the poop pile. Ew. Bird flu.

This could only be the work of Jan, our wild cat. Lance is far too much of a fairy and doesn't even know that you could actually eat birds because he thinks food comes from that plastic container in the people's food pantry.

Jan, on the other hand, is a wild, murderous, manly varmint. He's the silent type. He hunts, but he's a lover of all humans. He visits other houses in the neighborhood and just walks right in their houses and helps himself to any catfood that might be lying around in THEIR cat's dishes. I'm sure in his mind, these are all of his houses, and he lets those people live in them, and in return they just buy food for him. But his preferred source of nutrition comes from hunting.

Jan is the source of an eternal disagreement that will some day be a legendary story that grows to epic proportions with time. It was about what exactly was it that Jan once brought home.

One night we heard him in the kitchen, howling and carrying on in an unsual manner. I was in my office and Ross was in the living room. I yelled across the house. "What the hell is the matter with him?"

"I don't know", Ross replied. He got up to see what was the matter and was both startled and grossed out by something that Jan had with him in the kitchen.

Apparently, he had dragged something through the doggie door and upon first glance, Ross yelled out "Ah GROSS! He has the HEAD of something!"

I yell that I want to see! I run in and just as I get there, Ross is picking it up with a paper towel.

He flipped it over and I DISTINCTLY saw two scrawny little mouse hands, and two scrawny little mouse feet. But the poor little guy was all mangled and slobbered on, and he had long, gray mouse hair that was all matted only the way a dead mouse would be matted.

To this day, Ross still insists that it was the HEAD of a prairie dog. I am equally convinced that it was not, in fact, a head but the ENTIRE BODY of a big ol' field mouse.

But who will ever know for sure? Because now the specimen is gone, so we can never go back and really examine it to be sure. I told Ross that I will always believe that it was a field mouse. And he told me that I would always be wrong. Unfortunately, it is he, who is always going to be wrong on this one. Believe me.

Anyway. Did I mention we had grapefruit and orange trees in our back yard? Yep, and over Christmas, Ross and his father picked a bunch off the tree and made fresh squeezed orange and grapefruit juice out of them. There is nothing better.

So now whenever anyone comes over, we can offer them the fruit of our back yard. "What can I get ya? Orange Juice? Grapefruit juice? Poop and birdhead soup?

Uh-Oh

2006-01-08T16:32:00.000-08:00

Buck is learning how to say "Uh-OHhhhh!" He's currently practicing this and right now it sounds like, "Uht. - Uht."

He knows there are two noises, has made them both before, but he's not yet able to get himself to do it on purpose.

So he's practicing.

"Uht uht."

When asked, he will also "give mommy a kiss", say 'Ma Ma Muhm." "Mum Ma""mmm mmuhm......*whisper* bop bop bop bop.", *looking around non-chalantly*, and pause just before continuing on with whatever it was that I was telling him not to do.

He's a blast, that guy.

Tubs of Fun!

2006-01-02T19:09:00.000-08:00

I just don't think there's any better way to ring in the new year than to show you my boy discovering his very own built in bath toy....

He seemed so mesmorized....it was literally MINUTES of fun.

Lookie here what I got, Mr. Duckie!

Such a typical guy. "Typical" as in, your typical middle aged alcoholic (no offense, Sooner!) who is captivated by his little friend even though he is barely able to see it underneath his protruding gut! At least I know he is progressing "normally"!

2005: My Best and Most Expensive Year to Date!

2005-12-30T15:20:00.000-08:00

Well as another year draws to a close I have no choice but to sit back and reflect upon the many monumental things that have gone on in my life during this past year.

The most obvious reflection of all of this past year's blood, sweat and tears has recently developed a penchant for standing up in his crib throwing his binky overboard and then crying about it. He’s also growing like a weed, crapping like a big boy and seems to have an insatiable hunger for dog food.

I'm not complaining, though. Nature has an amazing way of making you love the hell out of your own offspring more and more with each passing day and I've had exactly ten months to get to know and fall in love with my pudgy little Charlie Brown headed, slobbering and babbling crib lizard. He seems to have grown on me like a very loveable, chubby fungus.

However, as I sit back—I can’t help but also reflect on my messy desk covered with piles of paper, many of which contain frightening numbers that make my face melt into a frown and my shoulders slump because I am forced also to reflect upon the three major purchases I've made in the past year in addition to all of our bills.

These expenditures are quite possibly the largest ones I’ve made in my adult life with the exception of a house, a car and baby furniture. All three of which have yet to prove their worth:

Property Management, Laser Hair Removal and PRK eye surgery.

Property Management: Approximately $3,794.98. Do yourself a favor. If you ever find yourself with a little extra property lying around and you are thinking of renting/leasing it out—MANAGE IT YOURSELF! Get yourself some “Landlords For Dummies” and state landlord/tenant books and read up. I hear it’s pretty simple, and I’m about to find out just how simple it is.

In the mean time, I have paid out over $3k this past year in exchange for:

--Being told that no one will rent out my house unless I had the beautiful and artistically painted walls in the living room and kitchen painted white, (and they even offered to paint them FOR me for the low, low cost of only $800! For two rooms! Wow! What a deal! Suck my dick!

--Lost keys, Confiscated Cash Deposits, a “signed” lease that they CANNOT FIND, Incompentence, many, MANY false promises of faxes, explanations, phone calls, etc, No return phone calls, More Incompetence, Unreadable “statements” and printouts, “non-specific” fees, Being put on hold and then given the run-around each and every fucking time I inquire about where the hell my money has gone, Incompetence.

I feel as though the fork-tongued bastards who are running this MISmanagement company should have probably sent me a bottle of KY Lubricant in the mail to go along with my year end statement. I think the new “warming liquid” would have been a nice Holiday touch.

Most of it this my own fault, however, as the above sum is the price I paid to learn the very important lesson of NEVER signing a contract without PERUSING it carefully, several times, over the span of a week and possibly even letting a couple other people I consider to be of above average intelligence read it seven more times before signing it.

I’m currently wondering if my $3k investment would have been better spent tracking my husband’s lineage to see if we have any familial connections to the mob.

Laser Hair Removal: $1000.00. Despite her latest phase of strange and interesting growth patterns that I doubt even Edward Scissorhands could accomplish, I didn’t realize that my beaver was “into that sorta thing” because she seems hungry for more shock treatment and wants to know what else they’ve got.

PRK: $2998.00. I’m going to go ahead and give this expenditure the benefit of the doubt for now and cut it a little more slack because I’m told that “perfect” vision may not be obtained for another 6 wks, and possibly up to 6 months. Until then, my vision shares the “fuzzy” characteristic with my beaver.

Other than all of that, I had some great “New Family” holidays, some harrowing travel stories, and managed not to get into any fistfights with anyone this year. Yay.

We've welcomed FOUR other baby boys besides my own into our family, a baby boy to one of my girlfriends and a baby girl to another girlfriend. No one close to me died and as far as I know, everyone I love is healthy.

I’ve accomplished a great deal and therefore have no “New Year’s Resolutions”, as I feel as though I’ve given this year pretty much everything in me. Literally.

I don’t believe in New Year’s Resolutions anyway. I feel like if you don’t make any promises to yourself, you won’t let yourself down.

Just go ahead and expect the worst out of yourself and you are sure to be pleased with yourself by the end of the year!

So here I sit, all dumb, blind and happy with myself. Except for that bit about taking myself to the cleaners a few times.

Happy New Year, Moniggas!

New Eyes

2005-12-28T12:16:00.000-08:00

It's strange how people are approaching me at work like I just got back from cosmetic eye surgery.

“Oh! Let me see! Oh, yeah….you DO look different!”

I feel the necessity to remind them that I did not have an eyebrow lift, or any new and improved eyeballs of a different color implanted into my skull. I simply looked into a laser, heard it crackling and enjoyed the aroma of my retinas frying for about 30 seconds. Then I endured some pretty decent pain for about 72 hours.

I can see okay now, my vision is “supposedly” 20/20, but is still a bit blurry. I’m told that it will take up to 6 wks to clear up.

Really the only difference in the appearance of my eyes is a result of putting artificial tears and antibiotics in my eyes constantly, so the whites are a lot whiter.

But for some reason people are coming to stare into my eyes like they are going to see something different. I was actually pretty darn tired this morning, so if anything—they were able to see some new bags under my eyes.

There was a scene at work today! One of my colleagues—a 53 yr woman, had some kind of a reaction from taking a Niacin pill along with her blood pressure medication. I was the one who had to call 911 because she was staring straight ahead, glassy eyed, not responding to me when I kept asking her if she was okay and if she’d like me to call someone for help.

The medics came w/in 10 mins, (would’ve felt like an eternity if she hadn’t started coming around by then!)—but she was fine in a matter of minutes. They took her blood pressure, listened to her lungs and her heart, tested her blood sugar, and recommended she hydrate herself. Then she signed a release form stating that she did not want to go to the E.R.

About an hour later she came over to tell me how bright and shiny my new eyes looked.

O Say Can U C?

2005-12-21T12:07:00.000-08:00

A E L F M r 8 2 k. Mutha fuckas, that's the lowest line and I can READIT!!!

Feelin' much better now after my few days of PRK hell. My eyes even look brighter! I think it has something to do with all the drops I've been putting in--they're nice n moist n hydrated n shit.

Havin' a lovely holiday too, I might add. Don't have much time to write--Buck has a playmate coming over. No, not a Playboy bunny--that's not for a couple years yet--, but a little dude who lives down the street is coming over to slobber on his toys. Should be loads of fun to hear TWO babies whine!

Then I'm goin' ta get my hairs cut. Still wearin Ray Charles' glasses. I'm actually starting to kind of like them. I think I will just put some rhinestones all over them and call em my Mary J. Blige glasses.

PRK = Persecution, Rape and Killing

2005-12-18T07:19:00.000-08:00

OH GOD, My eyes! What the fuck have I done?!?!

They said I would feel "uncomfortable for approximately 24-48 hrs...but....

"UNCOMFORTABLE?!?!?"

"Uncomfortable" is something akin to a tag still left in your shirt, a scraped knee, a kink in your neck, or a little soreness in your muscles.

But you know, "uncomfortable" is a funny word, isn't it? I mean, HOT BURNING POKERS STICKING IN YOUR EYES can be "UNCOMFORTABLE" too, right?.

They should have let me write the post-op instructions and description of how you may be feeling. Instead of "slight discomfort for 24 to 48 hrs, I would have been a little more realistically descriptive by saying, "You will experience a sensation not unlike having dirty cat litter packed up underneat your eyelids, while your eyeballs are sans their corneas."

God dammit.

OK, so I"m sitting here in my Ray Charles glasses and HOPING that what I'm typing is actually readable to someone, (cuz lord knows it isn't to me).

I can barely look at the screen, as it reflects the brightness of a thousand suns. In order for me to make out any words, I must smash my face against the screen and endure the burning for as long as it takes me to decipher the shape of the letters.

I have to go put a series of drops in my eyes now. Let's see...we have about 3 different drops that must go in four times a day, and then another drop that must go in every hour on the hour while I'm awake.

It's hard to sleep too, cuz your eyes burn even while they're closed. You so much as open them a slit and a shot glass of water pours out onto your bed.

Then you get the sniffles, so I've gone thru a few boxes of Kleenex already. So that's why they give you a valium and some Ambien.

Try to stay awake with that stuff and you start to see little tiny people in sporty clothing in each eye drop and as soon as they hit your face they scurry away in bathing suits with either tiny little volley balls or with raquetballs and raquettes in their tiny little hands..

Then you can hear them singing christmas songs to you as the floor starts to bubble up and down while you walk. Groovy.

PRK. The new torture method for terrorists.

I'm Going To Look At The Light!

2005-12-15T09:05:00.000-08:00

Well this is it, folks. I’m goin’ in tomorrow for “the procedure”!! And I’m getting PRK instead of Lasik, because my corneas are too thin to cut them like they do with Lasik, so they have to MOVE THEM ASIDE, so as not to require cutting them.

My whole life I’ve been walking around with thin hair and thin corneas, and have never been able to do anything about it. I tried everything. Peanut butter, protein shakes, looking at weights, etc. But no matter what I did, they remained thin and sometimes I would get made fun of in school about it. I was called “Sticklet”, “String bean”, “Olive Oil”, “Betty Davis Eyes” ,“Narrow Eyes”, “Almond eyes”, you name it.

“Oh my god, look how thin her corneas are, everybody! Don’t your parents let you look at dinner??”

Most people have the opposite problem, and my mom told me that one day I would be glad that I had thin corneas.

I’m still waiting for that day.

If I had thicker corneas, not only would I be more attractive, but I could have them lasered like everybody else and I’d have less down time.

As it stands right now, genetics dealt me a raw deal with thin corneas that are going to be “uncomfortable” for “up to three days” following the procedure. Ah well. I will try to make the best of my disability. Maybe I can get a seeing-eye miniature pinscher to help me out this weekend.

See ya later! (At least I hope so!)

XOXO,
Ginge

People Like Me Are Why Gift Bags Were Invented

2005-12-13T17:32:00.000-08:00

Oh please, OH PLEASE don't let them find out what a master wrapper I am!

Seriously! If my cover is blown, I will be forced to display my talent of impeccable wrapping FOR FREE (donations) in shopping malls all over the valley!

I must not let them know how good I am. I must make sure that I short one side of every package and try to cover it up with another piece of the same paper as if it were a ribbon. Oh, and use same said paper for the tag.

Also, just to make sure I drive the point home, I will create a perfect triangle that matches the paper up perfectly on one side, and a crinkled up flat edge on the other.

I'm a little embarassed to admit how much better at gift wrapping my husband is--when he actually does it. The man goes all out. Last year all of my gifts were wrapped in white metallic paper, complete with chiffon bows and real fresh evergreen and Holly berries on them. No, I'm not kidding.

And then you have people like me who feel as though the paper bag that the gift came in is enough of a cover to make it a surprise! Why waste a bunch of paper? We are why tissue paper and gift bags were invented. They don't work so good in the mail system, tho.

2005 In Review

2005-12-12T06:20:00.000-08:00

OK, so once again the Toodler Tagged Me and I only have time for the first five right now. I guess we're gonna have to make this a sequel post.

I should really polish it up and send it out as my "annual letter". Kinda like the one my aunt just sent out that mentions all of her grandkids, and that my BROTHER won't be home to celebrate Christmas this year, but never mentions the fact that THIS IS THE YEAR THAT GINGER POOPED OUT A NINE POUND KID IN FEBRUARY. I have three other siblings and none of them made the letter either. I'm gonna hafta have a talk with her churchy ass.

Anyway--that's for another time. Right now, my office is a goddamned mess of papers, bows, ribbons, boxes, tissue, scissors, tape, bags, cards, bills, baby books, catalogs, coupons, pens & pencils, books, mugs, garbage, stockings, and a baby travel swing. And I'm ice skating on the paper thin, slushy ice of a wall that seperates me from a tired and whiney baby to whom I'm trying to convince it is still sleeptime.

I'm going nucking futz.

So, here are the promised first five of the tag:

2005. My year in review!

1. What did you do in 2005 that you hadn't done before?

Woah, that's easy. I had a Baby! And I'm currently hosting my very first FAMILY Christmas, complete with Buck's grandparents, his two Aunts and his parents! And whoever else might decide to drop by for a drink and a hello. Yay!

.2. Did anyone close to you give birth? Yes. Two of my girlfriends gave birth this year. One of them had a girl on November 1st and the other one had a big ol', beautiful baked bean of a boy, (who, as Buck did, looked like BLUTO in the hospital), on November 26th. Almost exactly 9 months from the day that I pooped out my Bluto! It's so cool to see some of your friends start to become mothers around the same time that you are. It's like you enter into another dimension of friendship. Very cool.

3. Did anyone close to you die? No. But I did just hear about a guy from my company who recently moved to a snowy place where he was killed in a snow mobiling accident a few days ago.

Ugh. Talk about what a mind fuck that is. How flimsy that same slushy wall is between life and death and the icy realization of its frailty.

4. A -Did I travel? Oh, look. It's hammertime. Time to hammer those memories back into my skull for another go' round. Mm. I'm not gonna elaborate too much here. Visit past posts for traveling woes. To sum up: Two nightmare experiences, several “un-nerving” experiences. Our first flight as a family of three, we missed.

4 B - Where did you go? Truthfully, I believe that was our very own personal tour through Hell, with Satan piloting the plane. But the tickets said to Florida twice, Chicago once.

4 C - Best holiday memory?Christmas parties on Xmas Eve night growing up. All the cousins would come over, we’d all drink ourselves silly and laugh all night. Play poker, make fun of each other, get drunk and make more fun of each other and just generally be our silly selves around one another and enjoy each other’s company.

We still love to call each other up and leave non-sensical pish posh all over our voice mails. Oh, and they like pretending to be cops calling people up on the phone. And though they have gotten my silly mother and their own mother many times with their antics, they have never once fooled me into thinking that I was going to have my car towed or anything like that.

5. Best thing you bought? You mean The winner of “The Year’s Best Purchase”?

Wow, that’s a toughie.

And The Nominees Are: 1. Our son’s bedroom furniture. So far, it has all come in pretty darn handy in many different ways!

And while I’m on the child, let me just add that I bought hand me down stuff like bouncy chairs, walkers and exersaucers—and they were all very excellent purchases for the money. The boy got our money’s worth out of them.

2. Hm….then I bought some laser hair removal for my beaver patch. I gotta say….I have one more session left and things are not looking good on the permanent hair loss front. All it has done so far is slow er’ down. But she won’t be down long.

Sure she may be falling out all kinked up right now, but she’ll be back eventually displaying some very strange growth patterns. And when I think of her, I'll think that she could star as R.P. McMurphy in her very own version of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest wherein she has to go in for shock treatment quite often. Which makes her crazier every time she goes in for another treatment. Very kinky, though it only serves to bring her that much closer to the lobotomy.

3. I haven’t purchased it yet, but it is a PLANNED purchase. I am slappin down the ol’ credit card to have my vision corrected. A little nervous, but ready to SEE unaided.

My vision never required glasses until after I moved out here. Before I moved to Arizona, I could never imagine myself being the type of girl to wear glasses. Then I came out here and soon couldn't find things in the grocery store because I was too busy squinting at the aisle signs as I stood just below them.

That was my final reality check. That, and almost getting into accidents when only deciding to indicate a right or left turn at the exact moment that I realized what the street sign said. Which was just below them.

Now I can’t imagine myself without glasses. I feel like I've created a bespectacled persona of myself. I’ve gone a longer percentage of my life without wearing glasses, yet I feel like they've become a part of me. Weird how ya get used to stuff.

Now I could actually be guilty of wearing glasses strictly for show, as I have been accused of in the past. I can't wait to get some of those big ol' diamond studded Mary J. Blige glasses and wear lots of lipgloss. I start to salivate when I think of all the cheap crazy sunglasses I'm going to invest in now.

And then maybe I'll replace the lenses of my old glasses with clear glass and still be that smart, funky hip cat of a chick with the glasses. Or maybe I'll just go back to being myself. A dumb blonde.

Pleasantville

2005-12-08T13:03:00.000-08:00

A few indicators that you live in a great neighborhood:

1. There’s a park within walking distance and it’s not littered with used condoms and/or beer cans.

2. Your HOA has parties, block garage sales and annual Xmas decoration contests. They also send out letters if you go a week without pulling your weeds, or leave your trash can out for longer than a day.

3. When you ask your neighbor if you can borrow their extension ladder to hang Xmas lights, not only do they loan it to you, but they offer to help!

4. When your husband and neighbor are hanging lights, the neighbor's wife comes over for a drink!

5. And when I say “drink” I mean the rest of the beer she was currently drinking and two bottles of your wine.

6. Your neighbors actually love you so much, man, that the one drinking all of your wine starts crying at the dinner table, (as in: actually shedding tears) for your souls when she finds out that you and your husband are not Christians. So sweet.
(**Bonus if she gushes on and on about what an attractive couple you and your husband make and how she thinks your husband looks like a sexier version of Nicholas cage and you look like a sexier version of Helen Hunt mixed with Tea Leoni. --Over. and. over. again.))

6. Another neighbor knocks on your door one evening to invite whoever owns those Conga drums he saw in your dining room window to join a salsa band.

7. Your spouse can leave your car containing lots of CD’s, Christmas presents, expensive dry-cleaners bound clothing, a car seat base and a cell phone with a car charger out all night, unlocked and WITH THE KEYS IN THE IGNITION and not only is your car still there in the morning, but all of it's contents are too!

Season's Beatings!

2005-12-07T20:00:00.000-08:00

I feel like I've been on a treadmill, going at 6mp at a 10% grade incline since 6 a.m. this morning.

Family Christmas pictures, Baby's first visit to Santa pictures, drop the boy off at the babysitter's, back to the mall to pick up pics, straight to CVS with negatives for Holiday cards.

CVS can't use the negatives, but it's a good thing I bought them, because they wouldn't have been able to copy a professional photograph otherwise.

An hour later, i leave with 100 Holiday cards. Oh, and 100 Christmas stamps. We paid ENTIRELY too much for all of these pictures--and these stupid cards--which makes me sick because I really do look like dog shit in them. My hair looks greasy and I am just not photogenic.

Next year, I don't give a shit if we have to have our neighbors come over and take our picture--we are using our own home digital camera for family portraits! Christ.

Anyway. Buck looks great in most of them--but it seems as though the mall photographers like to snap photos JUST BEFORE the baby smiles.

It happened three times in Santa's lap. Click. *smile* Click. *smile*................"Happy happy! Ohhhh...who's that baby!??! Hi there! Hi sweetie! HI!!!!" Click! .......*smile*.

*Sigh*

The photo came out looking like the poor kid had a diaper wedgie. Oh, and Santa was holding on to him all awkward like so that his pant legs were riding way up his legs even though the pants were actually a bit long on him. If he had been holding him correctly, and there weren't 55 million people standing in line behind us, we may have gotten a better shot.

I feel a little jipped. I wasn't sure if Buck was going to cry or smile at Santa--but I was positive that it was going to be one or the other and that I would be equally happy with either one. Because it's classic to have a picture of a crying baby in Santa's lap, isn't it?

Instead he just kind of looked at him, looked at us, smiled, (after the photo was taken, of course) looked at Santa, stared, looked back at us, (click!), smile, look at lady holding Winnie the Pooh bear, study her face, see bright flash, smile, look at Santa, stare.....repeat.

But I digress.

Rush home from CVS because I have two turtle heads fighting for freedom, trip over dog as I run towards the bathroom undoing my pants, emerge 10 minutes later feeling quite refreshed, rush out to the garage, grab a hammer, screws, nails, hooks, garbage ties, rope lights, regular lights, and the neighbor's ladder.

I spent every last moment of my day hanging up lights--right up to the moment where i had to go pick Buck up before he was left out on the sidewalk by the sitter.

Run home, take care of him, take more care of him, do some laundry, dishes, clean bottles, do laundry, feed the boy, bathe the boy, put pajamas on the boy, pick out a story for dad to read to the boy, put boy to bed, clean bathroom, notice that I haven't eaten much today and am actually too tired to eat, force husband to go outside with me to see lights from across the street, come in here and try to erase TTZ off my blog....

T'is the Season!!

Another Notch In My Belt Of Complaints

2005-12-02T13:46:00.000-08:00

Urgh. I’m still reeling from my day at work a few days ago. Do you ever get the feeling that you are in the friggin Twilight Zone? I do quite often—especially at work where my brain is just not even in the same musical genre, much less on the same page.

I’ll try to explain this retarded scenario as best I can:

The company I work for hires multiple people to do the same job for different areas. Then they hire one main individual to be in charge of training all of those people doing the same thing. This person is supposed to regularly OFFER training on certain things, but their job is not intended to be a training NAZI running around with a clipboard and a switch.

Well, it seems as though the person in this position is a little confused. She sent out an email all but requiring us to attend a 3.5 hour training class on a particular day and never specified what was going to be covered.

(I tend to ignore most of her class offerings, but she seemed to place a little more emphasis on the fact that she really wanted to make sure that ALL of us attend this one.)

Not until I got there did I realize that I was in a remedial class going over the process of using a particular computer program that I use on a daily basis. I was duped! And YES, she intended for me to be there! Wtf?

In other words, I could have taught the class—and quite frankly I’m sure I would have done a better job. I am not kidding you when I say that it was equivalent to making you sit through 2.5 hours of a slide presentation walking you through the step by step process of wiping your own ass. Or doing the dishes. Or whatever it is that you do on a daily basis.

Two and a half hours go by, my ass hurts, I’m drawing pictures of the How To Process of Wiping Your Ass-- complete with arrows, toilet paper, (both on the roll AND wadded up), a dirty chocolate starfish, baby wipes, a can of Lysol and hand soap and I start asking a few people around me why in the hell we are in training for something we’ve been doing for years.

The only explanation I got was that the ONE person in the class who has never used this system before may benefit from OUR expertise on the subject by any input we may have.

Um….excuse me—but I’ve got things to do. If this chick has questions, I would be more than happy to walk her through the entire process of actually DOING them and not make her sit through slides of how to hit “enter”. Here's my extension. Call me. We'll do lunch.

Even though it is not my job to train her—I would be more than happy to—using a hands-on approach—which I believe is the only way to really learn it thoroughly anyway. I guarantee she'd know how to do it in an hour's time, better than she would after sitting through 151 slides that take a total of 6 hours to go through.

I don’t have time to devote half of my fucking day to watching a 151 slide presentation of STEP. BY. STEP. INSTRUCTIONS on how to do something I already know how to do. Apparently better than the instructor, I might add.

As the class wore on, I was becoming more and more impatient. I started entertaining my neighbor with impressions of what my son does when HE’S done. I arched my back and slid out of my chair onto the floor in a heap and then got back up.

My neighbor thought that was so funny she had to put her head down on the desk and silently convulsed with laughter. The instructor asked if I was okay, and I told her I had an itch.

Eventually, two people got up and left. So, at the SCHEDULED class ending time, (but only half way through her slides), the person sitting next to me got up and I started for the door my damn self. I had a vat of beef stew calling my name.

And would you believe that the theme music to the Twilight Zone started as soon as I stood and the instructor actually had the balls to call ME out and ask if I really needed to go??

“Yes, I have things to do.” I replied.

“Lunch?” she asked. (WHAT?!?!?!?)

“Um…yeah. Actually, lunch is ONE of the many things I plan to do with the rest of my day, why?” I asked.

“Well, *nervous chuckle* how to I put this lightly?” she said.

“There’s no need to put anything lightly. Go for it. I’ve been here for 2.5 hours. If you had split this up in two classes, I might be able to attend the whole thing, but—“

*interrupting* “Well, this is a one-time deal”, she said.

“Well", I said. *holding up her fat-ass, blatant and pitifully sad waste of paper packet of 151 printed slides* "I have your booklet. If I have any questions, I’ll let you know. Bye.”

And with that, I exited the building.

OK, Seriously. Wtf?

First of all—is she retarded? Everybody knows that you should NEVER EVER insist on teaching a class that goes on for more than an hour and a half without offering breaks, lunch, etc. And at that point—isn’t that considered a seminar?

Secondly, there is a reason that grade schools, high schools and colleges have standard time limitations on classes. M,W,F classes are usually 50-55 minutes and T, Th classes are an hour and a half long. Why? Because attention spans wane. ESPECIALLY when the material is tedious and repetitive. (Summer classes are usually 2-3 hours a day, with a break in between because they are accelerated. And they tell you that. But at least the material each day is NEW!)

Thirdly, what I WANTED to say was, “This is not a REQUIRED class—so why the FUCK are you giving me hell for leaving when I'm about the 3rd of 4th person to leave? You should have known better than to expect us to sit through this shit in the first place, what the hell is wrong with you!?!?”

Fourthly, (fourthly?) DO NOT treat me like I am in 8th grade for getting up at the scheduled class ending time, and trying to embarrass me by acting as though this material is critical, because I could do this shit in my sleep! (There is a possibility I was being treated like I was in the 8th grade because I slid out of my chair and was drawing lewd pictures, but as I said: I march to the beat of a different drum than most of those drones anyway.)

Fifthly, (yeah, fuckin’ fifthly. Who really cares at this point?)—When teaching a class--in addition to keeping on schedule, think of your MATERIAL, folks. Material that requires this kind of time commitment should really be new and pertinent, not tedious and redundant.

Well, as it turned out—she went on and on until a couple more people left, (which surprises me after my embarassing debacle!) and then FINALLY the person who works in the CEO office had finally had enough and piped up to suggest that the rest of the class be saved for another day. (You know—the “one time deal”?) Right.

So, I just got another email today addressing all of us--asking us if we’d like to waste half of a day on Tuesday or Wednesday to "finish this training up" and this time she’s going to bring donuts, because we deserve it! (OH BOY!!!!!!)

Oh, and that we better hurry up and settle on a date and let her know what we choose or she will be chasing us down until we all answer her.

Um….if I were a cat who could read emails, my ears would have been straight back as I read it.

Keep your donuts and keep your slides. If you chase me down—you are going to get slapped in the face with a reality check in the form of an email. I’ve got it all typed out and waiting.

Say I won’t!!!

Home From Our Holiday

2005-11-27T20:53:00.000-08:00

The end of days is coming soon my friends, and it's not going to be pretty.

In fact, it is going to be abominable and hiddeous. There is going to be terrible, terrible pain, blood loss, sabotage, pillaging, plunder, war, famine, horrendous natural disasters, rape, murder--pure evil.

I know this because my SON ballyhoo'd all about it non-stop for the first TWO (SOLID) HOURS of our four hour flight home from Florida.

I'm positive that each and every female of childbearing age who was on that flight is now scheduled for a full hysterectomy before Christmas. If the men have not already been clipped, they are requesting gift certificates for vasectomies as stocking stuffers.

I spent the last two hours of our flight wedged in the most UNcomfortable position possible--(which seemed to be a necessary sacrifice for the sanity of everyone, including the flight attendants, on the flight.) That, and it was the most comfortable for Buck. I'm not lying when I tell you that my tailbone STILL hurts.

Nostradumbass woke up about 15 minutes before we landed and was an absolute angel for the duration. But it was too late by then. My heart had already turned to stone and my will to live was DOA.

How does one live with themselves when they are forced to come to terms with the full realization of the kind of parent they must be for actually fantasizing about beating each. and. every. passenger around her WITH the baby?

In my fantasy, I was either going to stand up, (yeah, right--in my window seat) and THROW him two or three aisles forward and pull my hair clean out of my head while screaming, OR just start swingin' him by his ankles and beating the dog shit out of them just for what they were thinking!

(oh, and I KNOW what they were thinking! Don't even try to tell me that they sympathized! Did anyone offer to kill him FOR me? No! Did anyone offer to HOLD him for me?! Take him off my hands? Give me a break? No! So don't give me that song and dance about people understanding!

I know what they were thinking! They were thinking the same thing I was thinking! "Jezus Christ, SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING, WILL YA?!?!? Please, god, with all that is sacred, shut that kid up! Why can't she (I) shut that (this) kid up?"

They were also thinking, "Ah great. *eyes rolling* Just my (our) luck! We get stuck on a plane for four hours with a screaming kid. Lovely."

I have had well over 10 days solid with this kid, with only ONE breakfast alone with my husband and two hours by myself shopping, (wherein my husband called my cell to tell me that he was alone for two solid hours with the kid and was thinking of joining the Navy.)

10 days. Four teeth. Day in and day out. This time away has allowed me to reflect upon the fact that I owe my babysitter more. She does not charge enough. I am manic with what a bargain we are getting.

I am wringing my hands. I hear buzzing. My eyes are crossed and bulging out of my head, my toenails are tingling, my knuckles are white and my ass cheeks are completely clenched.

I. NEED. A. VACATION.

ps. Why am i such a goddamned idiot? Did I not JUST SAY (write) that I was never traveling with this child again? Did I not WARN all of YOU about this? Yes, i did. Only four short months ago. How soon we forget.

Wish You Were Here, (Not)

2005-11-23T17:53:00.000-08:00

Yes, indeed I did say that I was never traveling again. And, yes--Shawna was right--I did only mean the "Midfuckwest"....

Ain't no thang but a chicken wang to fly our asses out here to Florida, tho. I did, however, try to keep this trip a secret from my mother. Leave it to Kate to let THAT cat out of the bag, ("Meow...Hi mom...Where am I, you ask? Oh, I just dropped Ross and Ginger off at the airport. DOBT! Meow.")

"The airport?!?!?" *said exasperatedly through a puff of smoke*
"I thought she said they weren't ever flying again!"

"Uh....yeah...uh....", *eyes looking straight up for some quick answers*, "uh...yeah, well.....I guess Ross' parents offered to pay for their tickets because they wanted to see the boy so bad", she lied.

They DID want to see him badly, but they did not pay for our tickets. And Buck was actually a pretty good boy on the flight, despite the many, MANY harrowing irritations that go hand in hand with flying, like the fact that America West/US Airway planes do not have diaper changing tables in the lavatories. (I guess back in the stone age when they were built, babies did not fly?)

I was tempted to just bust out the gear and spread his cheeks to wipe that shit out in front of all of the passengers and then just hand all the shitty diapers and wipes to the flight attendants.

Ross' cousin said that she used to change her kids' diapers ON HER LAP in her seat, and then hit the old flight attendant button and hand them the soiled materials. Classic.

I guarantee she couldn't have done it w/Buck tho. Everyone in row 13 would've been wearing the contents of his diaper, with a little baby powder sprinkled over it like powdered sugar on a brownie.

Anyway--coming to Florida is actually a pleasure. Ross' parents are great, they don't smoke, they're hospitable, they're genuinely happy to drive the hour and a half up to Orlando to come get us and don't make us ride the bus home claiming to have a flat tire that takes all of 45 minutes to change, even if they were stupidly unaware of the fact that they HAVE a spare tire in their trunk, have positive things to say, a clean and comfortable room/bed to sleep in/on and they love to spend time with the spawn of their loin fruit.

Anyway--just to throw a "shout out" to my homies in Chicago, (Shawna et al)--where I hear the weather is biting some rather snow flurried and dimply frozen ASS.....

I give to thee (and ye) some family photos: First one's the three of us, (a locket pic)--second one's the boy and I and the third one is the king of Mt. Molehill, located on teething isle, where there are four new additions to the family this week!

Do not be fooled by the above facade of contentment. For it was only to last but a split second and then he was back to the business of making his parents desire nothing more than to drive ice picks into their ears for the duration of their stay in Florida. Ps. That's his dad in the background...(just above his head)--the little dot swimmin in the water.

Lucy Splains Whirsit

2005-11-21T17:17:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the LAG, folks. I'm in Florida visiting my inlaws.

Awkward moment #1:

The father-in-law type knocking on the door while Ross and I are knocking boots and our having to quickly "seperate" and scurry around to find clothing enough to answer the door--like we were a couple of unmarried college kids.

Awkward moment #2:

Walking in on my mother-in-law whispering something to the family at the dinner table and them all telling her to be quiet as soon as I walked in the room.

Things that make ya go hm........

Froggy Went A-Courtin'!! (I heart Uncle Pecos)

2005-11-15T10:16:00.000-08:00

Does anyone remember good old Uncle Pecos from Tom n Jerry? Little Jerry’s stuttering uncle from Texas with the big ol’ 10 gallon (.05 liter) cowboy hat and the long white mustache that swayed up and out with the wind of his breath?

If you do--do you remember this song? I must’ve listened to it about 75 times yesterday. Cracks me up every time.

Good ol' Uncle Pecos....every time he'd start playing his "ghee-tar", a string would break and he'd go after Tom cat for one of his whiskers. He wasn't afraid of Tom the way Jerry was--and therefore Tom was afraid of him! "Heeeere kitty kitty kitty! Ya know I cain't play the ghee-tar without a ghee-tar strang!"

Anyway, I found that song yesterday because my sister called me up wanting to know the lyrics to this song were. She was going to write them out in some card or something, but thought better of it since it was unlikely that the reader would know what she was talking about.

She knew that I would, though—because she grew up listening to me sing that song. I had always sung this song, but of course butchered the lyrics much the same way that Uncle Pecos does in his version.

Incase you’re wondering—(and I know you are)—the lyrics to this song are right here.

I think he was actually mixing two songs together, since who the hell knows where “Crambo” came from. Not to mention the fact that he skips half the song, mumbles, replaces words with ones that he can actually say and explains, "That's the hard part right in there N-N-N-n-Nephew!" and that "yodeling goes in thar somewhar", but it's too high for him.

I think the memory that sticks out in my sister’s head the most is when one year we were all sitting around my mother’s formal dining room table having Thanksgiving dinner, or some kind of special occasion and I was sitting to my mother’s left. My sister was sitting directly across from me.

I shoveled a few big mouthfuls of turkey and potatoes in my mouth and looked at my mother. The very second that she turned her head towards me, I busted out with, “WEEEEEEELLLLLLLL! Froggy went a-courtin’ he did ride, CRAMBO!”, with a mouth full of food. Some of it sprayed out at her, and in that split second she reached over and smacked me upside the head. All of this occurred w/in the time span of about a second.

I thought my sister was going to CHOKE TO DEATH laughing. I thought it was pretty funny too, which is why the slap really didn’t hurt. My mother didn’t hit me hard anyway—just enough to let me know she didn’t appreciate A.) My singing a hillbilly song quite loudly in her face; B.) My doing it with a mouth full of food and C.) Some of said food flying out of my mouth in her direction as a result.

I told my husband this story yesterday and he was surprised that my mother would slap me for that. I told him that it wasn’t a big deal because we were all laughing about it anyway. Getting slapped in our family was sometimes an expression of love. Perhaps that’s why we were so entertained by watching our like minded kin in the form of a cartoon mouse on television.

He then replied that he would have paid good money to see that whole scene go down. He asked why I would just bust out with that song out of nowhere and I didn't have an answer for him. So he said, “Well, you were probably a very hyper active kid.”

To which I replied, “Um….yeah, but I was 28 at the time.”

Advertising is Fun!

2005-11-10T22:16:00.000-08:00

AHHAHAaahahah!

This morning, I sent Shawna the following ad:

In case any of my fellow blind bats can't read that, it says:

"For about the cost of just one cup of coffee a month, you can rest at ease knowing that your video history is safe and secure. For only $3.99/mo you can preserve, watch, edit and share up to 20 hours of your family laughing, crying, playing and living life. [aka: screwing, arguing, entrapping and showering] Preserve your entire video library for only 25 cents a month for each additional hour! Sign up before December 31st and preserve your first 20 hours for FREE through 2006!"

with the following comment:

----- Original Message -----
From: Turtlellini To: Shawna
Sent: Thursday, November 10, 2005 5:16 AM
Subject: Fw: Preserve your video memories with Snapfish partner HomeMovie.com

Gurl, look at the funny wording on this ad...."For the price of a cup of coffee...."

I immediately thought, "Who the fuck charges 3.99 for a cup of coffee?!"

Um... ONLY STARBUCKS WOULD CHARGE 3.99 FOR A FUCKING CUP OF COFFEE!!!!
************************************************************************************

(You'll have to forgive the potty language)

To which she replied:

----- Original Message -----
From: Shawna To: Turtlellini
Sent: Thursday, November 10, 2005 7:25 AM
Subject: Re: Fw: Preserve your video memories with Snapfish partner HomeMovie.com

they even put a blurry Starbuck's cup on there! Tools!

what I find even more disturbing is that innocent kid standing in front of a flood and a ball of fire!!

****************************

I KNOW, right? There's a hurricane, a flood AND a very dangerous looking fire there and that poor kid is just standing there, oblivious to all the danger, looking so innocent and sad that his parents are doing this to him.

Talk about Child Labor Laws! Hard to believe that even HERE in America, we are putting our children in harm's way like that just to make a buck! THREE bucks and .99 cents to be exact--which is even less than it takes to buy a cup of "TENbucks" coffee!

Progress Report

2005-11-08T22:16:00.000-08:00

Haven’t been in much of a writing mood lately. I worked all weekend so I am behind with my wifely and motherly-type behaviors at home.

I have been unable to concentrate because my desk is a constant source of anxiety. I have to clean it off tonight so my brain will be less cluttered.

My eyes are still trying to adjust from their period of dilation yesterday. My pupils are huge now, but they were the size of dimes yesterday. I looked like a crazed lunatic about to howl at the moon. Still do a little bit. And they hurt and are sensitive to light.

Speaking of howling….one of our Chihuahuas, (the smaller one) decided to suddenly blurt out a blood curdling HOWL in the dead of the night last night. I hit the ceiling and I think Ross might’ve shit the bed.

She must’ve been having a dream about yet again being overwrought with anxiety and the need to save the rest of her pack from immediate annialation by howling as hideously as possible because someone just rang the doorbell.

Buck is sprouting his third milk tooth and has NOT been happy about it lately. He has also been doing this thing where he arches his back and SLITHERS out of his carseat the minute you put him in it because apparently it burns like a hot grill on cold flesh. He eventually relaxes until you go to get him OUT of it. Then he pulls the whole snake routine again, thereby prolonging the whole process of being set free of his chains.

I’m still studying this camera and need to charge my new rechargeable batteries already—AND put in my 1gb compact flash card so I can git busy ya’ll. I need to bust out my CACKalator and figger out how many PITCHERS i kin FIT on this here little tiny piece-a-plastik!

I’ve been experimenting with this thing and so far—my pictures are looking just as shitty as they did before. They are just being taken more efficiently now.

Movin On UP

2005-11-07T10:16:00.000-08:00

Bitches, I got a camera! I had to work this past weekend and I researched the dogshit out of some cameras and ended RIGHT BACK AT SQUARE ONE where Shawna told me I would end up.

She TOLD me which camera to get--but did I believe her? Na...I thought maybe i could pull some tricks out of my sleeve and come up w/a better deal somewhere.

Nope.

Mental note to self: listen to Shawna more. However, I stand behind my research...it forced me to LEARN more about digital cameras and the new technology out there. I will explain more of this when I present to thee masterpiece photos.

OK-- so I have this new, sweet, deluxe ass camera and I TOOK A BATH with the operator's manual last night. It felt like Christmas and I wanted to learn ALL ABOUT my new toy!

Woo!

So I will start posting some good pics soon--but right now I have to mapquest myself directions to a very high-end eye doctor ino Scottsdale.

I am going to be getting lasik eye surgery soon to obliderate the need for my glasses when trying to SEE something, and make all the acusations I've received over the years about my "glasses only being for fashion purposes" a reality!

My babysitter just came over and got Buck. She was Piiiiiiiiised off! She had just taken her mini-van into the shop to find out why the friggin DOOR won't close sometimes and they coudn't get it to act up in their garage. So she waits for 2 hours in the waiting room with three children under the age of 4 yrs old, only to be told that the mechanics opened and closed the door 42 times and it worked every time.

I told her it probably needs the sun to be shining on it, and four screaming kids in it before the conditions are just so to make it happen again.

Irritated for waisting her time, she gets in her minivan to leave, (after calling me to apologize and assure me that she'd be right here in a jiffy), and she notices that the mechanics got the mat on the driver's side floor all greasy and dirty! This, apparently--is the 2nd time they've done it when she brought her BRAND SPANKIN NEW MINIVAN in for some service.

I sympathized. It seemed as though she is having a "Ross or Ginger Day". Every single day of our lives is wrought with this sort of irriation. Know why? Cuz we live in a BIG CITY/SUBURB/CITY chock full of people who don't give a shit.

I told her she should probably just run the thing off a cliff and get it over with.

Customer Service is DEAD my friends!!!!

(I really hope it isn't dead everywhere.....like in a lasik eye surgeon's office, for example)

Staff Meeting Minutes

2005-11-03T22:16:00.000-08:00

14 people in attendance:

This morning’s meeting started with a morning salutation and the obligatory response.

One fucking GEEK employee in particular was extra “rambunctious” today with the stupid attention getting jokes that brought tears of embarrassment to my eyes. I began to fantasize about slapping the shit out of said employee, much as I do on a regular basis.

If fantasies suddenly became reality, I believe we’d all be in body casts with dirty socks stuffed into our pie holes.

Boss went around the room asking for input from each of the 13 Charlie Brown teachers in attendance. The following was covered:

“Wahwnt waoht woan whawnt, [me: Wow, she’s really getting up there in age. I’ll be she’s retiring soon and the person who takes over her job will have to clean up her mess of paperwork that she saves for no reason and she will probably not talk this much], wahwt whaawt, blah, blah, woah”

“Blah blah blah, wahwt what woaht Woht. Whawn woht, potluck today, woahwnt, at lunchtime, woahwnt, [me: “is this guy serious? Does he really care about the crap that he’s talking about? I wonder what he was like in high school…] wught wahn”

Next?

“Blah, blah, blah, look at me, me, I’m so great, me, me, all that I do, wohtnt wahnt woanhwt, (*brown nosing, ass kissing, rim licking*), blah, blah, wahnt wahnt, wognht.” [me: Gahhhhhhwddd this shit is old. My eyes are burning, I'm so tired.....zzzz. *with eyes open*zzzzz]

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

3 people, (which includes yours truly), had nothing to share. At least we were honest about it and didn’t fog up the air with hot coffee breath and meaningless lip flapping.

Rear-Ended, Pulled Over & Tagged

2005-11-02T22:16:00.000-08:00

The Toodler ‘Tagged” me, and I’ve never been tagged before!!!
I’m so excited, I just peed my pants!

OK, so I’m supposed to write about 5 of my most nostalgic foods from my childhood? Is that right? Do I have that correct? If not, too bad—cuz you’re not here to stop me!!

Yeah, so I’m supposed to be writing about that, but all I can think about is the fact that my HUSBAND got into a car accident last night, (yeah, yeah, he's fine!), but now we need to come up with a $1000 deductible, money for the CITATION he received, AND pay our bills!

How about that?! You know…I was just thinking that we had too much money floating around here and was wondering what it was I should do with it!

Life just keeps throwing me curve balls. Or is that my husband? His balls do curve sometimes.

Anyway. Yeah, so like—it was his fault. He rear ended somebody—most likely while listening to frighteningly loud music and tailgating the guy in front of him—two of his favorite driving pastimes.

((He, who tells me that my VOICE is "far too loud" almost daily, prefers his driving music to be at concert-like decibels.

When I ride with him I'm in a constant state of trepidation due to the high speeds, tailgaiting and the brain rattling music. I try to turn it down so my teeth will stop vibrating, but he always catches me and turns it right back up. ))

His car was undriveable, so after I laid our baby down for the night, I called the neighbors to come over and sit in our house for 20 minutes while I went to go get him. Don’t worry—the neighbors are TOTALLY TRUSTWORTHY gems.

So I go pick him up, and he smells like alcohol! Wtf? He’s lucky he didn’t get a DUI!!! But I guess they tested him and he passed, so—whatever. He didn’t pass MY test!

Hrmph.

Five foods……hrm……

BEER. T'was an intregal part of every family occasion and part of my parents' balanced diet. My husband has been kind enough to carry on this tradition for me. Especially during his twice to three time weekly lunches with colleagues, when he should be working.

How about a knuckle sammich? Remember those? I do! I got a LOT from my brothers—and now I’d like to bring back that old family recipe for my husband.

Snicker Casserole: This is what my mother accused me of preferring when I wouldn’t eat her meatloaf dinners. I’m not sure I ever got over my distaste for that stuff. I just don’t think meat was meant to be loafed.

Meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas. I always mixed the peas in with the potatoes…so they’d have a little crunch to them. Still do.

But I would often break up the meatloaf into small pieces and smuggle them under the table to the dog. Frisky. She always had my back. Until one day, she didn’t—and I was unaware of her absence.

To this day, I don’t know where she had gone to, but I just kept dropping that meatloaf into a pile, thinking that Frisky was keeping up her end of the bargain.

After I was excused from the table and I went into the living room to play, I heard my mother pull the kitchen table away from the wall, (where I sat up against), and she found the pile. Oh boy.

Let’s just say that I had to finance it, with her co-signature, (read: wooden spoon), and only recently paid off my debt to hell for it.

Kraft Macaroni & Cheese with Fishsticks. Who cares if it’s not real cheese or real fish? Who wouldn’t love this combo? This is All- American, Midwestern cuisine at it’s finest.

My husband used to make fun of me until I made him try it. Now he does it when he is not in the mood to cook—just like good ol’ ma did—but he has asked me not to mention this to anyone he knows.

Wassail. My 70-something year old Aunt LaVerne makes this shit every year. I’ve got the recipe, so it will not leave with her when she goes. (God forbid!)

It always had those yummy sticks of cinnamon, slices of orange and lemon, allspice and cloves floating in it. She served it up hot, in a crock pot, with a bottle of dark rum sitting next to it.

As a kid, I had no interest in the rum. I just loved the spicy HOT goodness, (read: SWEETNESS) of the wassail. To this day, no holiday is complete without it. However, my advancing age has facilitated the necessity for the dark rum to go with it.

Kellog’s Cap’n Crunch with Crunch berries. Loved that stuff. Didn't care too much for the nasty little yellow pieces--(what good are those?)--so I often exchanged them for as many of the crunch berries as the bowl, (or anyone who walked in on me) would allow. I would reach into the box and scoop out handfuls with one hand and pick out the berries and drop those into my bowl with their friends with the other one.

Skinny little wisp of a thing that I was, I could easily polish off a whole box of that shit while sitting in front of the T.V watching Captain Kangaroo & Mr. Green Genes.

I think that was five, but incase you don’t think knuckle sammiches or snicker casseroles count: Then I give to thee: Mom’s chocolate cake, with coconut & sour cream frosting. Mmm Mmm!

Mom always made it a point to make each one of our favorite cakes for our birthdays. That was always mine. Two layered, moist and yummy goodness, with those chewy strings of coconut on them. Delightful.

Where I've Been (Where It's At)

2005-11-01T22:16:00.000-08:00

Happy November 1st, Bitches!

(And Happy Birthday to the baby girl one of my girlfriends is probably squeezing out as I type this! The last update was 5 minutes ago and she was 9 cm dialated, riding the epidural train. Due last Friday, her water finally broke last night! ABOUT TIME!!!)

Anyway. The Beck concert was great. He did not disappoint. My camera, however, did. Greatly.

Oh shitty and loathsome camera, let me count the ways in which I hate thee:

First of all, you are huge, heavy and cumbersome.

You are like the 8-track of digital cameras. Outdated and embarassing around my friends.

Your stupid, useless arrow buttons do not work, which means that I cannot review my pictures OR change the resolution on them. So every photo I take is the size of a friggin’ POSTER and therefore I can only fit so many on one crappy VHS tape sized memory card.

The only time you allow me pictures that are not blurry, you make sure to drown them out with a ten minute long, 9 million watt white hot flash that actually burns up 10 good years of the subject's retinas.

Whenever I press the button to take my picture, you wait until the following week to actually snap the goddamned picture. I honestly hate you with a passion.

Really, the only thing you are still any good for, is sending out 30 second video clips of my beloved loin fruit to the extended family.

I have to take you in to be repaired, (*cough! replaced! *ahem!*), but I’m afraid it will take over 3 weeks, and what am I going to do for a camera in the meantime!?!?!? Buck will be all grown up by then!

I can’t even express to you how badly I would like to throw you against a cinder block wall, or off the Northern rim of the Grand Canyon. But you have me by the balls and you know it. And I know that there are probably plenty of starving photographers in Apache Junction, so I will try to hold back and appreciate what little you actually do for me. *scowl*

Anyway—back to the Beck concert. Leave it to him to put on a totally random and funky show. I loved it, of course. He opened up with Loser, which surprised me, and gave us a taste from just about every one of his albums. Except for Stereopathic Soul Manure and a Western Harvest, I think. I dunno, I was drunk from all the tasting of beer.

He came out dressed in a funkadelic western shirt, with what looked like a red and orange Phoenix on the shoulders and a trilby hat.

The funniest part of the whole show was how he had some guy dressed like a traveling Mormon, (in a white shirt, black pants and skinny black tie) dancing his ASS off on the front edge of the stage. It was hysterical. The only thing missing was the white bicycle helmet. Heh….Beck pays some other jackass to break it down for the crowd.

During the song “Where It’s At”, the Mormon dancer guy came strutting out with a boom box on his shoulder. He set it down in the front of the stage, went back stage again and came back out with an even bigger one to set down next to it. He did this about four times, each time the boom box getting bigger and bigger until finally, they wheeled a GIANT one out. But just for that one song. When the song was over, we had to say bye bye to the giant boom box as they wheeled it and all of it’s little friends back stage.

Some other things about the concert of note: At one point, he busted out this exotic accordion-type instrument that he got from India. He said he needed someone to help him play it while he sang and of course I raised my hand. However, I think he was playing “hard to get” with me by not even looking in my direction, (*Ahem! Nosebleed*) I kept my hand up anyway until all the blood drained out of it and Ross told me that Beck chose somebody five songs ago.

The whore, I mean girl he chose was this big, fat sweaty girl who came up on stage and opened her arms up wide for a big ol’ bear hug. Even from our (rather distant) vantage point we could tell that Beck was having no part of that business. He barely let her come in just close enough for a quick pat on the back and then he backed away from her like she was a hungry grizzly.

He showed her how to play the instrument and then she tried doing some kind of seductive, snake dance waving her big trunk back and forth while playing the instrument as instructed. One of Beck’s band mates came up on the other side of the instrument and started imitating her—doing a little seductive dance to entice him.

Mr. Hansen wanted no part of that either and told him that was enough of that as soon as the song ended. Upon parting, the girl made another attempt as some physical affection and received an even chillier bid farewell. Yikes.

Towards the end of the show I noticed that Beck’s band had assembled a dinner table in the middle of the stage with dishes, wine glasses and the like and they were all sitting there pretending to socialize. Then Beck went over there and they all started playing the dishes and glasses like instruments! How cool is that? He put on a great show.

I had stashed $20 for a T-shirt in my pocket, but when I went to buy one—all they had were $25 CREW NECK T-shirts, so –huh-uh. I did an about face and back to the beer counter I went! "I’ll juss get one off the internet", I slurred.

After the show, we applied and qualified for a second mortgage on our house so that we could purchase a few more beers at the carnival, tickets to a couple rides and a funnel cake with strawberries on it.

I wanted so badly to supply you with some priceless photos of some of the strange carnies and wildebeests pushing their 14 children around, but alas—as I have told you—my camera is a big, steaming hot pile of donkey dung on an ass platter.

I did take a mental picture of one beast in particular, though. Here it is: She was a good 270 lbs, donned in the traditional cheap, trashy carny garb suitable only for someone weighing 230 max, big ol’ loop earrings, kid in a stroller, she was gnawing on the biggest HAMHOCK drumstick I have ever seen. It was all mangled and greasy looking wedged in her hoof. I couldn't hear the sounds she was making over all the carnival noise and was afraid to actually get any closer for fear of my own limbs.

I thought I was at Medieval Times there for a minute. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, though. And I didn’t think she noticed, because she was so into it, but after awhile, she dragged it over to the side of a ride to be alone with it.

Jesus christ, I don’t know how some of those people afford to go to the fair. The carnies must be letting their friends in the side gate and giving them free tickets to things, because everywhere you looked there were people playing games, riding rides, and eating everything in sight, yet—we could hardly afford to look at the beer tents, much less partake in both beer AND funnel cakes!

Our friends had to buy our destitute asses every beer past the second one, (and let’s not get into how many we actually ended up consuming), and the four of us shared one funnel cake! (Although I did woof down the majority of it) Everything was so damned expensive, I wondered aloud why it was that Scottsdale’s elite are not found roaming around instead of the dregs of society! (*cough* us!) Alas, they have the money, but not the lack of class that we have!

As we strolled through the crowds all dignified-like, (well, Ross was.... I was riding his back), we saw people walking around with giant stuffed snakes and “prizes”, etc—and I was thinking to myself, “YOU would have to pay ME to take that shit home! But even then, it wouldn’t make it past the garbage bin sitting outside. I would have made it into THAT hole on the first try.

Anyway. We got home pretty late for us, (midnight) and my sister's car was in the driveway, busy dripping oil all over it. Inside, she was passed out on the couch with a pizza box on her chest and empty beer bottles strewn about.

We were hung over all day Saturday.

Ross carved a couple of pumpkins on Sunday morning—one big one with a goofy face, and one little one w/Buck’s name on it. Then he oiled, seasoned and toasted up the seeds. Yum! Later we had dinner with a couple of friends at our favorite Indian restaurant and then the next thing ya know…it was HALLOWEEN!

We dressed Buck as a puppy dog. His friend Jack, who lives down the street, came over dressed as a “Jack-O-Lantern”. (Actually, his parents brought him down.)

This kid was due on the same day that Buck was, but he came early and Buck came late. So, he’s 2 wks older than Buck, but Buck outweighs him by about 3-5 lbs and is a good 2-3 inches taller.

Jack is crawling around like a champ, though-- up on his hands and knees, crawling up to the walls and using them for balance to stand up, —while Buck just lumbers along, dragging himself all over the floor like Jack’s one armed assistant, baby Egor.

Jack has more teeth, is way more physically agile, etc—but Buck pulls on this kids’ face and ears like they’re putty. He kept yanking on the stem atop Jack’s head too, pulling the kid around like a stuffed toy. In other words, Jack has the brains and Buck has the braun.

Every time we get these two together, it seems like Jack just trips out on all the strange people around while Buck is busy yanking him around like a rag doll.

So we get the two of them in our dining room together with all their toys and Jack immediately crawls over to the wall separating our dining room from the entry way and stands up. There’s a two tiered ledge there, and one of them is just tall enough to grab onto once he gets to a standing position. Since Jack was over there standing up by himself, I picked Buck up and stood him next to his friend. Buck was a whole head taller.

As soon as I stood him up, Buck started slapping that ledge, yelling out and shrieking all about it to his friend. From the other side, all you could see was Jack’s eyes, the top of his head and his fingertips, yet Buck’s arms draped all the way over the ledge to the other side.

While they were standing there together, another neighbor brought her little witch over to trick-or-treat and she looked at the two babies standing next to each other and pointed to Jack and said, “That one must be yours, right? Cuz that one, (pointing to Buck), looks too old to be yours.”

I said, “Nope. The shrieking puppy dog is mine. That one, (pointing to Jack) is actually 2 wks older than him!” She was amazed. To her, it seemed like just yesterday I was pregnant.

Boy, time really flies when you’re not taking care of a baby, doesn’t it?

I will try, (a little later) to post a photo of him in his costume--but bear in mind what we are dealing with here regarding Blogger's photo upload four letter word: "tool".

Also keep in mind that trying to get an 8 month old in a puppy costume to sit still for pictures is very much like trying to do the same with a puppy in a baby costume using the world's crappiest digital camera.

Hell Yes!

2005-10-28T22:16:00.000-07:00

Ok, I’m better today, moniggas! I’m currently high on life, (and too much coffee again) and in a great mood! Look at me! I’m movin this way, I’m doin this thing! Please enjoy.

The two main reasons for my current mood:

1. BECK CONCERT. TONIGHT. AZ State County Fair. Woop Woop! I LOVE Beck! Almost named my kid after him, but chickened out at the last minute and changed the E to a U. Heh! Yeah, right.

2. BRANDO linked to me today! Can I just say that my beat is correct? I thought for sure it would take months and months of begging and groveling, but he was quite easy! He gave right in to me! He must’ve clicked on the link to the BOOBS on my friend, the Toodler’s site! Thanks, Toodler! (I’ll try not to make you sorry, Brando!)

At some point today, I have to run out and buy some cowgirl boots to wear with one of my goofy skirts. I gotta keep it real an’ represent since we’ll be kickin’ it old school style with the four H’s at the County Fair: Hoodlums, Hoodrats, Hillbillies and Jotos.

I’ll be sure to take lots of pictures; I just can’t promise that any of them will feature BECK. I’ll do what I can.

However, in lieu of Beck portraits, I aim to step away from the fair tonight with an abundance of photos featuring dirty Borachos , putas in ill fitting ensembles and gordos washing elephant ears and funnel cakes down with Schlitz beer. I only hope that the flash on my camera (the one of a thousand suns) does not piss off any of my unsavory subjects. I might need to bring a midget rodeo clown with me.

I’m callin you out.
I’m switchin my plates.
My beat is correct!

Hell Yes!

Funky, But Not So Fresh

2005-10-27T18:53:00.000-07:00

Ugh. I’m in a funky mood today. I have so much on my mind, and so many things to do, to plan for, to PAY for, to clean, to research before doing, to do, to do to DO!

I’m just overwhelmed with anxiety. I feel like my life is passing me by while I stress about this shit.

I keep thinking and feeling like I need a break and a vacation, but most of the time—I either don’t get one, or if I do—it ends up causing me more stress than I was already dealing with.

:-/

Then my colleague who introduced me to my sitter, and my sitter—they wait until I’m alone with them and bitch about each other to me. They’re constantly giving me their unsolicited side of some squabble they are silently having. I try to remain neutral, but most of the time I silently side with my sitter. (The colleague is a real pain in the ass.)

I guess I’m just having one of those days. The kind where I find most human beings revolting and vile.

Taking a trip to Frye’s Electronics this afternoon and witnessing all the media hungry and beastly looking sasquatch types lurching and lumbering around clutching game DVD’s and bags of Doritos didn’t help much with that either.

Yee gads, what a freak show that was! I swear to god I was one of maybe 3 people in that entire store under 200 lbs.

I’m not sure if there are Frye’s Electronics nationwide, but just incase there aren’t—Frye’s is this colossal, city-sized superstore for…well, electronics. Computers, cameras, software, encyclopedias, CD’s, DVD’s, widgets, etc, etc, ET-FUCKING-CETERA.

Anyway—as I said, the place is big enough to have it’s own zip code. Therefore, when you need to check out—if even for a simple little pack of gum--instead of regular check out lines, they have this enormously long AISLE that you stand in while there is one guy hired specifically to tell you which cashier is now open. They have little lights that blink above the cashiers who are ready for the next obese customer.

The aisle you are required to wait in is wrought with every type of junk food and widget imaginable. From hairdryers and jewelry boxes to cell phone jackets, (you know…incase they get cold?), to memory sticks, blank CD’s, Nip Tuck and Desperate Housewives DVDs, to books, Twinkies and Twizzlers.

So, as I stood “in line” and picked out a new book for Buck to eat, I spied the unsightly customers surrounding me. Not only was it difficult to choke back the bile seeping up into my throat, but it made me embarrassed to be of the same species, really. I saw one guy who was at the very minimum, 450 lbs if he was 20.

His neck was wider than his fat, buzzed head and his legs looked like giant, fleshy, tree trunks, be-speckled with red pocks, shoved into his exhausted shoes. He was a complete disaster, clutching a bag of “Big Grab” Doritos to go along with his CD purchase. I didn’t see the CD for a long time, so I originally thought he was standing in line all that time just for the Doritos, which wouldn’t have surprised me.

Unfortunately, I’m no good at hiding my disdain with a poker face. I’m sure I appeared to be sucking on something rotten. You know, the same face you make when you are silently wondering how it is that these people wipe their asses? And what the skin inbetween the folds of their mountainous rolls of flesh must smell like. Yeah, that face.

A Kiss To Build A Dream On...

2005-10-26T22:16:00.000-07:00

Ooh! Ooh! I forgot to tell you! A week ago this Friday will mark the one week anniversary of the day that Buck first did something I asked him to on his own volition!

He blows kisses now!

Well, he doesn’t really BLOW them in the sense that one would normally blow kisses using the palm of their hand and blowing it off towards the object of their affection, so much as is more of a smooching action when I ask him to “Give mommy kisses!!”.

And it isn’t so much as a “smooch”, as it is a “SMOTCH”.
(Picture a fish gulping the air, gasping for water)

Oh, and not so much directly at me, per sey, as it is in my general direction.

But he does it! He’s doing it! I told our sitter about it, and she says he’s been doing it all day long now. He’s so advanced. It’s obvious this kid is a gifted and talented genius. A puckering prodigy at the very minimum.

Sometimes he just does it arbitrarily. And sometimes he does it when he wants his bink, or when he’s hungry and he sees food coming towards his face.

Okay, so it’s apparent that we have to narrow down the meaning of “Give mommy kisses”, but I’m telling you. We’re thisclose!

Next, I will teach him how to wave bye-bye, and then we’ll start working on balancing a check book.

Now that I think of it…they should go pretty well together, since balancing one’s checkbook also involves waving bye-bye to one’s money.

A Tale of Two Cats (And the Tail Of One)

2005-10-25T17:47:00.000-07:00

Today's post was inspired by Very Mom...

We have two red, male varmints who live in our house. Ross calls them "cats". Jan, (pronounced: "Yon") and Lance, (prounounced: "Lance"), and they are named after the famous Tour de France cyclists. (Lance being the big, 6 x champ!)

Most of you have probably not been reading this blog since the day that I posted about how they came to be in our house, and it, like all of my stories, is a long one. But to summarize: They were both strays. We had lost our own red, male varmint, Elliot and put up LOST posters everywhere. We got two calls in one night, so we both took off in two different directions looking for Elliot.

Ross came home with Jan and I came home with Lance--both of us within about an hour of each other. I didn't want to keep them, but didn't have the will to fight with Ross on that, since I have two dogs and he had just lost his cat. So he got to keep his cats, and I still have my two dogs. Hence, the four non-human animals who live in this house that I refer to once in awhile.

The cats are now doggie door trained, so we do not have a litter box in the house. They use the yard, like good dogs. They look almost identical to each other, (hence the multitude of calls linking them to our former red varmint), but based upon their personalities, they could have been more aptly named Jeckle and Hide.

Jan is the sweet, mellow, rolling stone. He does not hound you for affection, yet he graciously accepts it whenever you're ready to give it to him. He comes and goes, and occasionally we get calls from people, or reports from our neighbors that he's been by for a visit. I ask them if he's been bothering them, and they say, "Nah...he was just looking to be petted. He's a great cat!"

Yes, yes I know.

Then there is Lance. :-/ Or, as Ross has recently nicknamed him: "Sir Lance-a-Little The Amazing Sandwich Head!"

Lance is needy. He's a lovey-dovey cat, but this could also be his downfall. Unfortunately, he doesn't come and go. He just keeps coming. He rarely leaves the back yard. He is extremely outspoken and quite frankly-I can deal without that trait every morning when I'm trying to get ready for work at 5:30 a.m.

You will NOT ignore him if his bowl is empty, because you do not know stalking, pestering, and badgering until you know Lance when his bowl is empty. Which is all the time, when you have two voracious red varmints living in your house.

Lance likes to weave in and out of MY legs constantly while I'm trying to walk, (apparently, he does not try to kill Ross the way he tries to kill me. I think he knows who is on his side and who would like him to take a long walk off a short pier.), and he does everything within his power to trip me.

I have to admit, Pinto is rather guilty of that shit too. Only, instead of badgering me to fill up his bowl, he follows me around incessantly staring at me and shivering like he is about to explode, anxiously awaiting his treat before I leave.

Pinto gets under foot quite a bit too. Most often when you are cooking. (As a matter of fact, he's at it right now. Ross is trying to prepare dinner and I just heard some dog claws scurrying on the tile and Ross say, "Pinto, god dammit!")

But I don't cook, see-so that is usually Ross' problem, not mine.

Well....Lance is my problem. Ross isn't up that early in the morning, and since I've usually filled up the cat's stupid bowl by the time he does get up-he doesn't have to deal with that jackass like I have to.

So this morning he's doing his normal irritating routine of harassment and this time he went too far. I had ALREADY filled up his bowl. So his dealings with me should be done, right?

Wrong.

He's got the entire god damned house to roam around in and where does he choose to hang out? Right behind my heels. I was running late and grabbing food out of the refrigerator this morning and I took a step back...

"ReeAARARHARHHARRARRARARTTtRHATt! Pffft!"

Apparently, I stepped on his beloved tail. The nerve.

(If this had been a cartoon, you'd have seen the cat about a foot off the ground, spread out like a 6-point star, hair in every direction, eyes bulging, then hit the ceiling, hanging on by his claws and shivering. Then you'd have seen me, turning red starting from my feet all the way to the top of my head, with steam coming out of my ears. )

The very same second that the hideous, ear-piercing, shriek of death emitted from that foul animal, I puked my heart up onto the tile.

As soon as I heard the "SPLOT!" of my heart, the baby started to cry FROM THE OTHER ROOM, (WITH THE DOOR CLOSED), and that's when my Tourette's Syndrome kicked in and I blurted out:
"FUCKIN STUPID ASSHOLE CAT!"

Of course, there is the running tension between my husband and myself where we (not so) secretly loathe one another's animals.

The dogs are mine and the cats are his. So naturally, I'm sure when he was jolted awake by the sound of THAT this morning he just assumed that I had finally administered that drop kick to the ass that I've been threatening and probably immediately started planning Pinto's demise as an act of retribution.

Ross knows that I love his Jan, but I have yet to witness him give either one of my dogs so much as a warm glance.

I'm not saying that I don't LOVE Lance...I'm just saying that almost on a daily basis I rue the day that I brought his dumb ass home.

Monday Thoughts

2005-10-24T15:02:00.000-07:00

Holy shit! I fixed my camera, y'all! I woke yesterday morning, busted out the defibrillator, yelled “CLEAR” and hit that bitch hard and now it’s heart is pumping again! I think I’m going to have to install a pacemaker on this thing to keep it going.

Actually, all I had to do was reinstall the driver. And here I almost threw it across the street. Doesn't really mean much to you, though--since Blogger's photo upload tool is just a pretty little button for show. It doesn't really work. It's sole purpose is to just waste a little more of your day.

Hey…You know that scene in the movie Sideways where Jack and Miles are playing golf and some asshole golfers shoot a golf ball their way to get them moving—but instead Miles shoots one back their way, so then the other guys get in their golf cart and start heading towards them, but then Jack grabs one of Miles’ clubs and starts running towards them, waiving the club around, arms flailing, roaring like an ape?

Well, we just planted our annual Rye grass seed last weekend and the birds think it's just a giant back yard buffet, so that’s basically what I look like when I run out my back door periodically to scare them away.

Scarecrows and fake owls do not fool them. And the four animals that live here are completely useless in using their presence and/or voices for anything other than protecting the house from anything except for an occasional moth or a gust of wind outside the front door at night.

When I see a big ol' flock of fat, black crows gorging themselves on the Rye grass seed that we paid good money for, I go ballistic and run outside yelling. But I inevitably regret it when they are all gone and I turn around and see that my neighbor’s back screen door is ajar, so I know they just heard that.

They aren’t usually staring directly at me, either—so I can’t just explain to them why I run out of the house like a maniac periodically. They probably just think I’m schizophrenic. And maybe they’re right. At least a couple of my personalities think they could be.

They can’t be too afraid of me, though, because when I went out to the front yard yesterday looking for Ross and his friend, (they were expected back any second and I wanted to get a picture of them rolling up looking all crusty from two nights out in the Wild Mountain Frontier), our next door neighbor Laura came out all sauced up and invited me and the boy, along with the neighbors across the street over for a little impromptu drink. And who the hell am I to turn down a free and refreshing alcoholic beverage? Nobody, that’s who!

She didn’t have to ask me twice. Unfortunately, I missed my opportunity to capture the Canon moment of their return and by the time I got home from my “quick drink”, Ross and his friend were all showered and about to call the Police and file a missing person report.

So Ross took his buddy to the airport this morning and I ran some errands before coming back here. So much for my weekend of enjoying the static cleanliness of my own home. Wtf? I didn’t even finish getting it completely spotless until just before walking out the front door to get their picture yesterday! Then the neighbors nab me for a drink and the next thing I know, the boys have come home and commenced dirtying up the house.

I mean, HOW DARE they try to live in this house after I just cleaned it! There should be a law against that. “No LIVING in houses that have just been cleaned! Clean houses are for VIEWING only. No living.” You had your chance, and you mussed it up-so get the hell out of here, dammit! Unless you can live without making your presence known! Heh!.

My poor kid. Can you imagine having me for your mother? One of my friends said that Buck is probably going to bring his credit report in for Show & Tell.

Before I go, I will leave you with a picture of what Ross calls “Doing the Dishes”….
He fills up the sink with hot, soapy water and then "soaks" them. Cuz you know how hard it is to remove crusty milk from bottles, and coffee rings from mugs...

And, yes, that mug says "Mothers of little boys work from Son up to Son down" I bought it for myself while walking around in a Purple Percoset Haze in the hospital, right after I had him.

Btw. Blogger photo upload tool. Piece of shit. Earlier it would NOT upload my photo AT. ALL.
NOW it will....but only if it can be on the LEFT, and not centered. What is this thing, a toddler?!?!

Peaceful Fall Day

2005-10-22T22:16:00.000-07:00

Buck and I have the whole house to ourselves this weekend. One of Ross’ best friends from NY flew here w/his mountain bike so they could bike 60 miles to Four Peaks Mountain and camp out for two nights while they hike to the top and back.

I’ll never understand the appeal of this. I don’t mind a good hike up Camelback Mountain from time to time, as long as I know there is an end in sight and I’m going to have a fresh meal, indoor plumbing and a soft bed to sleep in later on.

I really don’t see the point in shunning hundreds of years of hard work in advancement of technology for the betterment, convenience and comfort of mankind just so I can be closer to nature. The park is just across the street, for chrissakes.

It was funny too, because when Ross’ friend first got here, he and I were standing out in the front yard laughing at one of our dumb cats. The cat was zipping around the front yard, ears straight back, sideling around our tree as he stalked the thin air. Ross’ friend pondered out loud about how cats are so dumb that they actually invent prey when they’ve got a perfectly balanced meal sitting in a dish in the house.

Ross had to remind him of the trip they were about to embark on, and how they were planning on doing essentially the same thing: Pretending that they were cave men without electricity. The major difference being that the cat wasn’t carrying a cell phone and using high dollar equipment from REI to stalk his imaginary prey.

Before he left, Ross kept heckling me about whether I would miss him or not. “Of course I will! Don’t be silly! Shouldn’t you be running along now, though? You don't want to keep the Mountain waiting!”

I was all ready to have a relaxing weekend with my boy. We would be FREE TO BE HE AND ME! I would clean the house and the two of us would enjoy the static cleanliness of it together! We would go to bed early and sleep late, the two of us.

Yeah, right. Me and my lofty plans. Just as my luck would have it, Buck chose today to perform the debut of his new Broadway musical called, “Once Upon a Crib Mattress” at exactly 4:44 a.m. Something about a lost binky and a will to be awake.

I gave him a replacement bink and stumbled back to bed.

He finally took an intermission, but came back on stage at around 7:30 a.m., which is a little more like the kid I’m trying to raise.

Ahh…October! You know…there’s nothing like pulling a toasty warm and fuzzy pair of freshly laundered sweat pants out of the drier on a crisp, fall morn; fixing yourself a nice cup of Bolivian coffee and spending a quiet morning with your child who pukes on said sweat pants not 10 minutes after he finishes his bottle of breakfast.

We did have a nice day, though. I got some laundry done and our walk-in closet vacuumed out and all the shoes dusted while occasionally running out and dancing for the boy. He sits there and smiles at me while I do some fancy kind of Elaine Bennis chicken dance for him. Then we danced together to “Guero Canelo” by Calexico. I like to call it “Leggo my Eggo”, because that’s what it sounds like they’re saying in the song.

Later, I took the boy on a long walk to a Taco del Mar so yours truly could enjoy a couple of Pork Mole tacos, then to the grocery store and home. He fell asleep on the way home. And I would too if someone was pushing me in a stroller on a sunny, breezy and balmy afternoon, with the sounds of birds chirping, leaves rustling in the wind and the occasional gas guzzling SUV plowing by.

After we got home, I was going to photograph a particular stain on my carpet, and post it next to this face:
' '
__

But the USB connection is the 3rd thing now to shit the bed on this god forsaken, 8-track of a digital camera—so let me just add this face:

>:-(

I’m going to take it in to be repaired now, but I’m afraid the outlook is going to be grim. It’s only a matter of time before I’m going to HAVE TO replace it. I’ve been WANTING TO for a while now, but I guess every function on this piece of JUNK is going to have to crap out and I am going to lose my shit and throw it across the street in order to jumpstart my new purchase.

The stain is out of control. I swear to god my fucking carpet is antagonizing me on purpose. It thinks I’m playin with it. Mama ain’t playin. It has the lead right now, but I’ve got some shit up my sleeve and it won’t be long before I’m showing that carpet just what it can do with it’s stains.

Anyway—so instead of photographing the GD stain, I busted out my mini-shampooer and tried to drown out the whining coming from Buck’s area of the room.

For a few minutes, I zoned out with the shampooer whirring loudly as I just watched dirt being sucked up into the clear nozzle. I never thought I’d like the loud sound of a machine like this until I compared it to the incessant whining of a tired baby.

The kid wanted no part of the nap scene today, (other than the short one during our walk home this afternoon—where he normally takes 2-3 naps per day)—so he was extra bitchy for me.

Trying to feed him his dinner tonight was like trying to spoon feed a helicopter. I think I popped two more “happy pills” than prescribed today—in an attempt to spare my teeth from grinding into dust. Hmm.....camping on that mountain is actually starting to make sense now that I think about it...

Gotta go now, the dogs are barking at nothing again.

How To Cut Expenses In Half

2005-10-21T22:16:00.000-07:00

I was on a little road trip this morning and decided to call one of my cousins and talk to him on my way to lunch. He’s always good for a laugh.

I told how I had just come from the mall because I was looking to buy a new bottle of perfume. It was a toss up between three different kinds, so of course I had to spray all three of them on myself before making my final decision.

As a result, I left the mall reeking like a French whore and had to drive myself to lunch with the window down and my head out the window so I could breathe. I learned that it’s kind of difficult to hear the person you’re talking to on a cell phone with your head out the window.

I went to Chili’s for a quick bowl of soup and a glass of lemonade and noticed that the waiter was squinting his eyes and taking my order from a good five feet away. I’m sure that when people looked at me, they saw my blurry image behind wavy vapors of perfume. I hate people like me.

Anyway—that’s not the point of this story. The point is that during the conversation with my cousin, he asked me if I just pulled out a $20 bill and cut it in half. I started laughing because I, unlike you, am privy to the inside joke here.

You see, a few years ago he came out to visit me in Arizona from Wisconsin. I decided to take him to Mill Avenue in downtown Tempe, because it’s like a modest version of the Venice Beach Strip—where all the sideshow and sidewalk freaks meet and greet and rollerblade while wearing turbans and playing the electric guitar. I figured he’d appreciate it since he used to live in California.

Once down there, we went into some artsy shop to browse around and as soon as we exited the little shop, there was a tiny little woman standing directly in front of us, holding a clipboard with a pen attached by a string.

I don’t know about you, but most of the time when I’m confronted by people wielding clipboards asking for signatures for anything—I react the same way I do to solicitors and pan-handlers. I try to pretend I don’t hear them and briskly walk past them. This also goes for those annoying boys on commission manning the kiosks in the mall. “Maam! Can I ask you a question?”

Me: “La la la la la la la la la …”

So my cousin and I were trying to do the same thing, but the little clipboard wielding lady managed to blurt out, “Would you like to sign a petition to pass a bill for cleaner air?” before we could escape her.

Having had a paper route in my youth, I’m a pretty fast walker. My cousin, however has had no such experience—so he was left to die in my dust on the sidewalk. I had about five feet on him when I heard him explain to her, “I don’t even live here. Sorry!” and then scurried along to catch up with me.

It might help to know that my cousin is a bit of a pothead. He came to my house completely equipped with a carefully measured week long allotment of his dope. So, he was incredibly stoned at the time of this encounter, and therefore was at a complete loss for what to do in this situation.

Paranoia had it’s grip on his little brain and all he could think of at the time was this woman was trying to block him from walking down the street and his cousin, (me) was getting away! So he quickly blurted out the first thing that came to his mind and ran off.

We got about ten feet further along and looked at each other and started laughing hysterically.

“Oh, I see how it is!” I said. “You live in Wisconsin—so who gives a fuck if we Arizonans can breathe, huh?” HAHAHAHA!!!

I told him that I was going to sign a petition to pump all the United States’ carbon monoxide directly into Wisconsin. Asshole. Heh!! Ah, but again I am digressing as is my habit.

So getting back to the $20 bill story: On our little walk down Mill Avenue, we headed over to Buffalo Exchange, a hip little resale/exchange clothing store. I LOVE LOVE LOVE that place—because you can always find very unique items there, and they are never full price.

I like to find my jeans there, since they are cheaper—so I can modify them and not feel bad about cutting up jeans to make capris, shorts, or ultra frayed low rises out of them.

That particular day, I was in search of a pair of white jeans that I could cut the top belt loops off, so as to achieve the ultra low-rise, sexalicious midriff bearing look to it’s maximum capacity. The kind that you have to go commando in, because even low rise bikinis or thong underwear would show. I found a pair that fit perfectly, and wouldn’t you know it? They were on sale for only $20! Yay!

We get home, crack open some beers, start listening to some music and soon start doing our own things. He went into the kitchen and struck up a conversation with my (ex) husband at the time, and I sat down in the middle of my office floor to begin surgery on my new jeans.

With the jeans and my scissors about two inches from my face, I painstakingly followed the sewn line just above where the loops were attached, so as not to cause them to fall apart. My scissors were a little dull, so it took awhile to get through the thick white denim. As soon as I was finished, I sprinted off to my bedroom to try them on.

As it turned out, I apparently cut off whatever it was that held those puppies up, because as soon as I started to walk out my bedroom door, I felt them creeping down my ass. On my way into the kitchen to model them, I had to hold them up before turning around, letting go and mooning my husband and cousin as I scuffled back down the hallway.

So, essentially, I just sat down with a pair of scissors and rendered my brand new, (to me) $20 steal-of-a-deal sexalicious white jeans completely fucking useless because they wouldn’t stay up and I couldn’t even wear a belt with them anymore because I cut the loops off!

When I came back out with my old pants on, I stomped past my cousin and threw the jeans into the garbage. I thought he was going to die laughing.

He spit up some of his beer onto my kitchen floor, turned bright red with veins popping out of his neck and managed to choke out “I’m sure! Why didn’t you just save some time by walking up to the counter, pulling out a $20 bill and clip it in half right in front of the cashier?!”

Happy Birthday To Me!!!

2005-10-19T22:16:00.000-07:00

I had a birthday this past weekend, ya’ll!

Let’s not talk about how old I am not, and focus more on the gifts I received, shall we? Yay!

My birthday STARTED on Friday, when I came home from work to find several boxes stacked up just inside the front door! One from Shawna, one from my friend Jules, and one from each of my two sister-in-laws.

I immediately ran into my office to send out emails asking permission to open the boxes NOW, rather than waiting for the actual day. I cracked open a beer and waited. And paced. And waited some more, then I paced some more. Then I went back into my office to turn up the volume on my email notification.

As soon as I felt the house shake with the sounds of birds chirping, (my email notification), I ran into my office to find the first reply. It was from Jules, and she said to open it NOW, so it was going to be hers first!

I ran into the dining room where my boy was playing with his toys and sat down in the middle of the room with my beer and a razor blade to open the box. Then I handed the razor blade to Buck and told him to set it off to the side. Yeah, right.

So Jules sent……CHOCOLATES!! And not just ANY chocolates…HAUT Chocolat! As in: EXOTIC, jet setting chocolates. As in ELITE, HIGH SOCIETY, privelaged pretty people chocolates! They were Vosges chocolates!

Good god, wherever did she find out about these? I knew chocolate could be decadent…but these are like the Lamborghinis and Bentleys of the chocolate world! I’m certain that these are the chocolates that the stars eat!

I'm positive that they had to have been featured on “The Fabulous Life Of”? Shit, they could have had their own show! The Fabulous Life Of Chocolate Truffles! Surely the rich and famous dine on these while getting massaged Oceanside! I am so, so not worthy!

Right away I don my swimming cap and dive into them. With a chocolate smudged face, and occasional drops of saliva shooting out, I exclaimed to Ross:

“Mrmmph….these thingth are thow damn goot..mrmm…..Exthotic, Thpithee! Gawd damn her, too. *slurp* The package wayth eggthacly 8 pounths, thow that ith eggthactly how much weight I’m gawna gain, cuth you’re thuuppothed to eat them witin 12 dayschs... mrmph….”

Cheeks bursting with chocolate, my eyebrows turned into a big V shape as I smacked Ross' hand when he reached for one. “Ith not YOUR birfday, dammit! You’re not gonna eat all my chocoritth like ya did all my cookeeth!”

Something tells me that these chocolates weren't really meant to be eaten all in one sitting...I'm sure the creme of society probably dabbles in them delicately, but she did not send these to the creme of society. She sent them to me!

And I sat guarding them like a wolf guards her fresh kill. Or like Pinto, when the baby is getting dangerously close to his dish:

No, no. I am not as generous as my friends. Stay the hell away from my exotic truffles, mofo.

She must’ve spent a small fortune on this combo-package that she sent too, which is not unusual for her. She routinely sends gifts that would take Ross and me a whole year to pay off. No one could ever accuse her of not being a generous and classy gift giver. Nope!

OK, next….I opened the one from my least favorite sister in law. And by "least favorite" I mean that I hate her.

Well, she was nice enough to send Buck a bunch of clothes and a wine pouch for Ross and I, with a hand written note from my 7 year old niece included. Very cute.

One would never know why I can't stand her based on her gifts! Well, trust me—it’s not because she isn’t a good gift giver. She’s the type that watches, listens and takes notes throughout the year, sending you exactly what she thinks you would like. And most of the time she is right on. I think she really gets off on Christmas shopping. But be ye not fooled into thinking that she is not a huge pain in the ass! For she is so, so very much of one in too many ways to count!

My most favorite sister-in-law, however, is the one who told me I had to wait. Damn her! I told her that was fine. That I could handle it. That it didn’t bother me a bit. That I was in total control. After all…it’s not like I didn’t have other stuff to open anyway! (Bitch.) Heh!

OK, so I saved the best for last: Shawna’s.

I gotta tell you about Shawna’s gift giving abilities. You have not ever received a true GIFT until you have received one of Shawna’s gifts. She is the one who made Buck his very own, handmade Sock Monkey.

Shawna has some Amish blood in her. Her DNA carries a special gene in it which provides her with the exceptional creativity along with the patience and endurance necessary to make handmade gifts out of paper, socks and panty hose.

I, on the other hand, was born with only half of the gene responsible for enabling me to remember people’s birthdays, but sans the gene necessary for learning how to make anything. Except babies and poop. (Same thing sometimes.)

Even when Shawna doesn’t actually MAKE what she sends, she has the ability to lavish you with copious amounts of small gifts, making you feel like the most important and spoiled person on the face of the planet. You can FEEL the love. And as she says, “You can’t fake that shit.”

I consider gifts from Shawna to be very guilty pleasures.

Shawna habitually gives out gifts with as much attention paid to the presentation of the gift as in the actual gift. The lucky recipient of one of Shawna's gifts always feels as though she spent the entire year preparing for this one occasion--YOUR birthday. Seriously: How many people can make you feel that way?

Part of me feels bad when I get a gift from her, because I can't seem to put as much thought and care into anything, much less a birthday package, as she does. I feel as though I do not deserve gifts of this caliber. Especially given my level of generosity. (Refer to the section above regarding sharing my chocolates.)

And I suppose that's okay...I mean, SHE is the one with the gift giving knack. That's not to say that SHE should be the one giving out gifts all the time and I should just do all of the RECEIVIN' , (since I'm so good at RECEIVING), ha ha, hee hee...no, --it just means that she is so much better at it than I could ever be.

Therefore, I feel guilty about that. But whenever I am presented with a gift from her, I have to fight off the guilt so that I can greedily dig into the box. For me, it's my few minutes out of the year when I get to feel like I'm 8 years old, being loved, spoiled and showered with gifts.

I do not, and HAVE NOT felt that feeling EVER from my own mother! How sad is that shit? Aw, hail--this ain't supposed to be sad. And it's not. The bitch sends me a $50 check every year, so ya can’t be sad about some greenbacks.

OK, so onto the package….

The first thing I noticed was that the gift came packaged in a PROACTIVE SOLUTION box. Heh! Her story “Judith Light Is a Whore” came to mind. Now I know it wasn’t a fictitious story, as I was holding the evidence right in my very hands! Heh!

I open it up and inside the top of the box, the PROACTIVE SOLUTION logo is circled and labeled by Shawna: World’s Tackiest Gift Box! Heh! Not really. I’m going to go ahead and claim that title, as the last gift I gave to my sister was wrapped in a Carefree LONGS pantyliner box.

Underneath lots of tissue, I find the card, and open that first. (As far as you know) It’s a cute little sparkly card (Lawd knows Ginger loves her some sparkly stuff.) I was rain woman, turning it under the light…. "It’s very sparkly.” On the front was a cute little caricature of a young blonde girl with pigtails on it. She’s all happy and it says, “Yippeee!” Yep, dat's me!

Inside the card, she mentioned having bought me something ELSE that was on back order! WTF?

Ya know...she had ALREADY sent me a funny mug about how “I don’t do Mondays, Tuesdays or Wednesdays, Thursdays are OK, I would suck Friday’s cock and Saturday and Sunday can stick it anywhere” that I received in the mail last week!

Jeez! Now I'm opening a big ol' birthday package and she's saying there's MORE?!?!? Good god, woman!

Inside the box there was a bunch of stuff all wrapped up. FUN!

OK, so the first little gift that I tore open was a shiny blue bag full of Bolivian coffee beans! Yum! Ol' girl knows I love me some coffee! And it's from Bolivia! How sweet! She picked up some coffee for me when she went to Bolivia! Even though she was SICK AS HAIL the whole time! Awww...

I tried it out on Saturday—it was like drinking VELVET. Except wetter and tastier. I have been drinking only that coffee since I got it, and just this morning I had some of my old stuff at work. The chocolate raspberry crème flavor comes through SO STRONGLY by comparison, now I know why Ross claims to hate it.

Next was a little bar of soap. Not sure where it was from, but it had a fancy little green ribbon around it and a picture of a cute bunny on it. The heavenly scent of Lavender and Rosemary permeated the entire box!

It reminded me of the time when I was pregnant, and I was SO into smelly soaps for some reason...that I had a little sample bar of L'occitane Milk soap, (my favorite!)-- and I ducked into my bathroom one day to be alone with it. I was holding it in the palm of my hand, with my nose pressed HARD upon it, smell, smell, SMMEEEELLLLING it so hard. Brushing my lips over it softly, I seriously had to hold myself back from EATING it because I KNEW it wouldn't taste as good as it smelled, --but I was in my own little world, mesmerized and captivated in a smelling frenzy in my bathroom when Ross walked in on me and said, "Um...what are you doing?"

But back to my soap from Shawna. It looked like it had some kind of twigs hardened into it. Perhaps for exfoliation? No matter…I won’t be using it because it’s too purty and smells too good! So in my bathroom it sits, along with all my other fancy lotions, potions and toilet notions.

Next was an adorable little cloth bag with little Halloween symbols on it like Pumpkinds, black kitty cats and witches’ hats. THIS thing looks handmade, but she made it a point to APOLOGIZE for not making anything that she sent me this year, (AS IF SHE OWES ME AN APOLOGY FOR NOT SPENDING HOUR UPON HOUR making things for me from scratch! Buh!) So I don't think she made the bag.

The little bag is the perfect size to use as a purse, should Ross and I decide to go anywhere on Halloween, but if not—I most certainly can use it to photograph my teacup Chihuahua, Penelope, in it—since she gets her picture taken every year for her birthday, on Oct. 21st. The theme of her photos are ALWAYS pumpkin / Halloween related, because she is my punkity dunkity.

The next thing was a little tube all rolled up and wrapped with paper. I carefully peeled the paper away to find a sheet of STAMPS with my SON’S picture on them! Real .37cent postage stamps! Now all the world will see how good lookin my son is while he is bathing with his rubber ducky! Heh! How cool is that?

Last, but certainly not least: a postcard with a picture of an old fashioned type writer on it—and the word “WRITE” typed in big, red letters over the top. Sweet!

I tell ya. With the combination of beer, chocolate, Shawna's box of goodies and my little crib lizard crawling all over empty boxes, bubble packing plastic and wrapping paper strewn about—I had my own little birthday party in my dining room—and it was a blast!

OK, now it’s time to pay homage to my hozebang. He done good. I awoke on the morning of my birthday to him staring and smiling at me. “Happy Birthday, Baby!”

Heh! Oh yeah…. "I forgot about that one”, I said.

We got up and had some of my new, yummy Bolivian coffee and I decided to share some of Jule’s delectably exotic truffles while I opened his sister’s package and the package from his parents.

His sister bought me a cute little antique SHOE to add to my collection, and a bottle of yummy smelling lotion. His parents bought me a silver and turquoise necklace with a snake chain. Very pretty!

Then I opened Ross’s card. Inside he told me that I was lucky that I am not Jesus, because this is the year he got nailed to the cross. Hmm.....

Then, he taped the little menu for a half day at the spa to the bottom right side. We were to go to breakfast, but then I had to hurry home, shit-shower-and shave, before zipping off to a local hotel for my half day at their spa! Woo!

When I got there, I was instructed to leave my worries, (and my clothes) behind in a locker, don a white bath robe and step into a dimly lit room, with scented candles and soft music. I enjoyed an hour long massage, then an hour long facial, a light lunch, (turkey, avocado, cheese and alfalfa sprouts on a toasted croissant!), a manicure and finally a pedicure!

WORD TO YOUR MOTHER! You know I was all over that shit! After all of that, I did the moonwalk right out the door and drove home with another chocolate in my mouth.

When I got home, I found my husband on the couch recuperating from his half day of tending to my teething tot. Apparently, Buck had not been a happy camper while I was gone.

Ross reported that he tried to get some work done in the garage after putting the boy down for a nap and in so doing—ended up busting his right index finger to pieces with a hammer.

After he smashed his finger, he quickly reset it and splinted it with a plastic spoon. He bit his lip and held it together pretty well as he suffered through the rest of the night without going to the emergency room—just so we wouldn’t have to spend my birthday in the ER.! How sweet is that? (The only reason that I didn't INSIST that we go to the ER, was because I wasn't sure if he really broke it or not. He really didn't seem to be in all that much pain. But he WAS. He was just holding it in.) What a guy, huh?

So then my sister Kate rang the doorbell, handed me some cash for my birthday and settled in to watch the boy for the evening. (Apparently after she put the boy to bed, she snuggled up on the couch with some dental floss, too, the remnants of which we found on the floor in front of the couch last night. That's hot.)

Ross had a big evening all planned out for me. We went to Z-Tejas so I could strip naked and roll around in a plate full of Smoked Chicken Chili Relleno, and then we were off to…..(a surprise!) …a Calexico concert!!!

They opened for Iron & Wine—and the show was absolutely fantastic!!! I finally got a pink, Calexico muscle T-shirt! Woo! (The only T-shirts I wear are of the V-neck, or the muscle T variety. Can’t stand crewneck T-shirts. You will never see me in one.)

Anyway. Can I just say that it really doesn’t get much better than Calexico? Thanks. I said it. They are simply “ear delicious” and John Convertino, (brown shirt, front left side) is a great big piece of Vosges Haut Spicy Exotic Chocolate for mine eyes! Grrrr!! Meow!

It’s amazing to see so many musicians at one time up on the stage, all playing different instruments, and yet the sounds meld and mesh together so beautifully. At one point during the concert, we counted 10 or 11 musicians on the stage at once—all playing different instruments. It’s like your ear drums are on a magic carpet ride.

Ross waited almost 48 hours before heading to the ER, only to find out that his finger needed to be shot up with Novocain before being RESET, (OUCH!)—and then he was told that he needed to get thee to a hand surgeon, because he may need surgery and pins to put it back the way it once was.

The rest of the time that I have not been posting—has been spent cleaning, (finally got that CarpetO’saurus Rex off my back!), doing everything that Ross normally does since he has limited use of his hand now, and purposely avoiding my keyboard in lieu of spending time with my little rug rat.

He is so very good looking. Another piece of Vosges chocolate for mommy’s eyes! For my birthday, Buck gave his mama some big wet, open mouthed slobbery loves. Of course, every day is my birthday to him!

Birthdays All Over The Place!

2005-10-18T17:04:00.000-07:00

Guess what today is, everybody!?

It's my 45-yr old strip-bar addicted, bi-sexually deviant and pedophilic ex-husband's new wife's 22nd birthday today! Yay!!!!

Hooray, youth!

Carwash!

2005-10-17T17:07:00.000-07:00

Do you know how often it rains in Arizona?

I'll tell you: About as often as I get my car washed. Except, mother nature likes to give me a four day head start, since the place that I pay $20 for a car wash has a 3 day rain policy. If it rains w/in 3 days of your most recent car wash--you get a free one when it stops raining! Isn't that fucking awesome?!?!?

Lil Ol' Me?!?

2005-10-16T10:16:00.000-07:00

Yikes! I took this "personality test" I found on the Toodler's site and I am this classic movie:

(gulp!)

Additionally, I am this "classic?" leader:

Okay, I'M afraid of me now!

Forgive Me, Fergie

2005-10-14T22:22:00.000-07:00

You know....I gotta tell you. I feel like an asshole for writing that post about my cousin Fergie. I truly felt like one as soon as I finished posting it. (Obviously not enough to REMOVE it, but hey...one step at a time, okay?)

I mean, yeah--she's fun to make fun of an stuff...but...you know. She's my cousin.

It's just that the post was a VERY BRIEF synopsis of a person who I've known all my life and I was trying to illustrate exactly why it is that I think of her whenever I get my nails done.

But there is a LOT that I left out. And I really didn't focus very much on the positive. So, for that--I'm an asshole. She's a good person and I am....well, I'm good--but I can be an asshole sometimes. Like right now.

Anyway. The whole reason I got to thinking about her enough to write a post about her in the first place was because of the whole nail painting thing. I really do think of her every single time that I get a manicure or a pedicure now. In fact, I believe it was SHE who took me, as a very young lady, to get my very first manicure ever.

And I think about how she is not fortunate enough to be able to afford such luxuries on a regular basis. She works a very meager job and her husband is a blue collar laborer who seems to get layed off more often than anyone I know.

I'm not saying there is anything wrong with being a blue collar laborer, (I am, sort of!) --god forbid--just that they don't seem to have much money. Every time I talk to her, she's always complaining about money and not having enough to do things with, etc. I don't think that they are POOR, just that they don't make much extra.

So sometimes I think about sending her a gift certificate for a manicure and pedicure. Her birthday is in July, but maybe I'll just send her one for Christmas. We usually don't exchange gifts--our family is just too damn big. We'd all go seriously broke.

Anyway. I got to thinking about poor Fergie today--and since she hadn't replied to my email, I decided to give her a call. I call her every once in a blue moon. She answered right away. She asked me what I was doing w/myself lately and I gave her the ol' "takin care of that growing WEED of a boy" rigamarole, etc-etc, but then I wanted to know what SHES been doing w/HER self.

She sounded pretty chipper, told me about some new church she joined and how she volunteered a few hours of sorting out donated clothing for the Katrina victims and I joked that she probably walked out all lumpy and they had to stop her and remind her that the clothes were for the VICTIMS. She got a kick out of that.

Then she said, "Hey! I joined weight watchers! You know my mom lost a bunch of weight on it, and so did my friend Lucy, and my friend Julie."

"Well, that's good that you have a network of people to help you through it, huh? How much weight have you lost so far?"

She told me that she's only been on it for 2 wks now, and she's already lost a few pounds. She said she really wanted to stick with it this time.

Then she told me about her and her husband recently had their 14th anniversary, and that they went and had an upscale (surf n turf) dinner. She told me that she ate king crab legs and had some chocolate raspberry cheesecake stuff with chocolate dipping sauce! Heh. (must've been the night BEFORE she started weight watchers! ha!)

After awhile, she had to let me go, because her 13 yr old boy was out w/his dad's cell phone and it was "pitch black" outside and he hadn't come home yet and wasn't answering the cell phone either.

She bid me adieu and told me to call her again soon. When I hung up, I felt like an asshole. I really am. She's a nice girl. I've never really felt PICKED ON by her, so why am I picking on her?

I guess because it's force of habit. Everyone in my family does. She's used to most of it. And she doles plenty out herself, so shut up.

But this poor woman battled some serious depression too. I didn't tell you that quite a few years ago, she and her husband up and sold their house to try their hand at running a Bed & Breakfast up in Michigan.

No one could figure out where the hell that idea came from, and my mother couldn't stop laughing at the thought of Fergie running a tight ship, cleaning house, cooking breakfasts, etc.

Well, turns out she indeed could not do it. She ended up slipping into a SERIOUS depression just months after moving up there (due to feeling displaced, no family, no friends, etc)--and actually attempted suicide by slashing her wrists. She was hospitalized and brought back home.

I remember my mother telling me that she had been a zombie. That when you talk to her, it's like you're not even talking to Fergie anymore. You were talking to her SHELL. I didn't really take that seriously until I came to town and asked her out to lunch. Sure enough, I had never seen anyone more depressed in my entire life. She had NO LIFE in her at all. She was paler than usual, slack jawed and despondent. Talking to her was futile. She could see no hope, no future, no light at the end of any tunnels. It scared the bejesus out of me.

She eventually came out of it, but we were all very scared for her for a long time. She almost lost her husband because of it. I don't remember if the whole thing was a symptom of post partum depression either--because I can't quite remember how old her son was when this happened.

A few years later, she got an itch to have another baby and her husband vehemently objected. He didn't want another episode of depression like the last one. And who could blame him? But then she slipped into another depression, because she wanted to have another baby. She wanted to try for a little girl. Her husband was adamant. "Besides," he said. "Little Ricky won't have all our attention then, and I like him to have all our attention."

(bad news!)

Well....she eventually did get pregnant, and she was all excited about it--but then she quickly miscarried, which sent the poor thing into yet another depression. She's not had the easiest of lives.

So this is kind of a pointless rant--telling you all about how bad I feel for ripping my poor cousin to shreds on my previous post. And I wasn't even angry with her!

I guess my excuse is that I was giving you a character description, should I ever decide to post one of her infamous emails. They really are gems.

But I stand by my disclaimer. I really do love Fergie and I know she loves me. She's forever telling me to send her emails, because she loves to print them out and read them. She laughs hysterically at almost anything I say or write. You gotta love an easy fan! Heh!

Fergie

2005-10-13T22:16:00.000-07:00

I have this cousin who is...shall we say, (to be nice), ..."socially challenged"?

DISCLAIMER!! Before you read today's post, I feel the necessity to make it clear that I DO NOT hate my cousin. You are going to read this post and think otherwise, so just be aware that I am only venting. I love my cousin very much and she loves me. I love her like you love any other family member who is a huge pain in your ass.

*Sigh*

Fergie. She's not (clinically) retarded, so it's not like I'm picking on her or anything...I just feel the need to write about her, since I thought of her last night while I stayed up late, painting my fingernails...

She's about 10 or so years older than me, so she was like a big sister to me growing up. She was always very nice to me. She'd come get me, take me shopping, treat me to root beer floats at Dog~n~Suds, take me to see movies, hiking and pedal boating at the State Park, tell me her problems, pay me to clean her apartment, etc, etc.

But it wasn't long before I started to grow up that she gradually stopped being so nice to me and started to conspicuously covet damn near everything about me, from my education, to my job, to my body type and appearance.

She did this in the form of constantly assuring me that I too would soon grow fat and misshapen, just like her.

"Just you wait! When you get to be MY AGE, you will have big hips and a weight problem just like everybody else!" (Her.)

When I was 15, she informed me that I wouldn't be able to eat the way I did for long, (still do); That my days as a "chickie poo", (her term for a cute girl) were numbered, and that when I had a kid, I would have to say goodbye to my slender shape and my perfectly manicured nails and toenails forever. (Nope!) "You're not going to have time for that stuff anymore." she promised.

She started saying shit like that when she was about 25. Then she said it again at 30, then again at 35, and now she's insisting that I have to wait until I'm 40. THAT'S when I'm going to suddenly wake up as her twin!

She's a real character, lemme tell ya. She's the second oldest of five children and the only girl. All four of her brothers make fun of her every time they're around her. I'm sure that's part of the explanation for the damages.

It's amazing how the four of them can be in four completely different states and they will all react the same way when you mention her name. They roll their eyes.

I'll never forget the rash of shit her brothers put her through during the Christmas party that her parents threw one year, where she had her typical make-up job on.

I think she sold Mary Kay Cosmetics for awhile, so suffice it to say that she was famous for using her own grill to advertise every bit and then some of her own product in only the most ridiculously inappropriate of shades.

She's never been any good with makeup application. Or with styling her hair, but that's information for another paragraph.

So it was at the aforementioned Christmas party that her brothers christened her "Miss Oompa Loompa", because of the orange facial mask that she habitually donned. They ran around the house singing Oompa Loompa riddles.

"Ooompa--. Loompa.--Doopity-- Doo. There. Is. A. lot. Of. Makeup on. You!"

Now, before you go feeling sorry for her, you must know that nine times out of ten, she had it coming. She probably pissed them off by saying something idiotic to them, and she would never just learn to keep her mouth shut. Her brothers have very sharp wits and even sharper forked tongues. She knows this, yet she continues to set herself up like 10 shiny bowling pins in front of four big bowling balls.

You see, she is one of those people who lacks a filter between her brain and her big mouth. The very millisecond that something occurs to her, it comes straight out of her piehole. In fact, just about everything she says sounds like it is an internal thought. Like you shouldn't be hearing this.

There are all kinds of problems with this, not the least of which is the fact that her husband only has two hands with which to catch the rotten tomatoes flying at her head from all different directions while she remains oblivious.

Her husband: We can't figure it out. He's a nice guy! Not bad looking, Italian, a hard worker, keeps his mouth shut, possesses shame, etc. What gives? We thought for sure we'd never be able to marry her off, or at the very least she'd end up with some loser Icabod Crane or Napolean Dynamite type with a huge Adam's apple , but she ended up with a normal guy! WTF?

She met him at an Emotions Anonymous meeting about 14 years ago. She used to go to those whenever she would get dumped by yet another boyfriend who would inevitably crack from the matrimonial pressure a few months into the relationship.

The boyfriend she had just before she met her husband dumped her right after Christmas, when she complained that she had expected an engagement ring for Christmas instead of the pair of sweat pants and the homemade (workout) cassette tape that he gave her. They hadn't even been dating for six months yet. (I will give it to her that it was a lame gift indeed, but even I, at the tender age of 17, knew she was being used as a sleeping pill by this guy. He never took her out in public!)

So to this day, we all wonder how her husband copes. They didn't have a very long courtship either; They married shortly after he got her pregnant, but for some reason, he's stuck by her side for 14 years now. We don't get it.

Her son: Ugh. He is a skinny little wimpy 13 yr old asshole, who swears at her. He is an only child who is spoiled by his parents. His father spoils him because he adores him and Fergie spoils him because she is too lazy to discipline him.

I laugh hysterically when my other cousin, (one of her brothers) talks about her son. He can't stand his own nephew. He recently told me a funny story about how he was playing catch with him not too long ago, (her son has in little league baseball forever), and her son decided he was gonna show his uncle up by pitching a fast one at him. What he didn't see coming was the ball being returned in kind. HAHAHA!!!!

I am digressing again. Sorry.

Anyway, one of my biggest problems with her is that she is forever insulting people's choices in hairstyles, clothing and general appearance, when she is-- without a doubt-- one of the LAST people on earth who should be advising anyone on their appearance.

It's not that she's deliberately TRYING to hurt anyone's feelings, either. Believe me. I truly believe that she means no harm. She's just a moron who doesn't know any better. She has no idea that she is not Mr. Blackwell, and that no one gives a shit about her opinion. Hence, the reason she is never asked for it.

In fact, I believe that if anyone in our family ever does ask for her opinion on something, it is expressly for the purpose of going in the opposite direction.

Her hairdo(n't) makes Phil Spector's look swank. My mother wonders if she has it done at Petsmart. Add the bottoms of two coke bottles to her face and a pound of loud makeup, and voila! You've got my cousin Fergie!

Shall I move on to her clothing now? Okay, let's see....well, I'm not exactly sure where she gets this shit. I mean, I've seen most everything at the Salvation Army and GoodWill, and most of that stuff would require very little tweaking to look semi-hip on someone.

I'm not sure if she's picking this shit up from the elderly Estate Sales, or just never throwing anything out, but what she chooses to clothe herself in is ALSO a sore for sight eyes.

Physically, she is short, has see-through, pasty white skin and huge, floppy boobs that she is particularly proud of.

She's not obese or anything, she is just mal-shaped, has cottage cheese and potato thighs, and sticks for legs from the knee down. She's one of those people who always has a little pool of spit sitting at the corners of her mouth. It's gross.

I believe I've mentioned more than once now, her affinity for great quantities of makeup, but have I mentioned the thick glaze of facial oil that seals it in? Her eyeglasses are circa 1985, and they are forever sliding down her slick nose.

Famous in her family for having read every single Nancy Drew mystery book that has ever been written, and probably quite a few cheesy romance novels to boot, she remains highly illiterate and cannot even spell "Paper" or "Bag". (Interestingly enough, this is a genetic thread that has weaved it's way through every one of her mother's offspring.)

Before email ever came along, she used to scrawl out generic letters, photo copy them and send them out to everyone. They were not a Christmas letters. They were simply letters to solicit responses, so she could feel connected, without having to actually communicate on a personal level with anyone in particular. I'm sure the photocopy of a letter addressing no one in particular made everyone who received one feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Now that she has a computer, she occasionally sends out mass emails and they are all written in short, choppy sentences with very little punctuation and no spaces in-between paragraphs. They are usually painfully boring and detailed accounts of what she did with her weekend or some shit like that.

"Today i went to walmart and let little ricky pickout a new pichers mit.he is getting so good at baseball. we are proud of him. then i went for a walk after hitting a few garage sales. got four shirts for $2. i love it when that happens. i am trying to loose wait but it is so dam hard when it is so cold out here and our neighburs stair at us all the time from their side of the fence they are so weird. well, write back soon i am lonely! love, fergie."

I usually forward them to Shawna, so the two of us can share a good laugh.

Her emails make lawn mower repair manuals an enjoyable read by comparison. I actually thought about printing them out and reading them aloud to my son in the event that he ever has a problem falling asleep, (Not yet! Knock on wood!), but I fear he may end up committing suicide by deliberately drowning himself in his own drool.

The other reason I chose not to was because it is almost impossible to read them aloud and follow along at the same time due to the lack of punctuation.

I guess that it goes without saying that she is also one of those goddamned annoying idiots who likes to send those chain emails that promise a good day if you pass it on to 1 person, good luck if you pass it on to 3-5 people, but YOU WILL WIN A MILLION FUCKING DOLLARS AND FREE HOUSEKEEPING AND GAS FOR YOUR CAR FOR THE REST OF YOUR STUPID LIFE if you pass it along to 10 or more. AND WATCH WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DO! YOUR COMPUTER WILL UP AND BAKE YOU A CAKE!

I guess I can't blame her for trying to get the free housekeeping. She's also a slob.

Her mother: My aunt--is a stylish woman. Unlike her daughter, she dresses impeccably, always has an up to date hairstyle, has consistently manicured hands and feet and drips with gold and diamonds. When she walks past you, a waft of expensively perfumed air caresses your face.

Her mother is the picture of class. She never reveals things that were said to her in confidence, she doesn't swear or say embarrassing things. She blushes and embarasses easily if something embarassing is said around her. (Which is all the time with her kids.)

She doesn't talk about unpleasant things. She lives in a gorgeous, immaculately clean and fabulously decorated home and makes beautiful dried floral arrangements for people to hang on their doors in her spare time. Every gift that she gives out is always elaborately wrapped in beautiful wrapping paper and at Christmas time, the designer bows even match her Christmas tree.

This woman already rolls over in her grave when she sees her daughter--and she's not even dead. She is always asking, in a whisper to the back of her hand, where in the world her daughter came from.

Have you ever had a completely out of touch with modern society pinhead come up to you and tell you that your (funky, retro-artsy) glasses were out of style and that they looked like shit? Or that you need to do something new and different to YOUR HAIR?!?!?!

I am not kidding when I tell you that EACH AND EVERY TIME I'm around this slack jawed chicken head, she has SOMETHING to say about my appearance. And it's RARELY ever a compliment. How do I handle this? How HAVE I handled this? In the past, I've just ignored her. I chalked it up as corky-like behavior and rolled my eyes, just like her brothers.

Well, that's what I used to do, until last September when I flew home for her youngest brother's wedding.

She started in on my glasses again and this time I let her have it. I looked at her and told her flat out to shut the hell up because she was the last person I was going to take fashion advice from. She kind of looked a little stunned. This was something she'd expect from any one of her brothers, but not from me! I'm usually very nice to her. Heh!

So today I was just going through my SENT folder and I came across an email I had sent to her in August. It was in response to another chain email that she had sent. It said, "Please don't send me stupid shit like this anymore." HA!

I don't think I've received another email from her since. And I hadn't really noticed until today. Which is weird, because I was just thinking about her last night, while painting the fingernails that she promised would never get painted after I had a kid.

In fact, I think of her every time I go to the salon to soak my feet and get my calves rubbed and my toenails meticulously manicured.

So I sent her an email today telling her that I thought about her last night while I was painting my nails. I did grant her that I had to stay up late to do it, though.

Tard Interpreter

2005-10-12T22:16:00.000-07:00

Jesus. Do you want to know how scary-stupid some people are?

Part of my job is to offer basic computer support to some of the chimp,I mean other employees whose jobs do not require any computer knowledge whatsoever.

Basically what that means is that since I know how to turn one on, I must act as an interpreter for the retarded, in order to make it possible for them to perform the most basic of computer functions.

These people do not have personal computers; they share them. There is usually anywhere from 20 – 30 guys who share one computer and they take turns checking their email and gawking at 49ers cheerleaders on the Internet.

One of them came up to me today and told me that his friend was locked out of his email account, and therefore HE couldn’t get his email either! OMG! Sound the alarms!!!

You see, I never know what these guys are talking about, because THEY don’t even know what the hell they are talking about, so they are ill equipped to explain to me exactly what the problem is.

It’s like telling me that the vacuum cleaner has broken down, when it hasn’t even been plugged in.

When you say that the vacuum cleaner has “broken down”—one with a brain might deduce that the vacuum cleaner was ON at one point, but then something went awry, smoke came out of it and it suddenly quit working; When in fact, it had never even been plugged in.

Suffice it to say that most of the time, what they TELL me is wrong with their computer is not what is ACTUALLY wrong with it. Therefore, it is my job to try to be a tard interpreter.

I listen to the tard complain, then I have to regress back to my days as a toddler in order to see the computer screen through their eyes.

As far as his friend being locked out, well…..our company will only lock you out of the system if: A: You screw up your password several times in a row, or B: You need to complete some kind of training that they’d been reminding you about for months and you haven’t done it yet.

Locking someone out of their email is a surefire way to get their attention, right? Right. But the guy who was “locked out” had gone home—so it didn’t matter if he was actually locked out or not.

So first, I inform him is that just because his friend is locked out, doesn’t mean that HE can’t check his email on the same computer.

“Simply LOG your friend OUT, and LOG yourself back IN.” I tell him.

“Okay” he says. “I’ll go try that.”

He calls me up 5 minutes later to tell me that he can’t even get to the start button.

I’m thinking, “OH! Okay…. Because Idiot #1 isn’t really LOCKED OUT, he simply locked the workstation before he went home!!! Brilliant!”

It never occurs to this fool to READ what the screen says. It says, “This computer is in use and has been locked. Only YOUR DUMB FRIEND can unlock it.”

NOWHERE on there does it say, “Please go see Ginger. She is the only one who can crack this code.”

And he is not aware that all he really needed to do is power the computer down. To him, this was a major problem, worthy of a “guru’s” attention. (I am no guru, believe me. But I certainly do seem like one to them, since I know how to unlock a workstation by powering the computer down.)

Ugh. Dumb, dumb.

I guess I should just be thankful for the lack of brain waves around there. It’s job security.

Sorry, man

2005-10-11T20:38:00.000-07:00

To all my faithful readers out there: I apologize for not having updated my blog regularly this weekend. I've been extremely busy being extremely busy.

I HAVE been writing, but what I'm working on is a doozy, not due for release for quite some time. It has to go through a whole slew of approval departments yet.

Please accept this Red Stripe as a token of my sincerest apologies, and of our fellow readership.

Hoooray, beer!

Happy Columbus Day

2005-10-10T20:04:00.000-07:00

The boy and his mom at the New Belgium Fat Tire Festival, 2005. Photo taken by the dad.

We had WAY more fun than the typical alottment for new parents, to be sure. We saw LOTS of cool bikes, wierd people and drank LOTS of fat tires. I also saw a few DILFs, (my own husband being one of them), and made a few new friends.

NO, we did not drive home. Somehow, I ended up at my own doorstep in a grocery cart? Just kidding. A friend of my sister's had to take us all home, me in the back with my boy and a hula hoop. Buck had never seen us in this condition. I think he kind of liked it though, cuz we were standing like he does so it all made sense.

Sorry for the brevity, I'm being yelled at from the other room to go finish watching The Hudsucker Proxy. Hasta Manana!

Two Things I Could Use

2005-10-08T12:36:00.000-07:00

1. Do you realize how much more fun this blog would be if I could insert photos into my blogs AFTER posting them for the first time? So far, this is the only way to get a photo up.

You must upload it into a never-before published post! If you want to add a photo AFTER you've already posted a story, you have to delete that post and redo it. Not that big of a deal, just annoying. Took me awhile to figure this out too, since it is not written about anywhere on the blogger site, so much as I'm aware.

2. The other thing I could use is some photography SKILLS!!!!!

Ginger's Museum Of Extinct Carpet

2005-10-07T10:16:00.000-07:00

I came home early from work yesterday to get a jumpstart on cleaning the house so that I could commence to enjoy my weekend as soon as humanly possible.

I walked in the door, looked at the clock and determined exactly how much time I had to clean the house, do the laundry, vacuum, do dishes, water the lawn, pick the dogshit up off the lawn, etc—before having to go get the boy from the babysitter’s. About 3 hours.

I began my usual buzzing around the house at top speed. I quickly gathered all the laundry in the house together in one place, separated it and threw a load in. Dry stuff gets thrown onto my bed until I get a chance to fold it. Then I ran around with a garbage bag, emptying all the trashcans in the house. Run into the bathroom, remove everything from the sink, spray with Clorox, wipe clean, etc. I was going from room to room, doing what needed to be done.

Suddenly, I stopped cold in my tracks. Oh. My. God.

My carpet. MY CARPET!!!!! ACK!! It is so fucking disgustingly filthy, I can hardly breathe. I knew it was getting bad, but this is really the first chance that I’ve had to REEEAALLY notice it. It was like walking in on crime scene where there are dead bodies lying around.

Most normal people would see this carpet, and think “Ah, shit. The carpet is filthy again. Guess I gotta shampoo it when I get around to it.”

However, for me—this is a major source of anxiety. I felt like I was in Jurassic Park, trapped in a car, with a GIANT dirty carpet staring at me through the window, huffing and puffing at me. My heart was racing and I felt paralyzed.

I swear to god it looks like someone took a cup of coffee and decided to anoint the carpet with it every two steps on their way to the other end of the house. Like they were a flower girl, littering the bride’s path with rose petals. Only, the rose petals were spoonfuls of creamed coffee, vomit, oil, dirt, mystery dog grime, etc.

And I am the bride. And I have to make it to the end of the aisle to be reunited with my carpet shampooer. Only, I don’t own one—I have to borrow one—so I made a call right away and arranged to get it over here, STAT.

I’m so irritated because I feel like I JUST SHAMPOOED EVERY SHRED OF CARPETING IN THIS ENTIRE HOUSE!!! And I don’t think I even got a week of clean carpet out of that. The stains started re-emerging immediately after the carpet dried. THIS:

is what was scraped off the surface of my carpet by the shampooer LAST TIME.

And LAST TIME, I don’t think the stains were quite as bad as they are NOW!!!

I am not kidding when I say this. I am seriously thinking about dipping into my retirement account to pay for a house full of new tile. I am getting THAT desperate.

“I HATE YOU, YOU STUPID ASSHOLE CARPET! I WISH YOU WOULD DIE! YOU ARE MEAN, UNFORGIVING, AND PROBABLY THE BIGGEST PAIN IN MY ASS THAT I CAN POSSIBLY THINK OF!!!!’

That’s what I’m going to say to it as they roll it up and haul it out.

War, Famine, Natural Disasters and Over Packaging

2005-10-06T22:16:00.000-07:00

I hit the snooze alarm only three times today instead of four because I wanted to hurry up and get this stupid day over with.

I was still late. My boss was sitting in my chair, looking at his watch when I arrived. I guess I gotta try only hitting the button twice next time.

I’m taking the day off tomorrow so I can work harder at home than I do at work—in hopes that I might be able to enjoy part of my weekend.

My sister came over to see Buck last night. She wanted to witness Buck’s “alleged” crawling business for herself. She must’ve felt guilty for not having seen him in awhile, because she had a big ol’ bag from Babies R Us in tow.

She bought him a cute little 12m corduroy overall set, and a toy that lights up, makes noise and plays lots of songs that I’m sure I will soon grow weary of.

The best part of this toy, however—was watching my sister try to get it out of its packaging.

If you have kids, you know how they package those toys. You’d think they were encasing the Declaration of Independence, or the Hope Diamond in a fucking box. It doesn’t matter if you can get away with the box, because YOU’LL NEVER GET INSIDE!!! AAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! *insert evil laugh here*

She started off patiently trying to unfold the cardboard, untwist the ties, remove plastic, etc, all while carrying on a conversation with me. She got up to go fetch a pair of scissors from the kitchen and came back to gently cut some of the cords. She appeared to be in complete control.

However, Buck was watching her, waiting for his toy, and after a few minutes, I could tell that the pressure was mounting. I turned my head for a second and the next thing I know, I turn back to see what appears to be Kate defending her face from two rabid squirrels in a fiery ball of fury of teeth and hair.

Her lips were pinched with irritated concentration, she was trying not to look weak and helpless in front of her 7 month old nephew, but her temper got the better of her and soon she was in the amidst a bitter battle with that box.

She set the scissors down and hopped into the ring with that box, determined to kill it with her bare hands. I just sat back, sipped my beer and enjoyed the show until Buck grabbed the scissors that she had put down.

Approximately 35 minutes later, having finally removed the toy from its maximum security casing, she was still shaking from the fight. She needed a minute to group and recoup with a beer. Especially since Buck had been heckling her from outside the ring the entire time. I know the feeling.

The Aftermath:
[right here is where NORMALLY, you would see a photo. But I can't seem to get the Blogger photo upload tool to work. It chooses WHICH of my posts it would like to put a picture on, and which ones it would not. Frustrating as hell. I want to tear my hair out.]

Now it was time for Buck to show her his new method of mobility. It very closely resembles that of an inchworm.

He was having a hard time getting motivated, even with Elmo out of his reach, so I helped him get started by putting him on his belly and using his new toy as bait.

It has a string on it that you can use to pull it behind you, incase you don’t feel like carrying it. So that’s what I did. I slowly set off towards the living room, and to Kate’s enchantment, Buck inched along, following the toy.

We walked and inched into the living room and passed Ross. He peered over his laptop to witness me walking by with a beer in one hand and pulling a colorfully lit up and noise making contraption with the other. Following the noisy contraption was a little human inchworm with determination in his eyes and Aunt Kate at the end of the procession on her hands and knees. He said we looked like a cartoon.

TWO MORE FIRSTS:

Last night was the first night I’ve ever given him a teething biscuit. With or without teeth, I would have started him on them a lot sooner had I known they would shut him up so well. Except for when he drops it either in his lap, (beyond reach in a high chair), or on the floor. This seems to be one of the worst tragedies he’s ever had to endure. And they are gut wrenching to be sure. For all of us.

Last night was also the first time I’ve ever given him a Cheerio. No, I didn’t let him eat it! Although, Ross pointed out the fact that the baby on the refrigerator in the month to month chart of what we can feed the boy—is eating a Cheerio.

I had to point out to HIM that the baby on the refrigerator is a PAID MODEL who is only serving to make our baby feel inadequate because he can’t possibly measure up to a 10 months old, airbrushed Cheerio eater.

Besides, that particular paragraph encompasses the age range 7-10 months. That’s a pretty big age gap when they’re this young. Most 10 month olds usually have enough teeth to break up a Cheerio. Buck, however—only has the beginnings of ONE. Not enough in my book.

I was just not sure he even had the dexterity to pick it up with his pinchers, so I wanted to find out. He did! So I SLAPPED it out of his hand just before it entered his mouth!

Poor kid. Talk about mixed signals. I just didn’t want to have to perform the baby Heimlich maneuver, since I’m not even sure how to do it. Better to be safe than sorry by waiting till the kid has some teeth.

So that’s it. I have to go now. More later.

My Sprog Hath Sprouted His First Milk Tooth!

2005-10-05T22:16:00.000-07:00

The boy has a tooth! OMG, he has a tooth! It’s here! It’s arrived! Tooth Number 1 is here!

After work yesterday I rang the babysitter’s doorbell and her 13 yr old son answered the door holding my son. ‘Miss Ginger! Miss Ginger! Guess What?!?! Buck has a tooth! His tooth is coming in! HERE! FEEL!”

“Woah, woah…I need to go wash my hands first. I don’t want to stick my dirty fingers in his mouth.”

I came out of the bathroom and made a beeline for him. The babysitter had him in her lap and she had a strange look on her face as she looked at me. Like a look of “I know something you don’t know, but I wish I didn’t because I’m not smug about stuff like this.”

I knelt down and put my clean finger into his mouth to rub his bottom gums. Sure enough, I felt a little rough spot just below the gums.

I looked up at her and locked eyes with her. Suddenly my face got hot. I had a rush of excitement, and sadness all at once.

WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO ME?!?! I USED TO EAT CARPENTER NAILS FOR BREAKFAST! MY HUSBAND CLAIMS THAT I HAVE A TEAKWOOD HEART! MY EX USED TO TELL ME I WAS COLD AS ICE AND AS FLEXIBLE AS AN OAK TREE!!

What is this liquid leaking from my eyes??! It burns! Could these be emotions? Good god, no!

Inside I was feeling excitement that my boy is progressing just the way he should be, but more sadness because:

A. He will never again be my little GUMMY baby anymore. Once he gets that first tooth, he will never again be a toothless baby! How obvious is that? and

B. It was not I who discovered this sprouting tooth! And here I just wrote a 5-page story yesterday about all my son’s FIRSTS and it takes the babysitter’s son to point out the fact that my kid is sprouting his first chopper!

The sadness comes from the fact that I must work, therefore I have to come to terms with the fact that SOMEONE ELSE, who spends more time with my son during his waking hours during the week, is going to be the one to witness more of his firsts.

I feel like I’m constantly being TOLD about what he is doing for the first time. You see, when I filmed him crawling the other night, it wasn’t the first time he’d crawled on the tile. It was the first time I got to see him do it. Ross had told me about it via email the morning before!

And before that, the babysitter sent me an email saying, “Gone are the days when we can set him down and turn our backs for one second. Your boy is all over the place now!”

It’s not like I wasn’t aware that he was getting around, but when they are this young—EVERY SINGLE DAY holds a new advancement. It’s so amazing!

So, my eyes welled up with tears and I tried to hold them back. I put my head down and looked at my son, but he quickly became blurry. “DON’T CRY! AWW…DON’T CRY!” ANNOUNCED my friend, REALLY LOUDLY and patting my back.

*sniff* “Can’t ya just play dumb?!...heh..” I asked, (only half kidding)

With no Kleenex around, I had to use my hands to wipe my ocular secretions onto my skirt, sniffing the whole time.

“Sorry. 13 year olds don’t think before they say stuff” said my babysitter, sheepishly.

Just then I noticed that her son had gone upstairs into his bedroom and closed the door. Poor kid.

“Oh, don’t even worry about it”, I said. “I’m not mad. I hope he’s not in trouble. He didn’t do anything wrong. *sniff* It’s just that, well…you know. He’s not my gummy baby anymore. And I have to work all the time, I feel like I should have noticed him getting a tooth!”

“I understand completely. I know how it is. It’s okay.” She said.

When I got outside, my girlfriend was waiting for me. She asked if I noticed that the babysitter’s son had gone upstairs.

“Yeah, and I feel bad for crying now. I hope I didn’t get him into trouble. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Well, as soon as you went into the bathroom she yelled at him. ‘WHY DID YOU SAY THAT!?!’ she said, quoting the sitter. “No, I agree. He was just excited about Buck getting a tooth, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I agree. It’s okay. It’s not his fault that I got all emotional. I don’t know where this shit is coming from anyway.”

So that’s my big story about Buck’s first tooth. Mama cried.

For once I joined the ranks of all those hormonally challenged, emotional, sappy women, instead of being a hormonally challenged emotionless bronze dipped teakwood tree.

It’s weird over here. Very foreign.

Learning to Fly

2005-10-04T22:16:00.000-07:00

Yeap!! Startin in on day 8 of an 11 day stretch of workdays, with no days off in between any of em. Someone sewed my body to my bed last night, so I couldn’t get up this morning.

I just want to know one thing. Who the hell is Dawn, and why do I have to keep waking up in her ass crack?!?!?

Not only am I sick of getting out of bed way too early, but I am also extremely tired of looking at my co-workers’ faces day in and day out. They are starting to look deformed.

Do you know why else I’m sick of this shit? Because I am busy telling you about THIS instead of telling you about BUCK.

I have to force myself to douche my brain of all things work related and try only to remember the sweet, NIGHTIME portion of this past week, week and a half, month? How long has it been? I don't even know anymore. Whatever increment of time it’s been since my last day off, all smeared into a streak of memory—because all of my days are blending together at this point.

There have been a plethora of FIRSTS going on around the Hutchins household lately. And by "FIRSTS", I mean—They are not necessarily the first time that Buck has been doing these things, but that I am finally able to witness them myself for the first time. So technically, many were MY firsts, but some of them were OUR firsts.

The FIRST one of note was my taking him outside to the backyard the other day to sit him down in the grass without the benefit of a quilt or a blanket to prevent direct contact between his skin and the grass. His dad says he does this with him all the time, but this is MY first, dammit!

He looked a little stunned when he looked down at the grass in between his legs. He started ripping it up, hand over fist—and then trying to eat it.

Each time he raised a fistful of grass to his watering mouth, I’d push his fist away and say, “Noooo.” Then I would stretch out my hand and try to get him to drop the grass into my hand. He never did. I kept thinking “He’s such a BOY!”

Then last night, more “firsts”. It was the first time I saw him crawl onto the kitchen tile. I was holding onto him as I was sitting in our overstuffed chair in the living room. I was trying to chat w/Ross when I started to feel like there was a pissed-off bull in a paper bag sitting on my lap. He was restless as all get out and I could tell that all he wanted was to GIT! He had places to be, things to slobber and gum and dogs to terrorize!

I marveled aloud to Ross, “My GOD! It’s like he’s this baby MONKEY who is morphing into a little human being with each passing day!”

So I set him down on the dirty carpet under our glass-top coffee table, (that will soon be encased in foam and rubber padding, just like the room I’m promised from time to time) and Ross sprang up to grab his guitar. He sat on a little foot stool in front of the huge picture window in our living room and started to play.

Backlit by the spun gold of the setting sun as it peeked through the jungle of foliage that I keep in front of that window, he enticed the boy and me with his guitar.

I am not kidding you, it looked like a fucking post card!!! There’s nothing sexier than a handsome Italian man, backlit by the setting sun, dressed in sexy jeans while playing acoustic guitar to his baby son. Nothing. I have a lump in my throat right now just thinking about it.

I sprang up and grabbed the video camera just in time to film Buck crawling over to his father and looking up at him. I knew right then that I was creating a priceless keepsake, just like the one Ross’ father did when he recorded himself singing songs with his two year old daughter, back in 1980.

I saw a glimpse into the future, wherein Buck is watching the video that his mother made, amazed at how YOUNG his father was, and at how he himself hasn’t changed much since his days of babyhood.

((Only he will know what he may have been thinking at that moment. In much the same way that only the DREAMER can interpret their nighttime mental scenarios accurately.))

After awhile, I called his name and he turned to look at me. I was lying on my belly, holding the camera. Dollar signs in his eyes again, he pivoted his body and headed my way.

Buck: “Must…..get….that…thing….”

Scooting/crawling towards the camera at top speed, his image got bigger and bigger in the lens till he finally reached it and then all you could see were edible little fingers and shiny, slobbery lips.

I backed away and stood up while his attention shifted to the dogs, headed to their bowl of kibble in the kitchen. He was hot on their trail.

He crossed the threshold of carpet to tile and along with skin slapping on cold tile, you could hear his excited breathing.

I could tell that he was beside himself with his newfound realization that he can actually GET TO PLACES all by himself! HOLY SHIT! Imagine the possibilities!!!! On the tile, he was able to move a little faster because the slick surface made it easier to pull his body weight along.

My first instinct was that he probably shouldn’t be crawling on the tile because it’s cold, and probably hard on his little knees, etc. I had to remind myself that this was only the beginning of a whole lifetime of “letting go” that I must carefully do where this precious little human monkey is concerned. So I just stayed back and followed him into the kitchen, filming the journey.

He had a system going. Scoot, scoot, scoot, then throw the arms and legs out as if to imitate an airplane. Scoot, scoot, scoot, AIRPLANE!!!

*(Perhaps this is where my dream about Shawna and I flyin around in airplanes by ourselves last night came from. I’ll have to tell you about that later, gurrl..)*

Scoot, scoot, scoot, AIRPLANE!!! Scoot, scoot, scoot, AIRPLANE!!! I think maybe the airplane impression was his only means of removing all warm skin from the cold tile. Scoot, scoot, scoot, AIRPLANE!! Then back to business. There were dogs to catch.

As I was making sure to capture the concentration on his face while I talked to him, he reached the wine cooler.

“Uh-oh! Where are the keys to the wine cooler, Ross? I think it’s time we started locking it, because he’s already eye-balling your collection!”

The guitar playing stopped and Ross enters stage left to find the key, locked the cooler, placed it on top of it and just as he was about to go back to his guitar, Buck threw up right near Ross' foot.

“Uugh…” he stood frozen, afraid to move for fear there might be more vomit, hidden from immediate view.

“Please stand by as we pause for station identification” I said, and I hit the pause button and set the camera down on the tile so I could go clean up the mess.

I grabbed a couple paper towels, squirt some 409 on them and wiped up the puke. Then I got yelled at for using the other side to wipe the boy’s face off. Heh! Whoops!

“At least his face is sanitized now!”

Tile and boy, now relieved of their vomit, I picked him up and brought him to his quilted little play area in the dining room and returned to the camera sitting on the kitchen floor. I aimed it towards the same spot on the floor where Buck was and hit “record”.

“Whoop! Where’d he go? Heh…..” Then I walked into the dining room and informed my viewers that he didn’t REALLY evaporate into thin air, he’s just in here now!

Fast forward to dinner time and after about three pounds of squash, avocado, and pear apple banana oatmeal for dessert, it was bath time. This is where the next couple of “firsts” happened. This time, it was a first for both of us, as I am the only one who bathes him. (As far as I know at least)

I wish I had the writing skills to describe this to you, because it really is the most precious thing ever.

I always put him in this little blue, plastic reclining bath chair lined with foam. I fill it up with soapy water, and then I fill up the surrounding tub full of warm water too.

He stays in his little blue recliner until everything gets washed, then I take him out of it and let him sit up in the tub, unassisted. I always have my feet in the tub with him, and I hover over him, ready to catch him should he slip.

With his back to me, he leaned his head back and looked up at me with red, waterlogged eyes and smiled. I snatched a kiss.

He looked up again, this time leaning all the way back. So trusting; It never enters his mind that I wouldn’t catch him! Of course I caught him and let him lay all the way back so that the back of his head is in the water and I can see the hairs on the back of his head billowing in the water like a wavy halo.

He stared at me, wide-eyed and smiling, with both hands clutching a big Subway cup. I took the cup and set it aside so we could just stare at each other.

One hand under his head, the other under his butt , I lifted him, ever so gently, up and down in the water so it would splash around him, being careful not to let any water get in his ears. We were smiling at each other with our eyes locked the entire time.

Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” came to mind…..“Suspended animation; State of bliss…”. I could actually HEAR that song, and I whispered it to him. I love to watch the expression on his face when I whisper to him. He’s just so new, so innocent, so pure and so damned BEAUTIFUL!!!

I simply cannot describe exactly what I was feeling at that moment. It wasn’t so much that I missed being a child, or a baby—because I really don’t remember much of it. Part of me envied him this moment, but MOST of me just felt so happy and sad for him all at once.

My husband once said that it made him sad that “My life will never be as good as it was when I was a child.” I didn’t understand that statement until now.

For Buck to experience that kind of simplicity, that kind of bliss, with the weightlessness of his body in the warm water, tickling his bare skin while basking in his mother’s total adoration and love….how could it get any better than that? Ever?

Think about it. SIMPLICITY. No worries, no bills, no deadlines, no responsibilities, no loss, no heartbreak, nothing. Absolutely NOTHING to cloud up his brain right now. Absolutely nothing going on in there, except for the moment.

My state of bliss came from the knowledge of the fact that somewhere, deep inside my son’s psyche—this memory will be there.

It won’t be the same exact memory that I have—because I am me, and I’m not 7 months old. But I’m certain it will FEEL the same for us both. Love, emanating from our souls and mingling around in the humid air of the bathroom.

That was one of the MANY images that will forever be burned in my memory. I’ll always be able to recall it perfectly. I’m not letting go of that one. The feeling that it elicited, along with the feelings I’ve experienced in the last seven months of my life ….They are truly the closest to God that I think I’ve ever come.

At any rate—he experienced yet another “first” during this bath last night. It was the first time that I let him lie on his belly, propped up by his own elbows in the water.

He likes to go “smimmin”, and my instincts told me that, at this point he could be trusted not to put his face down into the water. I was right.

“WHAT?!? WHAT IF HE WOULD’VE SLIPPED!?!?” cried my sister.

“It s not like I went to fix myself a drink!” I retorted. “I was right there! I would have caught him!”

After awhile, I slid my right foot down to the end of the tub, popped the drain with my heel and scooped him up.

He hugs my neck now. Can’t get enough of that.

All dressed and ready for bed, I carried him, clutching his little “Count to Ten with Animals” board book, out to his daddy.

He was extra tired last night. Just getting through that entire book was a chore. He wanted to be PRONE, ASAP. So I let him lay outstretched in my arms and told Ross to pick up the pace.

We quickly got to ten and I carried him back to his bedroom. Still in his prone position inside my arms, I reached up and pulled the little blue, wooden star that dangles out of his bedroom lamp and placed him into his crib.

I didn’t bother with his “Guess How Much I Love You” CD this time, because I don’t want him NEEDING it in order to fall asleep. It’s called a “sleep prop”, and you’re supposed to avoid using them.

Yeah, I read all the books and studied my shit before he was born. Just about every technique I read and learned about, has worked like a charm.

I only hope I’m this lucky with the next one!

Actual Telephone And Email Dialogue Between My Husband And Myself

2005-10-03T22:16:00.000-07:00

He is telling me on the phone how he is utilizing the precious little time that the boy is napping. He says he is designing new invoices for his business.

He's thinking of some font that matches his business cards.

My response:

"That sounds....um..... **...... ** ..................stupidandunnecessary."

"Well... I wasn't really asking your OPINION, I'm asking if I can send this to your work. Don't they have a color printer there?"

"We have one at home."

"I know, but I'm not sure how much ink this is gonna use up, so I don't want to use all yours up. Well, how much does a color ink cartridge cost, anyway?"

"About $30 bucks."

Silence

I say, "Well, send it to me anyway. I wanna see it."

"I'll have to send you the fonts to download too, so you can see the different ones that I came up with.

He sent the fonts and then three drafts of his new 8.5 x 11 invoices THAT HE COULD BE JUST BUYING AT STAPLES!! THEY EVEN COME COMPLETE WITH A CARBON COPY SO YOU DON'T NEED A COPY MACHINE, CUZ YOU ALREADY HAVE A CARBON COPY OF THEM!!!

I open them up and respond:

----- Original Message -----
From: Ginger
Sent: Sunday, October 02, 2005 2:53 PM
To: Ross
Subject: RE: invoice templates

I know you don't care about my opinion on this-but I think they are ALL a little show-boaty.

*******************************

To which he responds:

----- Original Message -----
From: Ross
To: Ginger
Sent: Sunday, October 02, 2005 3:16 PM
Subject: RE: invoice templates

The look is for fun, but something above and beyond the basic is fine. Besides, a certain amount of show boating is necessary, I am an artist/designer. I have the big artist's ego and am condescending, etc.

As long as I am making clients happy, they will think it is cool.

*****************************

To which I respond:

----- Original Message -----
From: Ginger
To: Ross
Sent: Sunday, October 02, 2005 4:15 PM
Subject: Re: invoiIe templates

If i got that invoice from you, I would be sad. Because until then I would have had a crush on you. But then the realization that you were GAY would've just broken my heart.

******************************
To which HE replied:

----- Original Message -----
From: Ross
To: Ginger
Sent: Sunday, October 02, 2005 6:09 PM
Subject: RE: invoice templates

Break your heart?

Please, your heart is made of lead with a bronze layer on top of that, dipped in molten rats tongues and old sticky honey with the bees still in it, then encased in a teakwood shell and shellaqued a thousand times, and wrapped in barbed wire.

(yikes!)

****************

To which I reply:

----- Original Message -----
From: Ginger
To: Ross
Sent: Sunday, October 02, 2005 6:12PM
Subject: Re: invoiIe templates

Okay, okay, ya got me. I would have just lost my boner, that's all.

This Is What Papa Nicholas Does To Me!

2005-10-02T05:00:00.000-07:00

eeeeYAAAAAAAAAAAAA AYE I LOVE COFFEE!!!! Woooooooo I love it so much!!! I drink Chocolate Raspberry Crème, it is so good; I order it off the internet: It’s on sale this week; I put lots of cream and lots of sugar in it and it coats my tongue and soothes my soul so now I’m buzzin, I mean I hope P.E.T.A doesn’t find out that my tongue wears fur when I drink this much coffee; Parking sucked again this morning, they moved my god damned cone again, those bastards: I give up; Looks like I’m going to have to invest in some stop sticks or start having people towed; Gonna have lunch soon, gotta soak up this coffee, oh my god my mind is racing; I keep getting emails from Ross at home taking care of the boy: He’s freaking out: The boy is giving him a run for his money. Just when the cat goes down for a nap, the boy comes in the doggie door with shit matted to his fur. Once the surprise emergency bath is over, “Sally” is back in business, cryin in his crib; HE IS FRANTICALLY SEARCHING FOR THE LITTLE BLUE PILLS THAT KEEP EVERYONE AROUND HIM ALIVE; Buck was so damned cute yesterday when I got home—he hugged my neck and I tickled him on the couch and we played peek-a-boo and he wiggles and squirms and he was upside down and I could see that little widow’s peak in the middle of his upper gums as he was laughing and he is ticklish and he squeals with delight at the dog, next thing I know he has a handful of the dog’s hair; The poor dogs. An hour or so later on the floor I caught him at it again, this time reaching out for the snippety one; The one with no sense of adventure or kindness; She needs to get out more: She hates children and strangers; I caught her mid-snarl, biting his hand: Baby was on his belly, he had done the Army crawl over to her and reached out to touch. She bit. He hung his fuzschuh wuzschu head down and started to cry so I scooped him up and slapped her silly and she yelped and ran into the other room, so then I had to go in there with a treat to apologize, with the boy in tow, but getting back to me: My eyes are rolling around in my head, there are coffee grounds on the corner of my mouth and all down my shirt and I wish this day would hurry up and fast forward JUST LIKE MY CAFFEINE RIDDLED BRAIN!!!!! Gotta go put some pretty colored paper through the shredder now, so there is a little spice in the confetti! Grrrrrrr (rolling my tongue) Yiyai! Vamanos! Andelay! Arriba!

I Am "Marney Fife": The Unofficial Parking Police Woman: RECOGNIZE!!!

2005-10-01T22:16:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s official. Nobody has any respect for authority anymore. Everyone was required to come into work this weekend, (ala Office Space), so I knew the parking lot would be PACKED.

I therefore tried to PLAN AHEAD last night by placing my big ol’, dirty orange ROAD CONE, (a hot gift from my husband), in a convenient parking space so I wouldn’t have to arrive to work at 3am in order to avoid a mile hike to my office.

I’ve used that thing twice now and twice it was just moved out of the damn way. I guess people actually DO get there at 3 am, and when they have their pick of the entire fucking parking lot, they choose the one space that has a road cone in it. I know this because I know the bitch who was parked in my “reserved” space!

I decided to mess with her and asked her why her car was being towed when I got in. Her eyes bulged out of her head for a minute until I told her that it was ME who put that road cone there.

She wasn’t aware that it was MY cone and thought it was funny—but the fact remains that she was the first one to park in that lot this morning and decided that the cone meant the space was reserved for her. Wtf? What would be so wrong with parking RIGHT NEXT TO the space with the road cone in it?

The cone didn’t work the first time I used it either. I rolled into the lot late as usual one day, only to find my strategically placed road cone sidled up next to a tree. Who does a nigga gotta BLOW around there to get a good parking space?!?! I guess it would help if I showed up to work on time for a change.

The head of our division actually lives about a hundred and some odd miles away from work. Every day he commutes for over an hour to get there. That may sound crazy to you, but I’m sure he is MORE than compensated for his mileage.

Anyway, he and I would usually roll into the lot right around the same time every day—though my commute is only about 15 miles.

When I say the same time, what I mean is that he would usually turn into the closest lot to my building as I was tailing him. Then he would inevitably swoop right into the last available space and then I’d have to go find another lot, further away.

I would always swear aloud in my car and then honk, smile and wave at him as I left the closer lot. Fucker.

Well, back when I was pregnant, however, I didn’t bother looking for a parking lot further away. Every time he beat me to that last space, I would simply roll into a “RESERVED” space for company vehicles. No one ever said anything to me as I waddled into work. It’s amazing what you can get away with when you are pregnant.

I kept that up even after I pooped out my kid and was pleasantly surprised to see that even the head of our division would do the same thing on the rare occasions that I beat HIM in to work.

One day, however, when there were no more spaces left, and I didn’t see his car anywhere, I pulled into my trusty old “RESERVED” spot as usual.

Just as I was exiting my car, here comes Mr. Head of the Division around the corner. He pulls forward and then backs into a space that had a brand spankin’ new NAME PLATE on it—just for him.

Would you believe that THE VERY SAME DAY that I witnessed that, my supervisor called me into his office to ask me if I’d been parking in the “RESESRVED” spot?

I told him the truth and that’s when he informed me that he had been told (by someone who shall rename nameless) to tell me that I was no longer allowed to park there. That those spaces were intended for company vehicles only.

Hmmm………
**************************************************
P.S. After placing my (REALLY) dirty road cone in my chosen spot last night, my hands were filthy from touching it and I wasn't aware of that.

During the drive to my husband's work, I rubbed my tired face. We had planned on meeting up at his workplace before walking across the street for a bite to eat. I stopped in, said some hellos and off we went to dinner. I guess they all just figured that I would eventually figure out that I had a big, black streat across half my face. I did, but not until I visited the ladies room at the restaurant. Thanks, guys!

Angry Moons Over My Hammy

2005-09-30T22:16:00.000-07:00

*Sigh*

I spent a good part of today composing a story about how ANGRY I've been for the last couple of days, but I've decided to scrap it.

I was spelling it all out in gory detail, but along the way realizing that if I really put in all the NECESSARY details to understand the background of the story--I'd be here all night. And my eyes are burning out of my skull as it is.

Besides, it's all just stupid petty shit that nobody cares about anyway. Let's just say that the general theme of the past two days has been: Anger and Irritation.

Anger with myself and damn near everyone immediately surrounding me lately. I REALIZE it's wasted energy, but I am at a loss as to how to deal. Especially considering the amount of stress that I am dealing with lately.

Work, deadlines, assholes, people who get offended by what you consider to be mere BREATHING, ("um...ok, I'll try not to BREATH around you anymore?...")

Stingy, money-grubbing mother fuckers.

No breaks. Every day--up at 5am. Work the weekends too. 12 days in a row. Break? Yeah, right! Not even at home. You have a child to care for. You only get YOU TIME after 8pm, but before 9--(iffens ya want a good night's sleep.) Luckily tonight, Ross is filling in so I can sit in here and veg out on my computer. He's not happy about it, though.

Got some Netflix movies--but no time to watch them.

Exhausted, over worked, over tired, no physical exercise due to the cold I'm still getting over.

Hairy white legs, one has a mysterious bruise on it. Both of my feet have one toe that has the nail polish COMPLETELY chipped off. The other four toes have enough polish on them, but it only takes one naked toenail in the bunch to make the entire pedicure scream "I live in a trailor!" I've got one on each foot.

GUILT. HURT FEELINGS. PAIN. All being experienced by both myself and my husband. Some justified, most not.

Thousands of tiny little ball bearings all over my kitchen floor. 6 days till I'll have the time to clean them up. Don't ask.

I'll leave you with ONE of the COUNTLESS, yet less depressing of the petty and annoying details of my past two days:

One of my co-workers thinks that I am his fucking personal grocery store. He doesn’t work in my department all the time, but during the times that he does—he INEVITABLY comes into my office looking for food. The man is ALWAYS hungry, and NEVER prepared.

He has a wife, four children, makes a VERY comfortable living, (i.e. WAY more than me), owns more than two vehicles, yet—cannot manage to bring himself something to eat every day.

I, on the other hand, PLAN AHEAD for my appetite. I do some snacking, but mainly my stockpile of food is there for breakfast since I generally show up to work at around 6:30am every day and lunch, because most restaurants are a good distance away.

I have occasional snacks to tide me over until around 7pm when we normally get around to having dinner.

I therefore shop for myself, so as not to be a burden on anyone else. That’s not really even the reason I plan ahead, but not being a burden on anyone else is ONE of the many benefits of planning ahead.

I would not mind feeding him if it were a ONCE IN A WHILE thing. But it’s the same friggin story, every time. He comes over to my office and says something like, "Girl, whatchoo got up in there to eat? I'm starvin!"

He plays it off like he's joking--but he's not. He really is hungry. He always checks "Chez Ginger" first and THEN, if I don't have anything for him, he will go to the breakroom and purchase a myriad of tiny little bags of junk food to stuff his face with out of desperation. He never just goes to the breakroom first. The breakroom is his last resort.

So, as usual, he shows up at my office yesterday looking for food, claiming to be starving. I gave him something to eat, AGAIN. I just so happen to have an overabundance of cereal at the moment, so I handed him a box of cereal thinking he’d only eat some of it and then return the rest. Instead, he came back five minutes later, after having polished it off and had the audacity to start going through the area where I keep my food, looking for more food! WTF?!?!

Annoyed, I yelled, "Get the hell out of there, Lootie!"
“Oh, I’ll remember that!” he says. As if to say that I was being stingy! WTF?

"Mother fucker, if you are going to remember THAT, why can’t you remember to bring something to fucking EAT, when you KNOW that your stomach is going to start growling about 2.5 hours after you get here?!?! Goddammit!"

I cannot stand pigs, especially pigs that insist on eating everyone else’s food!

Half Of a Cat, Perhaps In A Hat?

2005-09-29T22:16:00.000-07:00

I saw what I think may very well be the single most disgusting sight I have ever beheld in my life on Monday. It's been days since I've seen it and the image is still burned into my retinas! It was horrible!

You may even get mad at me for telling you this story, because really--the image shouldn't be immortalized, even if it is only a description and not an actual picture. As sick as I am, even I wouldn't take a picture of THAT.

It was in the middle of a lovely neighorhood, on a sunny day, (as if there is any other kind of day in Arizona), at the end of my babysitter's street.

I saw half of a cat lying in the street.

As in, HALF. Of a cat. The lower half.

As in, cute, fuzzy little back paws, tail and everything, but no upper half to be found anywhere in the vicinity.

As in, I could have told you the sex of the cat, but not whether it was wearing a collar.

As in, I could have told you if he still had his back claws, but not if he had his front ones.

As in, he could have starred as Willy Wonka's office cat.

As in, where the FUCK is the other half?

I. Don't. Know.

I mentioned it to my babysitter, and she said she knew about it--that she had made her 15 yr old son try to identify whether it resembled the lower half of the neighbor's cat down the street while she drove past it--the same neighbors who are out of town and who have someone stopping in occasionally to check on their cat...

He didn't think it was. She thought maybe they ought to save it to let the owners possibly identify it if their cat did in fact go missing. What, are you fucking CRAZY?!?! I'd rather deal with the uncertainty of where my cat went than to see him in that condition! Jesus!

So I ask you. What is going on here? Where is that cat's better half?

My babysitter's theory is that a coyote got it. Coyotes are quite common in this area of the Southwest--especially in areas that haven't been populated for that long. Her subdivision is just on the other side of the highway from an Indian Reservation. But you have to wonder...if YOU were a coyote, would you go for the half with the skull, or the half with the loins? Personally I would have gone for the meatier half.

MY first thought is that some sick bastard did that. And the thought of someone like that living among us made my skin crawl like a million maggots. I hadn't even entertained the idea of Coyotes, but I'm glad she brought it up so that I can just believe that now. I don't want to believe anything else.

Poor kitty. What a way to go. Eck. Good god.

Netflix vs. Cockblister: You Get What You Pay For!

2005-09-28T22:16:00.000-07:00

I’ve had at least two friends, and now my baby sitter, tell me that I should switch over from Netflix to Blockbuster’s online DVD rental program.

Apparently I can get the same deal that I’m already getting, plus one or two free IN STORE rentals for about $2 less than I’m currently paying.

OH BOY!!!!!!

Hmm…….

Well, here’s my take on that: “Cockblister” can bite me. I’m not switching over.

I’d rather pay the extra $2 just so that Blockbuster can never collect another CENT of my hard earned money, ever again. Besides, their selection sucks a mile of donkey schlong anyway. And I'm not the only one who thinks that.

I don’t care about any free IN STORE rental, because I don’t ever plan on going IN to their stupid STORE again.

If it isn’t obvious by now, my decision is based solely on the bitterness that I harbor for that company.

Sorry for the bitterness, Toodler—but I gotta be me. Deep down inside my chewy, genetic center you will find half of my mother, god forbid—so it’s something that no amount of medication or therapy can ever fully erase.

I know I’m supposed to forgive the devil, (Blockbuster) and try to love him anyway, but I just can’t. I don’t even want to try.

For years before an ingenious company like Netflix came about, Blockbuster dominated the video rental arena, and they knew it. So they took the liberty of sticking it to their customers every chance they got, without so much as cab fare home, or even a kiss and a promise to call.

They saw your walking through their 900 lb doors as an open invitation to rape you. They say you wanted it. Look how you were dressed! After all, YOU came to THEM, right?

RIGHT?!?!?!?

Blockbuster: “Oh, handing in your video a few minutes past noon? Gerry! Lock the door! That’ll be another rental fee, thank you very much. And you won’t be seeing anymore movies until you pay up, asshole. And if you think you can ignore us, think again. We’ll send you a postcard. Should I just go ahead and take it out of the credit card that we have on file for you right now?”

They will actually call you up a month or two before your debit card expires and ask you for a new number. Wtf?

Truthfully, I'm surprised that they didn’t send out muscle-bound thugs in tight blue Blockbuster shirts to homes in violation of their strict policies. They were the video rental Nazis and they ran a tight camp.

Enter the American Netflix soldiers, our saviors, wielding free tickets to a virtual paradise in the land of video rental!

No more having to show up at some stupid store chock full of half retarded vidiots with jester hats on, working the floors and telling you about recent promotions that you don’t care about.

No more standing in line with other people’s bratty children and their smells hovering around you, and no more giant boxes of Whoppers, big ol’ tubs of microwave popcorn or ice cream sandwiches to resist.

No more subjecting yourself to the embarrassment of the clerk announcing your video selection to everyone standing in line behind you. “Thank You, [looking at their computer screen] Mrs. Hutchins. “Discovering Bellydance: Basic Dance” is due back by Friday. Please step over to this side of the sensors so we can pat you down and give you your 472 receipts. HAVE FUN LEARNING HOW TO BELLY DANCE!!!!!”

And no more racing across town, risking an accident or a traffic ticket while biting your lip because it’s so close to NOON, and calling up your spouse to find out which store they rented a particular video from because there is no time to spare.

Oh, I know “There aren’t any late feels anymore!”, Mr. Blockbuster advocate. But do you know why that is?!?!? It isn’t out of the goodness of their hearts, I can assure you. They've already lined their pockets with enough late fees to replace their crappy video selection a hundred thousand times over, anyway!

With Netflix, if it takes a week to watch a movie—who cares? If you watch two in one night and want more right away—that’s fine too. You pay the same price.

You can log into any computer whenever the mood strikes, (including the very second you hear about or see a preview of a movie you want to see sometime in the future), keep a queue of all the movies you want to see, including ones with embarrassing titles, rearrange the order in which they are going to be sent to you, and return them whenever the hell you feel like it.

If Netflix were a man, he’d be “Mr. Right” in my book, and I’d marry him if I were still single.

Well, well well….….how ya feeling now, Blockbuster?

How’s life treatin’ ya now that the Netflix soldiers have arrived? What’s that? Now we have an EXTRA WEEK to return our videos? Wow! How generous of you!

Too late, ya pricks. You have been in dire need of an attitude adjustment for too long now, and I’m not that forgiving. Besides, I read the fine print—and if we keep your stupid video for longer than the “grace” period—we end up having to PAY for the whole movie! Hey! I’ve got a video that Blockbuster's CEO, John Antiaco, can rent from me! It’s called "How to SMOKE POLE".

I will never switch over to you, even if you drop your prices down to $1 a month, send me flowers, a lifetime supply of Whoppers and beg for my forgiveness. It’s over. Erase my name from your database and I’ll be sure to slip my old card into the nearest shredder. I hope Netflix drives you into the ground so far, that you end up inside some Chinamen’s chocolate starfish!!!!

I told Ross about my decision last night, and he is standing behind me on this one. Literally. But he is also backing me up. Um….okay, he agrees whole heartedly?

He told me about how one day, long ago, he received a letter in the mail, stating something about a lawsuit that someone had filed against Blockbuster.

The lawsuit was for something like, oh, I don’t know --RAPE or something like that, and it was asking for his signature if he felt like he was also one of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, maybe even millions of individuals who were regularly being violated by Blockbuster.

He had three words for that: “Where’s my pen?”

(WHERE WAS MY LETTER, THAT’S WHAT I WANT TO KNOW!!!)

Signing the document would mean that he would be entitled to a part of whatever damages the lawsuit might recover.

So, with dollar signs in his eyes, he signed the document and sent it in, thinking he might just take himself out for a nice dinner, or buy an expensive pair of jeans when their day of reckoning came.

Sure enough, their day came. Cockblister was found GUILTY and forced to pay out damages. Gee, what a surprise.

But I ask you: How could they ever pay out enough? How much were these victims’ pain and suffering worth? Apparently, Ross’ was worth $1.45.

“That’s okay”, he said. “I went straight to the bank to cash it. There were probably over a million people who received a check like that—so I’m fairly sure Blockbuster received their much-needed kick in the balls that they had coming.”

Not really. Because I didn’t get a chance to administer MY swift kick to the sack. And I wanted to get a good running start, too.

I am now doing so, by way of staying on with Netflix, their competitor—despite their ever so SLIGHTLY higher cost. Quality is worth paying a little extra for.

So to Blockbuster, I raise my middle finger and bid you “Adieu”. Good riddance, ya pricks.

The Boy's Nicknames

2005-09-27T22:16:00.000-07:00

Things I call my boy: (Warning: Where this shit comes from, I haven't a clue.)

Face. "Hiiiiiiii Faaace...."

Facade. "Hello Facade!"

Fazoli. (said in New Yawk, Edith Bunker accent) "Fa-ZOW-lee"

Fazoli Facade.

Fazoli Facadio.

Fazule. *through teeth gritted because i want to eat him* "ooh! FaZULE!" "He's a fazule."

Boy. "Hi, boy!"

The boy. "What did you do with the boy?"

Sun. "Hello my sun."

Hey. "Hey! Open up! MMMmm...."

"Mama's Boy" "Are you Mama's boy? Did you just have a nap? You're Mama's boy, aren't you?"

***********************************************************************************
Things my husband calls the boy:

Sally. "Aw, quick bein such a Sally, will ya?"

Boy Wonder. "Boy wonder has just laid down for his nap."

The skirt. "Buck was being such a skirt last night!" "What'sa matter with the skirt now?"

The boy. "Did you pick up the boy?"

*****************************************************************
I will add new ones as they arise. Thank you for tuning in.

Out.

More Fun With Dirty Diapers!

2005-09-26T22:16:00.000-07:00

My brother thinks he's so funny. Yesterday he sent me an email with an attached photo.

The email read: (actual copy and paste)

"Hey...I found your long lost twin"

And then another email right after that:

"I found an actual picture of you doing work! And it is ever your best profile."

The scary part? He doesn't even KNOW about my blog! (I never told him, because I am reserving the right to bash his stupid wife!!)

My response to him:

"That's real cute. Here's a picture of yours..."

I Stepped In Shit Yesterday And I Wasn't Outside.

2005-09-26T11:08:00.001-07:00

I’m only glad that it was at least on the kitchen tile and not on the carpet, or this story would have had a much sadder ending.

You might be wondering how a neat freak like myself steps into a pile of shit with her bare feet inside her own house—and what that does to such a woman emotionally. Well, wonder no more—I will tell you.

Ross had to work yesterday so that left me home alone with the Buckster and a million other chores that I can’t seem to avoid busying myself with.

I RARELY sit down when I’m at home. If I have a day off, even a SICK day, I find it one of the hardest things in the world to actually sit down and watch T.V or something. Gingerly Hutchins gathers no moss.

My body moves around my house not unlike a hummingbird, busy buzzing, constantly cleaning, doing laundry, organizing, paying bills, feeding or playing with the boy, taking the dogs for a walk in the park across the street, going to fetch the mail, or doing yard work when my husband has neglected it for too long.

Yesterday was one of those days. He came home from work Saturday evening, while the sun was still up and knew that the front yard needed mowing desperately, so he got right out there with the mower. By the time he was finished, the sun had set and he couldn’t do anymore.

Next morning I look out the window and see strips of grass that didn’t get mowed. Poor guy. Apparently the sun went down a little too quickly and he wasn’t able to see well enough to decipher whether those strips were excess grass that loafed out of the full bag, or actual missed sections of grass.

So after Ross left for work, I laid Buck down for a nap and hurried out to the front to give his mow job a second going over. This time I went in the opposite direction, not only to ensure every blade get cut, but also to change up the pattern a little. (Monica?)

Now it was time for the whacking of the weeds. There’s a big mess of grass all over the driveway too, so I decided I better get the leaf blower out while I was at it.

Garage door open, I fished out the blower and my trusty old weed whacker only to discover that the weed whacker looked like one of Pete Townsend’s guitars after a rather emotionally volatile concert. I envisioned Ross, up on the stage of our front lawn, having a temper tantrum about whatever and busting it into a hundred pieces.

I know I’m going to get into trouble for saying this, but it must be said: There are very few possessions that I have left that Ross has yet to break. He always claims to not know what happened to them, but how is it that I’ve owned that thing for years and it never busted to pieces like this? Hmm….

Anyway. So that thing was history. I don’t know why he bothered to keep it. He should have just snuck into the trash and claimed that he must’ve left it outside or something. It would have been easier for me to swallow.

With gritted teeth I threw it into the trash and fished out the other one given to us by our neighbor, John. This one is still in one piece and seems to work fine, but I can’t seem to get the little stringy thing to release enough string to actually cut anything and I am also unable to get that nozzle thing in the middle to turn. Drat!

Lucky for me, John was just pulling up into his driveway so I asked him if he could take a look at it for me while I went to check on the boy. As always, he was happy to oblige.

Sure enough, the boy was awake—so I got him out of his crib, fixed him a bottle and buckled him into his bouncy chair in front of the front door, so he could watch his mama bust her balls in the front yard.

I go back outside and begin whacking the weeds. That sounds kinda dirty. Actually, what I was doing was using the weed whacker to edge the lawn.

I get about half way through it and have to stop because I can hear the boy screaming bloody murder again. He screams that a lot.

I walk over to the front sidewalk where I can see him through the glass of the front door and I can see that he is in midst of an emotional breakdown. He must be finished with his bottle.

I rush inside and the first thing I see are tears and a red face. Awww… What’sa matter, baby boy!??” I say, as I bend down to pick him up. I sling him up and onto my hip when I look down and notice that the nipple on his now empty bottle looks like he’d been playing in the mud with it. What the?

I pick it up and I’m still confused. I can’t smell it, (thank dog), because I’m still getting over a nasty cold, but I search all over his bouncy chair and finally witness the pile of “mud” that he was playing in. 100% natural, stinky homemade butt mud.

I suddenly realize that I have the mud creator on my hip, so I look down, but do not immediately see it all over him, (or me). Nothing on his face either. (Phew!)

I lift him up in front of me to inspect his lower half and now I can see it oozing out of his left diaper leg hole. “Ah, Christ on a friggin CRACKER!” I grit.

I immediately abandon all lawn tools in the front yard, leave the garage door open, front door unlocked—and carry him and his muddy bottle to the kitchen sink, deposit the bottle and head straight for the bathroom. We could have been robbed BLIND and I wouldn't have known or cared, because I have to clean up the shit!

I am SOOOOOO friggin SICK of these blowouts, you have no idea. They are usually caused by diapers that are not big enough, but occasionally happen when the baby is sitting just so.

Now as I’m holding him, I get the water running in the tub and I step one way, change my mind, step the other, change my mind…. “Shit. Do I undress him in his room and risk getting shit everywhere or undress him in here and risk getting shit everywhere and all over the tub, which will mean that I will have to empty it, then use the bottle of Clorox cleanup on it before filling it back up again.”

Goddammit, there is just no good way to do this. I decide to hold him under the running faucet and let the stuff on his leg and ass rinse off.

He always kinda freaks out at the loud roar of the bathtub faucet, but he is just going to have to get over that.

With crap scraps floating about in the tub, I shut off the water and wait for them to find their way down the drain. Once down, I spritz the bathtub with Clorox cleanup, rinse that and then fill the tub back up with soapy water and begin peeling his clothes off.

After about 20 minutes, I finally get him all cleaned up, clothed and put into his exersaucer so I can go finish up the front yard. I get it handled and everything put away and come back inside so I can commence cleaning in here too. I walk over to the sink and see the muddy bottle that I had forgotten about. Eww.

I grab a paper towel to take it apart and rinse it out with and in doing so, I stepped in what I THOUGHT was a little puddle of water.

I’m used to stepping in puddles of water under the sink, because Ross keeps pulling the rug away from the sink and more towards the middle of the kitchen. I like it directly under the sink, so as to catch any drops of water that fly out of the sink.

I start to walk across the kitchen when I realize that the wetness is not going away. I look down and low and behold, I’ve got a turd stuck to the bottom of my bare foot. And a turd smooched path on the tile from whence I came.

Oh fer fuck’s sake, does it ever end?!?! Can I have a break, please? Seriously, how much shit (literally) is one person able to deal with?

So I hop back over to the sink on one foot and put the other foot into the sink, thinking that the bottle of Clorox cleanup is in the other room, so I’m going to have to make do until I can be reunited with it. I wonder aloud where in the hell is my missing bottle of it, since I made sure to buy a bottle for each bathroom AND for the kitchen, but for some reason I can only find one bottle.

I go to my happy place in my head, (not very big) and reach over the leg in the sink as far as I can to the paper towels. I manage to yank the paper towel roll off it’s holder and onto the floor.

Now I have one foot in the sink and I’m doing some kind of Y-shaped yoga pose over my sink as I grapple the roll on the floor and tax my back muscles to their maximum capacity as I do a backbend while lifting myself to a standing position.

I tear some off, wet them and start wiping the crap off my foot, but it doesn’t come off easily. It’s being very persistent. I end up with about four wads of wet, shitty paper towels in the sink before my foot finally LOOKS clean, but I will not feel better until I can dip it in bleach. I love, love LOVE bleach. Bleach is my friend.

So in the step-trash can they go, (stepping with my left foot, of course) and I walk on my left foot and right heel into the bathroom to fetch my ONE beloved bottle of Clorox cleanup.

I offer you no explanation as to how a turd got there, as I didn't see any chunks even remotely that size on his person, or even in his diaper--but I was sure that it was his. Far too fresh and mushy to be one of the dogs poops. They shit tootsie rolls or short cigars. This was definitely my son's handiwork, but I still don't have a clue as to how it got there.

However, I’m happy to report that my foot, the sink and the entire path that I took on the kitchen floor was sanitized beyond any shadow of doubt. And the little family of three lived happily ever after until the next poopy blowout, which should be any day now.

Be Ye Not Afraid For I Am A Jackass In Wolf's Clothing!

2005-09-25T11:04:00.000-07:00

So I made a new blog friend out there, folks, and I’m pretty excited about it! I don't even know what her name is yet, but her blog is called Toodling. She calls herself the Scottish Toodler.

It was about a 50% due to my being a jackass, (as usual), 10% because I wasn’t aware that anyone other than my best friend and my husband read my blog, 30% paranoid schizophrenia, (probably a by-product of the new meds I’ve been taking. Thanks Dr. Gurjot!), and 25% my inability to take a compliment. I know that adds up to more than 100%, but that’s because my husband always tells me that I’m 75% jackass.

You see, it all started when a woman in Los Angeles just randomly clicked on my site when it came up on the blogger homepage, just as I was updating THAT MINUTE. She read the post that I wrote about getting hit-on at Home Depot and apparently was somewhat entertained by it. (I aim to please, albeit mostly myself.)

At any rate, she decided to leave a comment of encouragement that went something along the lines of, “Congratulations! Getting hit on at Home Depot is an accomplishment, regardless of your waist size!”

“Yeah, so?” you’re probably saying.

Well…. I get up pretty early every morning, completely against my will. It has nothing to do with my little sleeping angel in his crib, and everything to do with how I was able to purchase that crib.

For some reason, I felt compelled to check my email at that time, most likely because the lighting in my office was a little more ambient than the screaming lights of the bathroom, but not as "ambient" (read: pitch black) as our bedroom, where my husband continued to sleep. So I was just doing a little transitioning.

I usually don’t check my blog, or any comments thereon at that time of morning, but this time I did. I read it, and in my haze, I immediately took offense. “Who the hell is this bitch? Who is she calling thick waisted?! She betta recognize!” I immediately erased it from my blog and plotted my revenge while soaping up in the shower.

That’s where some of my paranoia schizophrenia stepped in. Oh, and some of my self-centered train of thought.

I ASSUMED (making an ASS out of U and ME) that just by reading my blog, everyone should just KNOW that my body bounced back from my pregnancy like a fresh rubber band. That I have never been more proud of my body, for coming back to me after producing a HUGE, gorgeous, perfectly formed and fully functioning, (albeit loud and sometimes very stinky) little human being.

With the exception of a faint C-section scar way below my panty line, the skin around my bellybutton being a little more “textured” than before, and my boobs being ever-so slightly smaller than before, my body is completely back to normal. It is as if it never happened. Like my boobs and belly never swelled up to resemble giant Zeppelins!

I feel fantastic, and am so, so happy and thankful to the genetic gods who smiled down upon me by not adding extra baby weight to my list of problems the way they have on so many other more unfortunate moms.

Later that day, I wrote my best friend, Shawna, in Chicago and asked her if she saw the comment left by that “Scottish toddler, or toodler, or whatever”. She said she had. I asked her if she interpreted it the same way I did, and she said, “Oh, it’s fine. I get emails like that all the time, from people who read my blog regularly—you know, fans. She probably didn’t mean anything by it”

I wasn’t buying it. I found The Toodler’s site and started perusing it. She mentioned something about people sometimes not getting the fact that she’s joking. “I know people like that”, I thought. I kept reading while trying to quickly gather ammunition. Then, towards the end of her profile, she mentioned being endowed with some rather large ta-tas. “Hrmph! She must be some catty, silicon-injected LA girl”, I kept “thinking”…. (JACKASS!)

I looked over a few of her stories and there were a lot written about the atrocities committed against the folks in N'awlins. “Okay, so she’s also a thinker, a political liberal, sounding off on her blog and is probably thinking that I am just being a shallow asshole for only writing about everyday, mundane and stupid things that have no bearing on anything, such as getting hit on at Home Depot!” (These were not HER words, mind you--they were the words stirring around in my little tiny bwain, okay?)

So I go to her latest post, called “Sixteen Inches”, (Hmm…. penis reference? Good god, no! I had to read enough of it to make sure she wasn’t writing porn, because after all, she DOES boast big boobs, and she DOES live in L.A. Heh heh!)

The story was actually quite sweet, albeit way too long for my A.D.D—so I just made sure she wasn’t talking about porn, and then left a comment. “Wow! 16 inches of writing is quite an accomplishment regardless of brain size! TOO bad your brain isn’t as big as your boobs!”, I wrote.

So after that, I thought it was all over. I checked her site later that evening to see if my comment was still up there. It was gone, but in its place was a new post about ME!!! Wtf? Not only was I found out, but this smart chica shredded me six ways from Sunday, and unlike me, in the most mature way possible. She used her writing skills to call me out on the carpet and put me in my place.

Though there were a few things that I felt needed to be addressed for purposes of authenticity, (since she didn’t/doesn’t know me from any other mule in Mexico), she basically revealed my online identity as a jackass.

Yep, that’s me. So, I did what any self-respecting silly donkey girl would do and I dropped my swords. I left a comment on her new post to not only to set her straight on some of the facts, but mostly to apologize and offer my e-hand in friendship.

When I went to bed that night, I thought about one of the things I offered up to her in defense of my idiocy. I told her that her comment on my blog wasn’t clear and concise enough for me (at 5am) to have distinguished her intent.

And the more I thought about that, the more I thought that maybe it was I who did not make it perfectly clear to my reader(s) that I am extremely pleased with the way that my body fared after pooping out a 9 lb kid. Mainly because my husband and best friend already know this. Heh!

I told Ross all about what had happened that night, and about the comment I had left on her site. His eyes bulged out of his head and he said, “My god, Ginge! Why are you so combative?!!”

I told you! Because I’m a jackass!

I woke up the next morning to discover that she accepted my apology and sprung forth with loads of compliments that I told her were hard for me to swallow, as much as I truly wanted to believe them. The reply I posted can be found on both of our sites, (I think), so there is no need to write them all out again, only to elaborate on a couple.

She, bless her big chested heart, posted yesterday that I was her new favorite blog. Aww... that’s so sweet! And she is mine, too! But my husband told me to tell her not to make up her mind so quick! There are just so many good ones out there, far too many to count.

There is just no end to the blogs, zines and websites out there that make mine look like it was written by my Chihuahua’s ass. I’m positive that there are thousands more out there that I haven’t found yet, who are just as good—I just don’t have the time to search for or read them all.

Some of my personal favorites are:

White Helmet. My best friend’s blog. This woman had encouraged me to write, write, write and for over a year I hemmed and hawed about it. Meanwhile, she started her own blog over a year ago and it rocks your friggin pants off. She is an EXCELLENT writer, funnay as HAIL and intelligent to boot! Don’t mess with her ass, for she is a redheaded bombshell from Chicago, and she’ll tear you up!

Dooce! Gotta love the dooce. She and I have a lot in common. Except, I'm not a mormon, I don't live in Utah, I'm not a SAHM, I was never a valedictorian of anything, my husband's name is not Jon, I have more than one dog--and mine are way smaller, neither of their names are "Chuck", I am not a famous blogger and I had a little boy instead of a girl. Other than that, we are practically twins!!! I check her site daily.

I first started reading her after Shawna sent me a link to her site while I was pregnant. She thought I would be interested in all of her stories on pregnancy, and she was so very right. Not only that, but everything this woman writes is gold.

Mimi Smartypants. Another sassy scrawler with one kid, a giant brain and an impeccable ability to write. I had heard that this gal actually got an offer to write a novel, based on her blog that is updated DAILY. As Shawna put it, “DISCIPLINE!”

I used to check out Laid off Dad all the time, because he also so eloquently wrote about his kids, as he was a stay at home dad. Another talented writer with a flair for html code and flawless skeeeils. And he’s a GUY to boot! But I can’t find his site anymore! I miss it! *sad face*

And my husband’s personal favorite, (and I must admit, it is DAYUM FUNNY!!)
The sneeze.com Oh. My. God. This this guy good. Hysterically funny, incredibly witty, intelligent, silly and fun. When my husband first sent it to me, I was gasping for breath reading only two entries. Oh, and he’s also a dad. Noticing any trends here? Hmm….

Now I can add Toodling to my list of blogs to check every day, because she is an excellent writer and also my new friend.

http://milk.sillywoppat.com Is just a Link that I need to add to my site until I can figure out how to list it as a permanent link on my template. I am joining this group. Yay!

Lessons can and ARE learned on a daily basis over here:

1. Writing is an art form with many challenges, not the least of which include writing as clearly, concisely and with as few unnecessary fillers as possible.

2. Not everyone is out to get me. I AM in therapy for those of you who are worried about me, so I plan to get to the bottom of why I walk around in an invisible tube of barbed-wire, ready to be-head anyone who doth cross me, as I perceivith all the timeth.

3. We all need to start giving more out compliments. They are given out so rarely, and taken with graciousness even more rarely. (By me, at least.) I believe the Scottish Toodler was the one who inspired me yesterday to tell a giant white man having breakfast with his mother and his two mixed children that his children were absolutely breathtakingly beautiful. They really were so gorgeous!!

4. You can never have too many girlfriends. And girlfriends who share your passion for writing are even better still!!

5. I am finally starting to understand why some people are afraid of me. All this time I thought I was just a little pussycat, when in reality I can come across like a rabid wolverine.
Lesson for you: Feel free to leave me positive feedback. However, keep negative feedback to yourself or I will hunt you down and gouge out your eyeballs. J/K!!!!!

*************************************************************************************

I know you are going to have a hard time believing this, but it is 100% true. It is almost 10am, and my husband just walked through the door, having just returned from Home Depot. He had to go get some pieces and parts for the sprinkler heads in our back yard. (Some of which I obtained while I was busy getting hit on at Home Depot the other day). He walked into my office just now and handed me a hot dog from Home Depot wrapped in tin foil!

God, I love that guy!!!! Mrmph!!

Buck: 7 Months and Already Cruisin for a Bruisin!

2005-09-23T22:16:00.000-07:00

Today our boy is 7 months old. My, how time flies. Yesterday was the first day I’ve actually observed him doing something akin to crawling, so you know I had to bust out the video camera to record this momentous occasion.

Now I know what we will be doing this weekend as a result of this recent development: Baby Proofing! Yay! Time to pack away anything and everything of any kind of value, be it monetary or aesthetic! Until now, we’ve put off all forms of it due to denial that this screaming, colicky baby will ever do anything but lay there, drool and scream and that we could actually decorate our house with other things besides baby paraphernalia.

Last week when I gave him his first Elmo doll who sings his ABC’s , he had dollar signs in his eyes and he cracked a smile from ear to ear. What a rush that was!

Now Elmo can be used as bait. If you set it far enough away from him, he will work his way over to it so he can glom all over Elmo’s protruding eyeballs. Unable to blink, I’m sure if Elmo could say anything other than his ABC’s, it would be “Thanks, man!” for providing his lidless eyes with copious amounts of moisture.

In other baby news: No sooner did I hit the “publish” button on the “Buck the Food Junkie” post did he go on an eating strike! (Fool! How many times have I been told NOT to brag about how well he does with something?!?! That is a sure recipe for a disaster of contradiction!)

It’s been going on for almost a week now, but since he started displaying cold symptoms at roughly the same time, I didn’t worry about it too much. The only solace was that it saved us a little money. However, the problem that has arisen out of that scenario is that he has been waking up at the ass-crack of dawn to eat.

Ross, being the parent who gets to “sleep in” during the week, finds this unacceptable. Quite frankly, I would too if it were a weekend. Therefore, our latest goal has been attempting to stuff the kid like a Thanksgiving turkey so that he will get a full night’s sleep, thereby avoiding any breaks in his father’s sleep continuity.

Last night was awful.

Two or three bites into his first course, “Chicken and Wild Rice”, he started SCAH-REEEEEEMING bloody murder. Tears and everything! You would think I had set him on fire in his high chair. An ADT House Alarm going off is a soothing lullaby compared to this kid’s siren.

I checked his gums with a small, hand held flashlight, (easy to do when the mouth is fully agape for screaming); No teeth, no redness, no inflammation. Wtf? I panicked. “We have to DO something! Where’s the Anbesol?!!” I yelled helplessly.

We frantically scrambled around looking for the Anbesol and with sweat beading on my upper lip, I finally found it tucked in the back pocket of his diaper bag. I quickly removed it from its wrapper, cut the tip off with shaking hands, squeezed some onto my finger and then rubbed it all over his upper and lowers. I also gave him a dropper full of Tylenol just for good measure, which was promptly spit back out onto his bib, never missing a beat with the screaming.

Oh, and then he started screaming again.

As Ross and I teetered on the verge of killing him to stop the noise, I removed him from his high chair and began fast walking all over the house as my mind raced, trying to decide who I could call who might know what the hell his problem could be.

I had thoughts of setting him down in the middle of the back yard, but then I thought about how wet it was out there because I had just watered it. Besides, it wouldn’t have worked; he would have just cried more. That, and the neighbors would probably have us arrested.

Finally, as if a giant hand came out of the sky and pulled the hot, live wire out of my ass, he stopped crying. We breathed a collective sigh of relief though our ears were still ringing.

Earlier, when the ‘alarm’ went off, Ross had been in the process of mashing up Buck’s favorite food, Avocado. So, after a few moments of peace and quiet, I saw the lonely little bowl of it on the counter and decided to see if he’d take a bite of it while perched on my hip.

It went right down the hatch. Another spoonful led to another and before we knew it, he was back in his high chair to polish it off. His face twisted up for a split second when I first set him down, so I had to distract him with yet another spoonful of the creamy green goodness.

Before I knew it, the entire bowl was gone and I was cracking open a jar of Apple Sweet Potatoes. He got about half way through that jar and his eyes started getting very heavy; Blinking slower and slower until he fell asleep right there in his highchair, right before our very eyes.

I think we all learned a little lesson last night. Ross and I learned that our son has a highly disturbing way of telling us that he HATES Chicken and Wild Rice. We also learned that if we don’t start teaching this kid alternate forms of communication soon, he might not live to see another 7 months.

And HOPEFULLY Buck learned that screaming bloody murder while eating something he doesn’t find as tasty as that green stuff will lead to mommy freaking out, numb gums and a mouthful of Tylenol.

Hot Dogs at Home Depot

2005-09-22T22:16:00.000-07:00

I got hit on in Home Depot the other day! For those of you who think this is no big deal, I feel the necessity to remind you that: A: I am married with a child and therefore no longer socialize anywhere except for Home Depot and Target and B: My child is only 7 months old. It’s only been a few months since my belly went back to it’s normal size, and before that I was most obviously PREGNANT for almost an entire year!

Getting hit on was akin to winning a pick 2 lotto, where you win a couple hundred bucks or so. It made my whole day and half of the next one, which is about how long it usually takes me to part with that much money. (By the second half of the next day, I was hallucinating from sheer exhaustion due to laying sod with my husband all morning, but that’s another story for another day.)

I seriously can’t remember the last time I was hit on outside of a bar, but I can pretty much assure you that it most likely wasn’t while I’ve been living out west.

Come to think of it, I can only recall ONE instance when I was hit on outside of a bar-- EVER. (Aside from the internet, of course—where cajones the size of Epcott center are the norm.)

If I got hit on in person as much as I did via the internet (when I had a profile up on Match.com, that is), one would’ve thought Pam Anderson and her entourage were in town. Alas, I wonder if Pam’s crowd also contains naked losers with form letters that they hand out to every female they see with one hand while they hold their pedros in the other..….

To answer the first question that is probably brewing in your mind, (or at least it was in my husband’s): No, I wasn’t wearing my little 'Aloha' bun-huggers or a mini skirt.

I wasn’t all decked out and dressed up or anything; I was just wearing some simple camouflage army pants, cut off at the knees with a brown, sleeveless ribbed muscle shirt and black Diesel flip flop sandals on my feet.

My hair was up and I definitely wasn’t looking my best. I don’t get it either—maybe it was a joke that friends of Home Depot employees like to play on the patrons from time to time. Or perhaps he was just trying to check off “Tough looking Army chick in Home Depot” off his “To Screw” list. Who knows.

I was walking along, pushing my gimpy and squealing orange cart, minding my own business while searching for PVC sprinkler pipe caps when I noticed a guy standing in the window section and he was wearing jeans and a white sleeveless shirt, which was not a tight, ribbed muscle shirt.

He was talking to someone behind the counter in the Doors and Windows section and the first thing I noticed were his arms. Very nice. Good muscle tone, nice skin. Most of the time, my inner dialogue is asking “What the Fuck?” when I see people walking around in Home Depot, but this time it said, “Hm! Nice Arms!”

Just then he turned toward me and I’m not sure if he caught me looking at him or what, but it’s almost as if he chased me down! I averted my eyes forward and kept walking.

Suddenly I hear, “Miss! Miss!” I turn around and it’s him.
He says, “You’re wearing Army pants. That’s cool.”
Me: “Thanks. Are you in the Army?”

His response?

Well, wait. Once I tell you this, you will realize why if I WERE single, I would have lost any boner that may have been in progress. His response to my question was the first of quite a few red flags; Signaling 'Danger' to the single gal, but supplying potential comedic material to the married one. I am not kidding about this. It really happened. Yes, he really said this:

He said, “No. I am in the Army of the Soul.” [Bringing his right hand over his heart]

(No, I am not kidding you.)

My inner dialogue: “Coo Coo Alert!! We’ve got a psychopath in aisle 5!”
My outer dialogue: “Uh huh.” [insert tight-lipped, poorly feigned look of interest here]

He then launches into a little introduction of himself. He extends his hand and says, “Hi, I’m Matthew.” I shake his hand and tell him that I’m Ginger.

Upon relaying this story to my husband later, he interrupted to yell, “AT WHAT POINT DO YOU TELL HIM THAT YOU ARE MARRIED?!?!?”

I told him to shut up and listen. That one cannot just ANNOUNCE that they are married to anyone who approaches them, because one must wait until asked.

If you bark out “I’m married!” before you’re even asked, then the person hitting on you can always make you feel like an asshole by saying something like, “Um, that’s nice, but I just wanted to know if you had any idea where I could find a toilet flapper and a flush valve.”

You must realize that this is a game that takes years of practice to hone your cat and mouse skills to the point of making the mouse feel like he's the cat.

So Matthew then goes on to tell me that he is a student of ASU and is majoring in Acting and Psychology. (In other words: He’s taking up space.) Then he adds that he also does some modeling. Great.

Now I’m scrutinizing his appearance, doesn’t he know this?? My opinion on this “I do some modeling from time to time” business is this: You should never TELL anyone that you do any modeling unless you are in a Scout’s office or you are talking to another PAID model.

People should tell YOU that you should model, or that you could. The minute you announce that you do some modeling to someone who is NOT a model, they are going to scrutinize your entire existence.

Sure enough, I THOUGHT this guy was good looking at first, but now I’m thinking he’s not THAT good looking….and what the hell does he model? Sunglasses? Because the entire time he was talking to me, he never once took them off. Another smooth Velveeta cheese move.

He had a nice face, but he wasn’t very tall. Though he had nice arms, his body didn’t look like it was perfect under those clothes. I could’ve been wrong, but I doubt it.

My husband is definitely better looking than that guy, and I’m NOT just saying that because he reads this blog. I’m saying it because A: It’s true and B: People HAVE told my husband that he could model! Even his sister has told him, and for a sister to say that to her brother—well, let’s just say that I would rather gargle my son's spit up than tell my brother he should model. Even if it were true. (Sorry, Seth!)

Fortunately for me, my husband is that hot, but he is too insecure to actually believe it and therefore feels lucky to have scored someone like me, when I’m sure he could have done better-- in the looks department, anyway. So when I scored him, I kind of felt like I was the tiger and he was the wounded gazelle.

Again, I digress. It is a trademark of mine to digress, and it is usually in my digressions that some comedy can sometimes be squeezed out. But this time I’ve digressed a little too far from the original story.

So, after having been informed that Mr. Matthew did some modeling, I thought again to myself that if I were single, this information, coupled with the “Army of the Soul” statement, would have definitely required me to perform an “About Face, Forward March, Double-time” to carry out "Operation Cart Desertion" as fast as my Diesels could carry me.

Instead, I just stood there and let him go through his whole rigmarole while I basked in the attention and the security that comes from being married. You have to realize that this kind of attention from a source other than my husband is now scarce and must be savored for self-flattery and comedic purposes.

Blah, blah, blah, I won’t drag you and my husband through the rest of the encounter, but suffice it to say that he DID eventually ask if I was married and I did tell the truth. I also asked how old he was; because I wanted it to go on record that I was being hit on by a younger college student, however ridiculous he might be. He said he was 27.

And then, without hesitation he added, (as any self-respecting, unemployed student thespian soldier of the soul would), that he was born on August 16th, which makes him a Virgo. Good god, have I passed out and woke up in studio 54 during the 70's?

In my humble opinion, he was not young enough to still be in college majoring in Drama and Psychology while doing some modeling on the side. Those are the kind of majors that you get FIRST, while you are still fresh out of high-school and wet behind the ears, completely ignorant of what life on the "outside" is like.

Then, when you wake up one day at the ripe age of 27, after the real world has administered a swift, steel-toed boot to your ass, you go back to college for a degree in something a little more secure and tangible.

At any rate, that night—after relaying the story to my sister Kate over a glass of wine, my husband, having analyzed the whole scenario, offered up the CORRECT way to approach a woman at Home Depot. Take note, novices!

He said, “All you have to do is be honest. Take off your sunglasses, go up to her and say, ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to come say hello.’ And then take it from there!”

*sigh*

He’s right! Wow….now THAT is smooth. With the exception of maybe an offer to buy her a Home Depot Hotdog, I can’t think of any reason why that wouldn’t make a single girl weak in the knees and require her to have to change her panty liner. Unless, of course, you are a 27 year-old, out of work student actor who sometimes models cheesy sunglasses.

This Shit is Bananas...B-A-N-A-N-A-S!!

2005-09-20T22:16:00.000-07:00

This street barrel just outside of our housing development has been the dumping ground for banana peels lately, most likely by smart ass school kids using the crosswalk, or their teenaged counterparts driving past it. My Monica-like OCD tendencies will not let me ignore this any longer:

Twice I've cleared off the old, crusty banana peels, only to keep seeing fresh ones left almost daily. So I finally ended up with a few extra minutes the other day with which I used to carry out a little fantasy I whipped up about how the discarded banana peel collection should be dealt with. My intent was to stop the dumping of banana peels, but one wouldn’t know that based on my course of action:

The sign reads: (Written with sloppy ass hand-writing and bullet points to boot!)

--I am collecting banana peels in support of the hurricane Katrina victims and this seemed like the best place to find them.

-- Thank You for your donation.

-- Eat more bananas - they are good for you.

-- The world's most perfect food.

Knowing a thing or two about reverse psychology and how it works on the immature mind, I think I’ve succeeded. So far, it’s working. The bag is still up almost a week later and the only banana peels in it are the ones that I put there myself when I cleared the path for it. None have been added to the collection.

Success!

Rubber Ducky, You're the One!

2005-09-18T10:16:00.000-07:00

Buck has been in this stage lately where he needs to have a rubber ducky in the bathtub with him for every bath.. I’m not sure how long this has been going on, maybe a little over a month?

I mentally lash myself every day that I forget to chronicle this shit. My conscience is starting to feel a little like Kunta Kinte.

Whoopeesh! “You will chronicle everything!”

”I don’t have time.”

Whoopeesh! “You will chronicle every fart!”

”I’m too tired.”

Whoopeesh! “You will learn the words to the Rubber Ducky song and write about it, dammit!!”

“Okay! Okay!”

Last night I tried to remember the words to the song, “Rubber Ducky”, and could only come up with: “Rubber Ducky, you’re the one! You make bathtime so much fun!…..ummm…….doo doo doo deee …..um….doo dee dun!”

I called out for Ross to help me, but he didn’t know the words either. All he could offer was to sing it in the Ernie voice. It made me think of an old Saturday Night Live skit where they were all wearing red turtlenecks and they did a fake commercial for “Christmas Songs you Kinda Know the Words To!” They would all start the songs off and then trail off and either make up different lyrics or start humming, but every song trailed off to a hum early on.

The last song I had to do a lyrical search on for the boy was “Breaking Up is Hard to Do”, because Ross and I wanted to change the lyrics for our new version of it called, “Shutting Up is Fun to Do”, written just for Buck.

This is just the tip of the iceberg on the real research I must do pretty soon on songs, nursery rhymes and the like before this kid learns how to verbally parrot us. He’s going to figure us out and then it’s all downhill from there. We are going to be found out.

My sister Kate and I are completely ignorant of some of these so-called “classic” songs and nursery rhymes. We can’t seem to recall either of our parents ever teaching us anything other than the fact that our parents do not look like a bank; How to get the hell out of the kitchen NOW, and to go to our room and cry about it in there.

However, upon stumbling across and old cassette tape of Ross’ a week or so ago, recorded when he was 6 or 8 years old, (way before the voice change, how precious!) he was singing some nursery rhyme and his mother who was sitting nearby while we listened, was lip synching and doing the hand gestures that went along with the whole song! She knew every word! Strange! Kate and I looked at each other in disbelief. We want our money back.

But I digress. Until about a month or so ago, Buck would just occasionally enjoy his ducky and then you could put it away and take him out of the tub. Now, if you so much as take one of his hands off of the ducky, (he needs both hands in order to get a good grip while he gnaws the ducky’s entire head), he launches a high pitched verbal attack on your ear drums.

I try to show him that he can hold onto the ducky with one hand and have the other one washed at the same time. It CAN be done. Alas, he is like his mother and prefers to do it his way, so that is the way it must be done. If you do not let him do it his way, you will hear the wrath.

I, being the big person in this scenario and recognizing the need for clean hands because they are always in his mouth, force one of his hands off the ducky anyway. That’s when the screaming ensues. You would think that I was skinning him alive by the sound of it.

Not only must he have a tight, two-handed grip on the ducky for his entire bath, but he must also has to carry the ducky out of the tub and continue holding the ducky while we go through our normal routine of drying off with the hair dryer, slathering on the baby lotion, powdering the family jewels, diapering, and then finally donning his jammies.

If I get a chance before he gets out of the tub, I will quickly grab the ducky and try to squeeze all the water that it has ingested out of it, but as soon as the boy screams it is back in his choke hold. So any remaining water will soon be cold and start trickling out all over his freshly dried skin and jammies.

So, my drying efforts above the neckline are usually in vain. Sometimes he’ll piss all over himself, the towel and ME if I don’t cover the hose in time, thereby rendering my drying efforts below the neck futile as well.

The donning of the jammies part is a challenge as well, since this means that we have to go through the whole one-handed ducky hold while mom tries to slip one arm at a time into the proper arm holes.

At some point each night, I manage to find that tiny window of opportunity where, after he is all dressed, I can pick him up and he’ll drop the ducky. I quickly divert his attention to his library of books and we pick one out and I whisk him right out the door to go read a book with daddy before saying goodnight.

Every night is the same thing: He squirms through the entire story, resents the fact that he cannot EAT the story, then we go back into the room, I have him look up at the little blue star that hangs down from under his lampshade and I pull on it, shutting off he light.

Then I lay him down, start his CD, say night-night and give him a kiss. He always goes right to sleep.

He’s such a good boy.

So here it is, folks! I give to you the lyrics of Rubber Ducky!
Enjoy!

Rubber Ducky, you're the one,
You make bathtime lots of fun,
Rubber Ducky, I'm awfully fond of you;
Woo woo be doo

Rubber Ducky, joy of joys,
When I squeeze you, you make noise!
Rubber Ducky, you're my very best friend, it's true!

Doo doo doo doo, doo doo

Every day when I Make my way to the tubby
I find a little fella who's Cute and yellow and chubby

Rub-a-dub-a-dubby!

Rubber Ducky, you're so fine
And I'm lucky that you're mine

Rubber ducky, I'm awfully fond of you.
Every day when I Make my way to the tubby
I find a little fella who's Cute and yellow and chubby

Rubber Ducky, you're so fine
And I'm lucky that you're mine

Rubber ducky, I'm awfully fond of -
Rubber ducky, I'd like a whole pond of -
Rubber ducky I'm awfully fond of you!

Doo doo, be doo

In Memory of Nita

2005-09-15T22:16:00.000-07:00

I listened to some of the album "Televise" by Calla this morning on the way to work.

Howard Stern had to take a break to eat his breakfast, so rather than listen to nails on a chalkboard, AKA: all the "messages", (car commercials) that I’m supposed to stay tuned for, I slipped in the CD.

I had copied it from my husband when we met, so when it started playing, it brought back lots of sexy memories. In fact, I remember the exact day that he loaned me the CD.

I had driven to his place on a lunch break so we could partake in a little afternoon delight. I remember he had a bit of a cold that day, so he had made a big ol’ pot of super spicy hot chicken soup for lunch. It was delicious, but not quite as delicious as the dessert…..

As I rushed to get my clothes back on for work, he slipped the CD into my purse and told me to listen to it on the way back to work.

It is sexy music. Very sexy.

This album not only reminds me of that particular day, but of that time, when we used to go to Nita’s Hideaway to watch live shows all the time.

They had a new location and I lived just down the street from it. In theory, it was so close to where I lived at the time that we could go to a show, get severely lit, and then walk back home. But we never walked home.

We were always able to get free tickets to the shows because my sister worked for the women’s gym directly behind Nita's and the owners were friends, so they traded gym memberships for tickets for all the employees of the gym. So my sister would get either meet us at Nita’s and show her ID to get the tickets, turn around and give them to us, or just join us.

We saw The Cramps, Neko Case and Calexico, Deftones, and Modest Mouse and a couple other shows featuring local bands. Oh, and I saw Macy Gray with my sister. I remember tidbits of each show, and how I felt at each one. Good times.

I had taken Ross to see The Cramps first, for his birthday. That was interesting. The lead singer was wearing some kind of black pleather body suit and pumps with socks. I think I drew the line with the socks. He climbed up one of the speakers and wedged himself inbetween the speaker and the scaffolding. I wasn’t sure if he was stuck on purpose, or he really needed help. I’m sure everyone thought the same thing I did, though: That if you want to wear socks with pumps, then you're on your own, buddy.

Then we watched Neko Case and Calexico and, music-wise, I would have to say that was my favorite show. It was breath-taking. Neko, with that voice and Calexico with their musical instruments and their talent. And their yummy drummer. That show was intimate, quiet, yet their music filled in every space. It was calming and captivating.

Deftones was sold out and PACKED like a size 10 woman in a pair of size 6 jeans. It was dangerous in there, and we started off fairly close to the stage. When the show started, the entire crowd buckled and swayed towards the stage. Hot, sweaty, forceful and violent. I looked up to see my boyfriend’s sweaty face, gritting his teeth, with his arms creating a barrier around me—to keep everyone off and away. T’was dificile.

I had other friends at that show, but I had no idea where they were. Didn’t really care though, because I was just too intoxicated by my boyfriend’s presence at the time.

Modest Mouse was a cool show too, but I think my boyfriend and I got into a fight towards by the end of the show. Too many beverages.

We also saw The White Stripes, but not at Nita’s. We saw them at the Mesa Ampitheatre, and it was a great show. We may have been some of the oldest people there, but among the best looking, if I do say so myself. (Thank you!) You’re welcome.

I ended up with a wad of gum in my hair by the end of the night. Apparently some jackass thought it would be funny to chuck it into the air during the show? I don’t know what they were thinking, but I do know that they were jackasses.

When we got home, Ross was going to try to whip up some concoction in the kitchen with which to get it out of my hair while I examined it in the mirror in the bathroom. I ended up cutting it out before he could get to me, ala the girlfriend of that dumb blonde in 16 candles who gets her hair caught in the door and her friend just cuts it off instead of opening the door. Except I was the friend AND the victim in this scenario. Heh!

I just wanted to get on with our night. Heh. And what a night it was!! We spent a good part of it out on the lawn in the backyard. *smile*

Every once in awhile I’ll drive past Nita’s and think about how much fun we had there. I really miss going to shows there. Not that we have very many opportunities to go out at all these days, but my sister Kate has never said no when we asked if she would watch the boy. So in THEORY, we could attend a show every once in awhile….if only Nita’s were back in business. *sad, sad face* My heart aches a little every time I think of Nita’s closure.

However, we do already have tickets to go see BECK at the AZ State Fair this October! It’s just not right around the corner!! Woo Hoo! I absolutely HAVE to get a T-shirt! The only drawback is that we actually have to travel some distance and pay for parking just to get there.

So……Here’s to sexy old times not too too long ago, Nita’s Hideaway in close proximity, (May they Rest In Peace), beer and live music shows!

Buck the Food Junkie

2005-09-14T22:16:00.000-07:00

Buck is a food junkie. He’s up two more jars of baby food per day, IN ADDITION to his normal supply of formula. So, let's recap now, shall we? He now consumes 20 oz of formula and 20 oz of baby food per day.

His Aunt Kate tried to warn him the day he was born, when he was sucking on his fist contently, not to make the same mistake she did by eating out of boredom. And maybe he’s not actually eating out of boredom.... maybe he actually IS that hungry! If he is, I blame Ross. The baby has inherited his appetite.

I am half tempted to sit down and add up the cost of formula and the jars of baby food to see how much he costs just to feed, but then that would lead to me adding in the cost of child care, diapers, baby clothes, toys, paraphenelia like high chairs, jumperoos and walkers and before I'd know it, I'd be required to freak out at the sight of the staggering numbers. It might be best to just remain in the dark about this. Anyway....

The boy is a ravenous eating machine. Don’t you DARE try and walk past him holding a full bottle. As my babysitter says, “You’da thought he was hurt the way he screamed when he sees that bottle and can’t have it right away!”

Oh, yes don’t I know. Don’t tease him by SHOWING him, (or letting him accidentally SEE) the bottle without giving it to him the second he lays eyes on it. You will know and feel the wrath.

We went to dinner at our neighbor’s house last night, and they have a baby boy who is two weeks older than Buck. Their baby has two teeth, but he still can’t manage to finish ONE JAR of stage ONE baby food.

Buck would laugh at that jar and exclaim loudly in Dolphin: “What the hell are you going to do with THAT? Where’s the rest? That wouldn’t even wet my gums!”

After polishing off 4 oz of Winter Squash, ¼ cup mashed Avocado, (which he eats with the utmost grunting excitement) and 4 oz of Banana and Peach Oatmeal, he expressed interest in sitting in his dad’s lap so he could begin lunging for his dinner plate. Ross mashed up a little potato and mixed it with a little more avocado and that went down the hatch too.

After a short screaming fit, (it was past his bedtime) he finally fell asleep in his father’s arms at the dinner table. The neighbor’s baby was wide awake, beating on the table and giving us a “Bubba Gump” look with his lips.

As I stared at my sleeping little angel, what struck me, (aside from his completely edible FACIAL FEATURES), was his size. He looked like a toddler!

The difference in size of these two babies is astounding. The neighbor’s baby is two weeks older, yet is so much smaller. He is petite. He has teeth and can crawl, but he is a tiny little guy. And, *said into the back of my hand*: lucky for them he is getting better looking. (I was getting a little worried that maybe the mother had been cheating on the father with an alien and I didn't want to have to pretend not to know any longer.)

Buck, on the other hand, seems to be more interested in matters of consumption than of mobility and it shows in his size. Why go anywhere when the food comes right to you? I think his reasoning is probably that it's best just to stay put so that you don’t miss any meals.

The kid - A 6-month chronicle

2005-09-08T22:16:00.000-07:00

I’m currently reading a book about a woman who chronicled her son’s first year of life. I think this is a great idea, and wish I would have done it—so since my boy’s first year is over half way over, I can just pick up from here, and give tidbits from previous months.

I don’t think I’ll fill up a whole book of pages, but I can break things up into two halves: The first three months, and then the last three months.

First three months: Sleeping, eating, pooping, peeing, screaming, crying. Repeat.

If I had to sum up the first three months in just one word, that word would be “Colic”. Apparently, the true definition of the malady is if your child screams inconsolably for AT LEAST three hours a day, three days a week, for three weeks or more. Um….death? Please come get me.

Well, guess what? Consider this the pardon for all those poor, hapless parents out there who deal with incessant screaming, around the same time each night, for JUST UNDER three hours. I guess those babies don’t have colic then? Right. OK, then we’ll just call them peace and quiet challenged infants who possess symptoms that almost identically resemble all other symptoms of the infamous “colic.”

Buck’s preferred timeslot for his scream fests were around dinnertime every night. Many a night I sat and watched my husband eat his dinner while mine got cold as I sat holding our bellowing baby with his mouth wide open, his face beet red or eggplant purple. The screaming would inevitably ruin my husband’s appetite as well.

The color purple came not from Oprah, but from my son’s face during periods of complete silence when he was holding his breath because he was just so goddamned pissed off. Then he’d let out a scream, the volume of which could shatter glass. I’m surprised we have any left in the house.

You know that shrill, twisting metal sound that you hear dancing in the middle of a loud screeching sound? I heard that a lot. I think my hearing has been permanently damaged more than it ever had from any concerts I had attended as a youth.

He usually kept this up for about an hour straight, which felt like a sunuffabitchin lifetime. Some days I handled it well. I just stared at him, sometimes even chuckling at him as if to say, “What, you poor thing, could be so damned hard about your life?” Other days I would have to set him down and go into another room to keep from smothering him.

In addition to the colic, it was also an uphill battle to get him to sleep through the night without waking up to eat. The battle went from bad to worse when I finally had to go back to work after he was two months old.

I found myself constantly fighting a ridiculously powerful urge to ram my head into the wall at all hours of the night. Any wall. All of the walls. Head sized holes everywhere. The place may as well have looked like the war zone that it really felt like.

Oh, and don’t forget about the other urges to shove ice picks into your ears, tear all your hair out, cry, scream, pound your fists on the floor, throw the baby out the window or against the wall, claw the eyes out of the very next person that you see and then run into the bathroom and take a scalding hot shower while sobbing in the fetal position until the hot water runs out.

Sleep deprivation is cruel and unusual punishment. I suppose the punishment is for naively thinking that sex with someone you love, cherish and married could only lead to good things.

Punishment for naively thinking that children should be a part of your future; That you could be a part of a healthy family, and that you were perfectly capable of doing this. No, no, you’re not.

When we finally reached the point where he was sleeping through the night, (“Through the night being defined as: from midnight to 6:30am”), just before I had to go back to work, we then started to take turns being the one to stay up until midnight to feed him.

After a couple months of that, we were finally able to drop that last feeding and incorporate it into the nighttime dinner routine that we currently follow. I give him a bottle at around 6pm, and then two jars of baby food at around 7pm.

Then he gets his nightly bath; I lotion him up with classic Baby Magic, put on his pajamas and if he’s not too tired, I will read a bedtime story to him. If he is too tired, he will be incredibly antsy, in which case I will just put him in his crib, give him his bink and fire up his “Guess How Much I Love You” CD…

After this whole process is completed, it is usually close to 8:30 pm, and if I want a decent night’s sleep, I need to hurry up and get any personal business like answering emails, personal hygiene, laundry, sex, preparation for the next day, etc, done in an hour or less.

So, after the first three months of my son’s life, I came away with a few questions:

How the HELL did women do this with more than one child?
How the HELL do people do this with multiples?
How the HELL do single parents do this?!?!!?
Why is it that SLEEP, being the most essential thing to have when being entrusted with the care of a tiny, brand new human being, is so hard to come by? What kind of SICK FUCKING JOKE is for nature to sleep-deprive the people who need sleep the most!?!? We’re talking about the lives of tiny babies here! Entrusted in the care of insipid zombies??? It just doesn’t make any sense. Natural selection is really throwing us all for a loop, ya’ll.

Lessons learned:
The best way to get ANY sleep at all is to take turns w/your spouse—if you are lucky enough to have one. That means HE gets 8 consecutive, comfortable hours of rest every other night, (provided he doesn’t have any problems falling and staying asleep), and you get about 4. Your milk-filled boobs will wake you up and the wetness will drive you out of bed by the fifth.
Always make sure your child has diapers that are slightly big on him. If they are too small, the poop will leak out. You’ll get burned anyway, so who really cares.
Wait for the burp, no matter how long it takes. If you don’t—not only will you be woken up again, but this time you will be cleaning sheets, or whatever it is that you laid your baby on.
If you want sex at all, you obviously have not been doing enough. This happens mostly to men, and my advice is to chip in more, so that your libido gets diminished down to your wife’s level. This will make everyone happier in the end.
For colic, (usually self diagnosed)—have lots of help. A patient relative in the room will prevent any child abuse, or self-mutilation. Most everyone else will be driven out. “Oh, would you LOOK AT THE TIME! Gotta run!”
Though you will want to kill anyone who says, “This too shall pass”, it is true, and it will. Ear plugs, booze, (if you aren’t nursing), ah, who the hell am I kidding? Booze, Mylicon gas drops, formula, etc. Stuffing the child’s face seemed to do the trick for as long as it took him to finish a bottle. He was quiet as long as he was eating, but often he would stop eating to scream. Damn…why don’t they give out the opiate perigoric anymore?!?! It worked for my brother, and he’s only slightly brain damaged! I guarantee that you will be hard pressed to care if brain damage occurs, because your sleep deprived reasoning will tell you that it is better than being hurled against the wall.
I hate, hate, HATED hated hate, still hate, (fuck you!) Hate, HATE the breast pump. It is an evil, sadistic, awful contraption designed to ruin your life. You absolutely cannot go without it, however, if you want your child to drink breast milk while you have to work. It is an awful predicament.
It takes an incredible amount of time and work to get your child on a schedule that fits yours.

Buck’s schedule started out with him waking up every three hours on the hour. My life was divided into two-hour increments for at least two solid months. He spent the first 10 days of his life in the hospital, so for two solid months after that, that’s how I lived.

Anything and everything I needed to get done, be it sleep, eat, shower, get the mail, take the dogs out, clean the house, do the laundry, etc—it all had to be done in two hour increments.

The boy needed to eat every three hours AROUND THE CLOCK. Besides that, the acts of nursing him, burping him, changing him and either putting him in a swing, or down to sleep took at least an hour, if not more. Anything over an hour was cutting into my two lonely little hours.

I suppose one would think, well, “What’s so wrong with having two hours to do your stuff in?” Well, nothing. If you had gotten some sleep. But accomplishing anything at all, (including sleep), with NO sleep, or only two hours of it, is an extremely difficult feat. Most nights I got anywhere from 2-4 hours of sleep, but most of them were not consecutive.

It is typical of me, however, to focus on the negative and talk about all the ways in which this child has ruined our lives. And I’m sure my husband, though he would agree with that assessment of myself, would be hard pressed to name a few ways in which the boy has actually ENRICHED our lives.

But I will tell you right now that it is rather profound. I can sit and think about all the free time that I used to have—but who cares? What could I have possibly been doing that was more important than what I’m doing now? Nothing, that’s what.

Though he looks every bit a boy, Buck is just so incredibly cute. He’s so, so adorable. Amazingly handsome and edible. Of course I’m biased, but so what?

Having a child puts you in a different category, too. It begins to dawn on you just what all of your friends, relatives, not to mention your PARENTS have endured and you feel like you never knew! How come no one WARNED me about this??? They did.

Remember all the comments like, “It changes your life….but in a good way.” I understand that now. I didn’t understand that comment then, and there’s no way that anyone without children ever could until they have their own.

I’m trying to keep as close track to the boy’s life as I can. But it is difficult, because in addition to taking pictures, keeping a detailed log, writing about him, taking him to the doctor’s office every month or sooner, I am also working full time, trying to maintain a household, my sense of self and some semblance of intimacy with my husband. It is extremely exhausting. I’ve never been so tired in all my life. However, I’ve never had such meaningful work in all of my life, either.

The boy is sitting up now. He started doing that a week before his 6 month birthday. I had his 6-month pictures taken the day before his 6-month birthday. He chuckles, but we still have yet to witness a full-on belly laugh. He drools incessantly, and is usually a pretty content baby. Although at this very moment he’s doing his extremely annoying whining routine when someone is not paying 100% of their attention to him.

He spits up quite a bit, (I just changed my clothes again!) LOVES the animals, (one of the few things that makes him chuckle) and enjoys his jumperoo. Especially when he’s got a live band playing for him, (Ross, myself and his parents playing bongo drums, the sticks and maracas while he jumps to the beat! It’s hysterical.) Yes, I have that on video tape.

His manual dexterity is getting better and better. I gave him a plastic “gumball” machine for his 6-month birthday. The gumballs consist of plastic balls, too large to swallow, filled with toys. But they don’t open. So, he grasps these, removes them from the machine, but hasn’t put one back up in there yet.

His grandparents also bought him a musical car for his 6-month birthday, and I’m already sick of the most of the songs that it plays. When I hear the songs played on his swing, it brings back the seemingly long ago memory of when I was home all day with him, and my life was made up of painful boobs and those two-hour increments.

Bye Bye Birdie

2005-08-31T22:16:00.000-07:00

Here’s a cute and heartwarming little story for ya: A couple of weeks ago, one of my colleagues told me how one of the guys downstairs found a parakeet outside his work area.

He told her that he found it, made a makeshift cage for it, and was currently feeding and caring for it. He told her of his plans to make the parakeet his new mascot and get a good cage for it, so that it could live there on his work premises. She was all entertained with this story and thought it was just a great idea!

Right away I told her that I did not agree with this. That someone out there somewhere is mourning the loss of their bird.

I can’t remember who recently told me their story about how they put their birdcage out on the back patio so their birdie could get some air….and the bird caught air alright….next thing she knew—the wind picked up and birdie was gone.

“Chirp!!!! [Help!] Cheep! [I don’t know where I am!] Chirp!!” [I don’t know where I’m going!]

Anyway—so this story came to mind the minute she told me about the guy downstairs. I couldn’t believe that this dude had just made a snap decision to keep this parakeet as a pet, without it even occurring to him that the parakeet isn’t just a native bird around here. It had to come from somewhere!

I voiced my concern to her and all she said was, “Stt…..Oh geez.”(Like she was completely regretful for having mentioned it to me in the first place.)

So immediately I sent this guy an email. “Hey man….Just so you know, the AZ Republic runs “FOUND” ads for free. Their number is 602-444-4444. I’m sure that parakeet didn’t just fly here from Brazil, ya know. Someone out there is probably heartbroken over his disappearance.”

He wrote me back: “You’re right, Ginger. Thanks for the info. I didn’t even think of that!”

So he placed the “FOUND” ad, and then took the parakeet home for the night—and it just so happened that he had a bird at home too, so he let the two birds room together for the night. Who knows—maybe they got lucky and the newly found parakeet is chirping about how he has to get out more often!

The very day that the ad went out, a little old man calls about his lost bird. Turns out this guy lives a pretty good distance away, but was more than willing to drive all the way down here to our work place to retrieve his fine little feathered friend.

When that guy came up here today, I said, “Hey! I heard that you found the owner of that bird by placing that ad I told you about!”
“Yep”, he said.
[I start patting myself on the back.] “Here, I’ll just get this for you…”
“Hey—you didn’t find him! You didn’t take him home and give him shelter and love him for 24 hours!”
True.

I was victimized by my pedicurist

2005-08-30T22:16:00.000-07:00

So I went to get a pedicure yesterday, because my toenails looked like they could have been stunt doubles for the lead characters in March of the Penguins and because I really needed the shoulder massage.

That’s right—you read that correctly. The place where I go to get my toes done, ALSO massages your shoulders in addition to your feet and legs! Woo Hoo, we found a winner!

It took me forever to find this place—I had been testing out every salon in the area and judging them based on many things, like: the amount they charged, the job they did, if they charged extra for French pedicures, whether the other clientele bother me with needless conversation or not, the magazines they had available, if I had to wait, the lotion they used, (I HATE that minty Ben Gay lotion they use. It may be hot outside, but I don’t need the minty cooling effect of the lotion all over my legs, thank you very much), and whether or not I could smell the Squid Ass Bok Choi-sok seeping out from the break room.

I finally found this place and couldn’t believe it when my pedicurist gave me a good 20-25 minute leg massage, knees and everything, and then went onto my shoulders while my toes were drying! Exstacy!

While my feet were soaking, I had noticed a female getting her shoulders massaged and I figured she was just getting that because she was getting a manicure. So I had made a mental note to myself to get a manicure as soon as I could afford one, just for that reason.

Next thing I know, I’m getting the same treatment, so that mental note to myself got crumpled up and thrown in my mental trash can. New note: come HERE for all my pedicures, save money on body massages and manicures, since it really boils down to the shoulders and feet anyway, no?

Anyway, so that was the first time that I went there, and I got the star treatment. It felt so good that I think I was actually attracted to my pedicurist, Dung Ho. Believe me, he looked every bit as bad as that name, but don’t you think getting rubbed the right way makes people look better? Me too.

Unfortunately, Dung wasn’t the one working when I went back yesterday. This guy, Wun Hung Lo, proceeded to stare out the window and rub the same spot on my left foot until I started grinding my teeth and thinking about kicking him in the jaw.

This guy didn’t bother rubbing my legs any more than was absolutely necessary to apply the non-minty lotion, either! He did, however, take a pumice stone to my heels and proceeded to sand them so hard that I think I’m actually an inch or two shorter now. I thought for sure I was going to be trailing blood out of the salon.

When he finally finished torturing my feet, he moved onto my shoulders….ahh…the shoulders…it actually felt really good and just when I was starting to go cross-eyed with pleasure, he cupped his hands together and started doing karate chops all over my back.

The first few blows were to the back of my neck and they pulled my hair and just about knocked my glasses off. My teeth were clanking together and I felt my little brain rattling around inside my skull.

When he finally began moving south, I took that opportunity to move my hair out of the way, lest he go back up there to pull my hair again, and then I made faces to express my disenchantment beneath the curtain of my hair.

I wanted so desperately to turn around and say, “Hey, hey hey! Take it easy, will ya? I DON’T LIKE THAT! NO CHOPPY CHOPPY! NO HIT!”

But of course, I just sat there and took the abuse. The same way I just sit there and PAY GOOD MONEY to have masseuses PINCH the shit out of me, calling it “tension release”. Um….I’m here to release tension, I don’t need you creating more by causing me pain. I really don’t give a rat’s ass if this is supposed to be good for me or not. It causes me pain NOW, and right now is the one fucking hour of ME TIME that I get this week, so quit pinching me and start rubbin!

So that’s it. I’m not taking the abuse anymore. I don’t see any reason why I should pay money to be hurt by strangers when I have a perfectly good 6 month old at home who can kick, slap and pull my hair to his heart’s content for free.

From now on, if something hurts, I am going to say so.

Anyway. Despite the beating I endured, I walked out with some pretty nice lookin feet.
Now I understand why my mom said “With beauty comes pain.” Although, I think she just wanted me to shut up while she tried to comb the rat’s nests out of my hair back when I was 6 years old.

Ginger Vs. The BackYard!

2005-08-26T16:20:00.000-07:00

I didn’t get the job, ya’ll. I lost it by one point.

Apparently I lost a point for not being a dirty whore who rides a motorcycle to work while wearing leather chaps, hangs photos of herself topless with paint over her tits and has porn on her work computer. Darn. If only I had known. Hindsight is always 20/20, isn’t it? Oh well, now I know how to prepare for the next job opening!

My in-laws are in town, so between them and taking care of the eating and screaming machine that I gave birth to 6 months ago, I’m a little busy.

Oh, and let’s not forget my latest project: The backyard. It has come to my attention lately that our backyard is in desperate need of a stick of dynamite.

In addition to it looking like chicken fried shit, (as mentioned previously on this blog), it comes complete with UFO landing patches of weeds, areas that look scalped and it now contains a big thicket of the most evil, sadistic nasty little thorny things that, when stepped on, disorient you for a good 10 minutes and bring tears straight to your eyes.

It took me the better part of an entire night last week to figure out what the hell they were. I poured over the Internet, investigating all the lawn care sites, problems, FAQ’s, question submittals, etc until I finally stumbled upon a site where people were talking about similar experiences to ours.

They said things like, “I hate those fucking things! We call them foot fucks!”

They are actually called "Sandburs" or Sand spurs. I think "spurs" is a much better description.

I tried to get a picture for you, but my photography skills leave EVERYTHING to be desired, so I can only give you what I have, and tell you how mean, sneaky and evil these things are.

As Ross put it: “The way it grows is menacing… it creeps around below the mower level, close to the ground, in between the grass blades. It is sneaky and mean…”

They are like little tiny, dried weed balls with two to three of the sharpest thorns you’ve ever seen. You can’t even see the very tip of them because they taper so sharply.

Here is my excuse for a photo of them:

Our dogs will not go into the grass. They choose to shit on the hot cement patio instead. And who can blame them? As far as I’m concerned, you're only qualified to walk into our backyard barefoot if you regularly wear a turban and walk on hot coals and broken glass.

But really, I think these medieval little torture balls laugh at petty shit like that. These are more like walking on triple sided thumb tacks, or razor sharp jacks. I think hot coals and broken glass would be like walking on triple padded plush carpeting compared to these things.

So after a trip to home depot with one of them in a cage, I was sent home with a little $20 bottle of this stuff called Image. A whole bottle treats 6,000 square feet, but my husband used the whole thing on our back yard. (Which is nowhere NEAR 6,000 sq feet.) With my luck, overusing the product will likely have the opposite effect and end up fertilizing the goddamned weed and bringing on more.

We shall see if it makes any difference at all. I also bought a bag of “weed and feed” and a garden tiller. I am going to tear the shit out of that back yard myself, reseed and put steer shit down.

It’s me vs. the lawn. Ding, ding, motherfucker. BRING IT.

Bulimia: Not Just For Women and Cats Anymore.

2005-08-19T22:16:00.000-07:00

My very first thought when I got out of bed this morning:
“Basically, that was just a nap.”

This time the boy is innocent. It was the fault of that Ross! He kept me up too late last night trying to cuddle with and tickle me. Which would normally be fine, until you start hurting me and digging into my ribs. It didn’t take long before I was thoroughly annoyed, (read: TIRED AS HAYELL) so I’d whine and moan my objections.

“Oooh, she gish mad!” he says.

"Fuck yeah she gish mad! Looks like I’m gonna hafta open up a can of payback in the morning, beyotch!" [“Tckisch!”]

Bitches? I’m so goll darn tarred I don’t even know what to do with myself. Smoke em if ya got em.

I am a gas tank on E, which would normally be flashing, but I do not have enough gas left to flash. The car has ceased to function, it is so empty, and I am stranded on the highway in the hot, desert sun. With a bandana on my head and a bale of hay on my back. And a pitchfork in my hand. And a white flag on a stick in the other.

I give up, niggas. Ding! Bitch is DONE! I ain’t even got nuthin funny ta say. I cain’t even spayell right. You think I care?

Kiss my ASS!

Oh, by the way. I saw all the videos being passed around on the Internet before I gave birth, and I cannot say that I was not duly WARNED, but for some reason I thought it wouldn’t happen to me. Well, it did.

I went exactly 5 months, 3 weeks and 3 days without getting baby VOMIT in my mouth. Today was my day of reckoning with that.

Needless to say that if our house was full of cameras, ala some reality show, I would leave you with a short clip of my baby, covered in his own vomit, lying by himself in the middle of the living room floor, on his side with his arms flailing like an overturned TURTLE.

In the background you would hear running water and faint gagging. And my husband saying, “Aw, gross! You poor thing. Here. Rinse with this. The carbonation will get rid of the taste.”

Look Ma! No Arms!

2005-08-18T22:16:00.000-07:00

Someone sent me a video today about a woman born with no arms. She has a husband, (who does have arms), and together they have a child. The message sent with the video said, “Whenever you feel tired from taking care of that baby of yours, think of this lady!”

So I proceed to watch this lady and she is absolutely amazing. She has NO ARMS, yet she carries her baby around with her CHIN, changes his diapers, dresses him and even re-snaps the buttons on his onesie with her FEET! This woman does EVERYTHING with her feet. She cooks, cleans, drives, shops, pays bills, jacks her husband off, (I’m just guessing on that one)-- all with her feet!!

Immediately I forward the video to Ross so he can see how this woman, born with no arms, accomplishes everyday tasks and the arduous work of raising a child with her FEET. All the things that make us so tired and she has no arms!

He didn’t have time to watch it during the day, so he finally got around to opening the email I had sent just about an hour ago, while I was in the bathroom giving the baby a bath. I hear the narrator telling the story of the woman and then I hear:

“Holy shit! Did you see how she picked her baby up out of his crib??!?!” (Referring to the chin incident.)

And I respond: “I know! Isn’t it amazing? To think she does everything that we do, but with no arms!”

Ross: “I guess if you had to, you’d eventually learn to do whatever it is that you need to do with your feet. Me personally, I’d take the legs that I do have and run as fast as I could into a brick wall.”

Everything is Coming My Way

2005-08-17T22:16:00.000-07:00

I’ve got a busy week coming up, people! I’m taking all next week off because Ross’ parents are coming to town and the boy is turning 6 months old, so we have to get his picture taken and get the dreaded 6 month shots.

I will also be starting the week off with my first appointment with a therapist and a JOB INTERVIEW! Woo! Since this is my first therapy appointment, I feel it’s probably best that I see the therapist AFTER my interview if ya know what I’m sayin.

If I get this job, I will be getting a considerable raise in no time at all. At long last I will start to be paid close to what I am worth! Shut up.

My head is reeling. My energy has been focused on preparing for next week. Sorry to let you down in the Turtlellini arena, ya’ll, but I’ve got to rehearse my “COME HITHER TO HIRE ME” glances and phenomenal answers to imaginary interview questions in the bathroom mirror.

I’m learning about my competition. Imagine a scene in the movie “Rocky XXI” as I sit and pour over private investigator videos of my competition. I’m studying them; their weaknesses and their strengths. (Stalking them in the parking lot.) I’m also researching the personalities of the panel members and finding out what makes them tick.

My interview will be a carefully orchestrated winning scene that will play out in slow motion, showcasing all of the skills that I worked minutes, even HOURS to prepare for!

I had to laugh yesterday at the thought of interviewing for a job that you really didn’t want. Imagine going to an interview and saying whatever you wanted because you really don’t give a rat’s ass if you get the job or not.

You walk in carrying a cup of coffee, wearing daisy duke shorts, a tank top and flip flops. Hey—they want to know the REAL YOU, right?

Sit down and ask how the hell everyone is that morning. I imagine the dialogue would go something like this:

“So, Ginger….tell us about yourself and why you think we should hire you.”

“Well, let’s see. I can fog a mirror, read, write, dress myself and observe the time. I ain’t bad to look at, (except when you piss me off) and I will probably make you laugh on a daily basis without even trying. I’m just silly like that. I get shit done and those who stand in my way are mowed down directly. I run a tight ship (*start the wired-on-coffee- beat boxing here*), and I got big hips, shiny lips, long finger tips, hold back the rips,(*spin invisible records here*) wikee wikee wikee wikee!” [whip a 360 in my chair, stopping abruptly back where I was.] Pow.” [smile]

“O kaaay. Um…alright. So, why do you want this job?”

“Why else? I need the money, yo! This job pays more than my current job, so I think it would be cool if I got hired. Here’s what I plan on buying when you hire me: [whip out a magnetic grocery list pad from my fridge] A bigger car, a TV with a built in DVD/VHS player for my kid, a microwave and mini-fridge for my new office with a window, and lasik surgery for my eyes. Oh, and I’ll also be able to pay off my laser hair removal bill.”

“ I see. Ok, well, why don’t you tell us what can you bring to this job?”

“Well, probably the same thing I bring to my current job. A lot of groceries every week. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I eat a LOT. I will be bringing in an entire food pantry of food, gallons of milk and water and quite a few pictures of my family. Let’s see…what else do I bring? Shit, I can bring a dish to pass for any potlucks that we have, but I will need advance warning so I can prep my husband to cook it for me.”

“What would you say your weaknesses are?”

“Well, I do have a weakness for chocolate and I can’t do a single push up, so my arm wrestling skills leave a LOT to be desired, but I plan to work on that as soon as they finish painting the gym. Also, I’m habitually 5-10 minutes late to work everyday because I can’t seem to get my ass out of bed in the morning. I don’t really LIKE working, so you won’t catch me doing it on my downtime. If I’m done with the important stuff, I’ll be filling my time with my own personal business. Hey! That could be one of my strengths! Minding my own business!”

“How do you handle pressure?”

“Usually I just freak out. That seems to work pretty well to relieve the pressure. It builds and builds, and then I blow my stack like a tea kettle. Except I don’t really *whistle* so much as I *scream obscenities.* Generally there isn’t any danger of bodily harm, you will just hear an explosion of profanity coming from my office and I might start beating on the walls. Then I’ll storm out in search of someone with some kind of PILL that I can take.”

“How do you feel about speaking in public?”

“Ah, that ain’t no thang but a chicken wang.” [wave hand to indicate no big deal]

“Oooh kee. I think we’ve heard all we need to hear, Mrs. Hutchins. Someone will give you a call by Thursday to let you know what our decision is.”

“Hey, thanks! Where’s my office going to be?”

Life in the Fastlane!

2005-08-16T22:16:00.000-07:00

Our boy is officially sitting unsupported today!!! Yes, I got it on video tape! Dad is working late today, so he was not here to be a witness. Good thing for the video tape.

It is just so surreal how fast he is growing and how his personality is coming through and how I realize that these moments are fleeting and that I better HURRY UP and record them all now—QUICK! Or they will slip right by like my pregnancy. Childbirth was a painful whirlwind.

I am overwhelmed by all the different media with which I have access to—and am trying to utilize-- and I still feel like I am not keeping up! I feel so unorganized and I’m forgetting things! I’m so glad I’m keeping track of every one of his doctor’s visits—how much he weighs, his length, etc—because I couldn’t even tell you what he weighed at his 6 week checkup! Yikes.

Word to the wise: WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN WHEN YOU HAVE A BABY!!! Your brain cannot hold everything it needs to in order to properly care for a baby AND have any kind of organizational skills!!

I must go feed myself now. Husband working late = Ginger starves.

Everyone's Gone Mad!!!

2005-08-15T22:16:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or has the whole freakin world gone mad? I don't even have anything profound to back that statement up, other than the fact that I am starting to feel like no one is making much sense anymore.

I will elaborate on this at a later date, but suffice it to say right now that more and more people that I am coming into contact with may as well just be speaking Nanoo Nanoo, R2D2, alien morse code speak from another goddamn planet.

I am going to go finish my beer now in the other room and ponder whether or not t'is me who is the nutjob or everyone else....

Short Longs Story

2005-08-13T22:16:00.000-07:00

So my husband and I went shopping today at two of my favorite stores: Target and Babies R Us.
The whole reason we went to Babies R US was for a single $40 item. Two HUNDRED dollars later, the automatic doors part and we exit the building.

Next stop: Target. I think it may very well be the eighth wonder of the world that we somehow managed to get out of there for only$20. It’s never been done. It'll probably never be repeated in this lifetime.

So at Babies R Us, among many other things, we bought the boy one of those bouncy, jumpy thingies that you hang on the doorframe.

I was undecided about which kind to get, as there were lots of choices, but we somehow boiled the entire selection down to two different types. The doorframe kind, or the stand-alone kind, (for easy mobility)

I was leaning towards the doorframe kind, because those just seem so classic. Who didn’t have one of those growing up?

I liked that kind, but considered the stand-alone kind because of safety. I was worried that the doorframe attachment might give way on a good bounce and snap my boy on the top of the head causing irreversible brain damage. Its bad enough he has us for parents, he doesn't need anymore strikes against him.

Then there are the other questions: How portable is it? Would I have to sit and watch him the entire time, or can I bring it from room to room fairly easily? What are the weight limits of each kind? Our boy is a fairly big chunk of change.

So we did our research and weighed all the options, and in the end—we came away with the one that was about $30 cheaper. The doorframe kind.

Fast forward, get it home, hook it up, put him in it.

I’m telling you—I don’t remember having that much fun with ANYTHING I have purchased since adulthood. Ok, maybe my scooter. But you can’t get something THIS MUCH FUN for only $40. Luckily, it is very portable and can easily be removed and switched to any doorframe in the house.

As soon as we put the boy in, he started to bounce! Bounce! Whoop! Wee! Woah! Hey! Look at that guy! What a big boy! Woop! Omigod! Look! At! How! Much! Woo! Fun! This! Is! Whoop!! Wee! Spin it! Circle it! Slobber and smile! Whee ha!

I almost wet myself with excitement! Lucky Beck, he gets to do it in his pants. I bust out the video camera and then think to myself how Ross’s parents would just LOVE to see this—and start snapping pictures, trying to get the perfect action shot.

I snap about 15 pictures and immediately run into my office to upload them onto the computer to send the best one out. Instead of just attaching the photo, I decide to make it the email background. I write “LOOK WHAT BECK GOT TODAY!!! WOOOooo!!!” over the top of it, address it to almost every single person in my address book and hit send.

I go to my “sent” folder to see what it looks like to everyone, and immediately notice two things:

1. By making the photo the background of the message instead of just attaching it—the bottom part of the picture was cut off, so you couldn’t see his feet, which is pretty much the whole idea. You want to see that his feet touch, and then don’t touch. Or are not touching when they could be, or are touching when they don't need to be! Touch, and then don’t touch, therefore conveying 'BOUNCE!' in the photo. The damn thing cut the photo off at his ankles, so the bounce in his step cannot be seen.

2. What CAN be seen, however, is the GIANT, ELEPHANT SIZED box of Carefree Longs that I picked up at Target, sitting on the kitchen table in the background of the photo.

Mental note to self: Always be sure to consider your background when taking photos you plan to share.

Responses so far:

“He sure is getting big fast. What a delight he must be for you.
I'm so glad Mommy got something, too. Are those mini or maxi pads?
Love, m.e."
*****************************
"Ginger,
That's awesome! But why did you buy Beck a box of pantyliners? What's he supposed to do with those? Also, I don't think he can reach them all the way over there on the table.

That doorway jumper is cool too!

Signed,
"Soon to be eliminated from Ginger's email list"
aka Wendi"

*******************************************

I love Beck's new package of Carefree!!! I mean his new bouncer. Look at the picture and see the big package on the table!!!! : )

***************************************************

Smokers Beware!

2005-08-12T22:16:00.000-07:00

Ok, brothahs an sistahs. Yesterday, for the first time, I was prescribed medication to make the bad men go away. As I sit and wait, wringing my hands in anticipation, I have a headache.

I figure it’s only a matter of time before I become the sweet, happy Pollyanna type who is never annoyed by anything and has a patience capacity that far exceeds that of the late Mother Theresa’s; So, in the name of cleansing my soul, I need to hurry up and expel all the bitching and pent up venom left in my body. I have two weeks until this shit is supposed to kick in.

Although I don’t want to get my hopes up too high, I have to admit that I do hold aspirations of getting through a typical day without my eyes performing as powerful microscopes, and being on edge because of filth inflicted upon me by others.

Realistically, however—I simply cannot foresee a day when I could be driving down the highway on my way to work and some TWATFACED SCUMBAG flicks his cigarette out of his window and it flies up and onto my windshield, that I would not fantasize about running his car off the road and then pulling over so I can get out of my car with a Louisville slugger and beat him down like a dirt filled Chinese rug.

Maybe my medication will allow for a less violent fantasy, but for right now—if fantasies suddenly became reality, today would be the day of reckoning for smokers.

Let me get something straight right now, people. First of all, if you smoke: Damn you to hell. What in the wretched underworld are you thinking, anyway? That you look cool? Excuse me, but is it 1950 outside right now? No, it’s 2005 and smoking is no longer considered cool or glamorous. It is actually considered quite the opposite, you stagnant fool.

Peter Jennings: Alive or Dead? DEAD! Because he smoked like a chimney!

Why would you want to PAY lots of money to inhale that malodorous gunk into your lungs, risk getting a painful lung disease ala Mr. Jennings and stink up everything within a 2200 square foot radius of you, huh? Why?? No matter. I guess if you choose to smoke, despite all warnings and complaints—you deserve to die this way.

Second: If you smoke in your car, you are even more loathsome and filthier still. Don’t you know that is the quickest way to ruin the interior of your car, you goddamned slovenly and disgusting idiot?

Oh, wait. You don’t care, because you have already burnt out all sense of smell anyway, so why not just go ahead and desecrate your car so that any possibility of future ownership by anyone other than another smoker or YOU, YOU, YOU, (you filthy, gluttonous pig), is out of the question.

You deserve to drive that car until the day you die of lung cancer, regardless of any problems it has now or will have in the future—you should just keep having them repaired. No new cars for smokers! When your car has finally been driven into the ground, you can walk, or ride a bike. If you complain, you should be slapped across the face and assigned a rickshaw.

I suppose if you want to shut yourself up in a tiny space and fill it with a horrible stench of cigarette smoke, you have that right. But do keep in mind that the minute you get out and come within 3 feet of a non-smoker; you are immediately infringing on their rights to an oxygen supply and offending their personal space.

Third, and MOST IMPORTANTLY, the minute you decide to THROW YOUR NASTY CIGARETTE BUTT OUT THE WINDOW, you are deserving of and should be subject to the most horrible wrath imaginable:

In addition to a horrible beating and a $10,000 fine, your punishment should also include: Being branded a cigarette smoking, gluttonous, garbage lipped pig with a hot, iron cattle prod, (I’ll have a logo created and cast just for this purpose), and wearing a pink, striped prisoner’s uniform and shackles while taking the risk of getting mowed down by on-coming traffic as you are forced to walk up and down the highways in the blistering desert sun, picking up cigarette butts off the road all day long. From about 4am until 11pm. No breaks.

Then, once you have collected them for the entire day, you should have to take off your pants and sit down on an old, rickety wooden picnic table full of splinters and EAT everything you just collected.

If you’ve behaved yourself all day, you will be allowed to wash them down with a side of steaming hot dog shit to get that horrible taste of cigarette butts out of your mouth. (What can I say, I’m a softie.) Bon Appetite, ass face!

Man, I should run for sheriff. Joe Arpaio would have nothing on me.

Calgon, Take me Away!!!

2005-08-11T22:16:00.000-07:00

Brad wrote me last night to ask if I was OK after reading the UGLY post yesterday. He must not have been too worried that I was in my garage with the car turned on since he wrote an email instead of calling. Heh! Probably because he knows that I’d be in closer proximity to a computer than to my cell phone when my ticket is up, and I can't get my car into my office.

I told him I was fine and that all I needed was some sleep. When I go without it for more than 3 nights in a row, I start staggering around issuing slurred death threats to anyone who looks at me wrong. (Which would be everyone since my eyes are set all askew at that point.)

No one takes my threats seriously, though; since I can’t even pull my car all the way to the end of a parking stall or carry out a proper handshake. And actually, the death threats aren’t limited to folks who look at me. I really don’t need to see you in order to want you dead.

It is becoming apparent that I am not dealing well with the standard amount of sleep allotted for new parents. Hmm…what was your first clue?

There is just something so incredibly sardonic about the fact that new parents are not supposed to eat their offspring when they are habitually subjected to 2-3 hours max of sleep in a row. It is just cruel, and can be downright dangerous! As I was lying in bed the other night listening to our boy cry in his crib, I tried to come up with some kind of description of how it made me feel.

The closest I could come to describing it to you would be if you were woken up by some asshole, (NOT my baby son, mind you!) who is yelling the nastiest of insults about your mother while spitting in your face. Ignoring him does not work; it only makes things worse.

Your blood reaches a rolling boil and your hands are NOT tied down, but instead of bludgeoning him to death with the lamp on your nightstand like you really, reeeeeaally want to, you must take a deep breath and gently handle him with the utmost tender loving care.

However, I have not always been able to do this. Many times I skip that deep breath and fly into a rage on the way to the baby’s room and pound my hands on the wall or the refridgerator on my way there.

This, by far, has been the hardest thing for me about being a parent so far. Childbirth (c-section), and the weaning off of pain meds immediately following it were nothing compared to this. The cost, the time, the responsibilities and having to lug his heavy ass in a car seat everywhere we go are all small potatoes. Take away my sleep, however and you have just entered the danger zone.

I love my sleep. Sweet, precious sleep. I smoochey on de schleep. I wuvva de schweep. Sleep, sleep, sleep. I need it. I want it. I love it. I can't have it. I write a letter to my pillow:

"Hello, my sweet and lovely pillow. I thought about you all day! I couldn't wait to see you again! I just cant get enough of your soft touch, your sweet smell, the way you hold my head and soothe me to sleep...you are so good to me. Pillow, I have something I need to talk to you about.

I feel like we don't spend enough time together. I feel like our quality time is being affected by constant interruptions, and I want you to know that it is killing me. I love you so, so much. I wish I was able to sneak away during the day to come see you, but I can't. I want to make it up to you....

What's that? You want to know how I'm going to make it up to you? Oh, you naughty, naughty pillow! Ok, I'll tell you what I'm gonna do! I'm gonna take you in my arms and I'm gonna sleep all over you. I'm gonna sleep with you and I'm going to sleep ON you, and I'm gonna sleep on you so hard that you'll swear no one ever slept with you so good! Then I'm going to put you between my knees and sleep some more! Oh, pillow. I miss you so much. I promise I will try to come back to you as soon as I can. I love you! ~ Ginger"

It doesn’t seem all that hard when you are reading this, because you and I are both awake right now. But how do you deal with being woken up in the middle of the night? REPEATEDLY!? After, say, about 45 minutes—just enough for you to fall into a deep slumber? And then again in two more hours?

Some people handle it better than others. I have never had a problem getting up early, but this getting up 2-4 times throughout the night is just out-and-out torture and it is fucking killing me.

I am going to the Dr. today. Hopefully she can prescribe something that will take the edge off.

I’m looking for something that will allow me to keep from flying into a rage when my sleep patterns are continuously interrupted and slow down during the day so I can start to take notice of life’s subtle beauty instead of all of the typical daily Turtlellini irritants such as:

(*insert deep INhale here*)

The CLOCK, as the few precious hours that I am allowed to sleep are slowly eroded away into the night, animals all over the house with mystery illnesses (who may or may not be passing them on to my boy), trips to the doctor’s office on my one day off per week, cat litter stuck to the fur around my dog’s mouth, stains on my carpet, mildewing rags, fans being left on, laundry piling up, water rings all over my coffee table, the fact that our back yard looks like chicken fried SHIT, unpacked boxes from our move last November in my office closet, unfinished household projects throughout the house, my entire collection of Tupperware haphazardly thrown into the cupboards sans their lids, hard water spots all over the inside of the sink, cat snivel all over the kitchen tile, traces of cat litter on my child’s 4 month photos on the kitchen table, my husband’s pile of crap that doesn’t have a home atop the wine fridge that I gave him for Christmas, mystery debris all over the inside of the refrigerator, the bags under my eyes and my overall HAGGARD appearance in the mirror, and (*EX-hale*.....) countless other things that seem to keep my blood simmering throughout the day.

I don’t have time for bubble baths anymore, and if I did--I would probably drown, so hopefully Calgon comes in the form of a pill.

Ugly

2005-08-10T22:16:00.000-07:00

Out of my mind tired
Run down
Sore
Emptied
Exhausted
Depleted
Lost will
Whatever
Smoke em if ya got em
Desist
Apathy
Emotionless
Give up
Displaced
Wracked
No good
Stagnant
Defunct
Dilapidated
Weak
Unacceptable
Selfish
Misconstrued
Unsatisfactory
Insubstantial
GONE
Flee
Withdraw
No doubt
Inability
Aversion
Incapable
Abdicate
Collapse
Surfeited
The same as before
Selfish again
I am tired of working
Day in
Day out
Burning eyes
Work, work, work
Responsibilities
Exceed
Excess
Where’s my more
Imperfection verboten
Apex only
Sustain
Over your head
Bite your tongue
Tired
On the edge
No one cares
Regret
We are the same
As everyone else
Inordinately heavy
Quit your bitching
You are strong
Pillar
Unfair
Syphoning
Volunteered
Ability Authenticated
You cannot fail
Ceaseless
At home
At work
Audacity
Interminable
Tired too
I need a vacation
Rest
Relaxtion
I want sun on my skin
I want to swim in warm water
I want a massage
I want to have fun
I want to flirt
laugh
party
No
You can’t stop
You must keep going
Never stop pedaling
Never stop paddling
Never stop rowing
No reward
Consequences
Denial
Lethal
Disregard
Tired in Unison
Plucked
Expected
Offer
Devoid
Payment
Inclusion
Extend yourself
Emptied
You did this for me
Reward?
Despair
No one to love
Displacement
Stress
Self Pity
Headaches
Depression
Alcoholism
Thankless
Stinking
Dirty
Lost
Diseased
Chaos
Cluttered
Bombarded
Sickening
Deafening
Tiring
Back breaking
Ugly
Loose
Unfit
Falling apart
Hunger
Alienated
Left out
Pointed at
Scorned
Judged
Humiliated
Trapped
Disliked
Unloved
Parched
Leave me alone
I’m going away
I don’t care anymore.

Bathroom Fans and Kitchen Rags

2005-08-09T22:16:00.000-07:00

A guy at work today was telling me something that suggested there could be a serious RIFT in his relationship with his wife. He said that his wife is a faithful Classic Coke drinker and he is just as loyal to his Pepsi products. I hope they can work it out.

This made me think about a few things that my husband and I have polar opposite views on, one of which is the use of bathroom fans. He believes they actually work, and I believe they are nothing more than a bunch of intangible hocus pocus.

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHAT EXACTLY IS A BATHROOM FAN SUPPOSED TO DO?

Perhaps it is my definition of “work” that is getting in the way. If by “work”, you mean they turn on and waste energy, then YES, I suppose they do work. However, if your definition of a working fan means that it actually changes the atmosphere in your bathroom, then I am afraid I’m going to have to inform you that you are living a lie.

Have you ever experienced walking into a bathroom immediately following someone who has just detonated a nuclear reactor bomb into the toilet and NOT smelled anything due to the fact that they left the fan on? No. It just smells like someone took a horrible chorizo shit under a bathroom fan.

As far as I’m concerned, the only purpose a bathroom fan serves is to communicate to the next unsuspecting, hapless soul who might wander in and quickly become disoriented from the lack of oxygen following your toilet massacre, that you are AWARE of what you did, and you are sorry. That is all.

Over time, the aforementioned hapless victim will become a seasoned veteran and will eventually begin to pick up the sound of the fan from a safe distance and be duly forewarned to stay away.

My poor husband actually believes the hype. He keeps the faith where these dumb little energy sucking scams are concerned and leaves them on in hopes of dissipating the aftermath of Indian curry, shower steam, clothes-dryer exhaust, cat litter fumes and any other offensive smell hovering in a small room with a fan built in it. But it never works, people!!!

So his theory on dissipating smells is bunk. What else ya got? Steam?!?

My mom once told me that to prevent your bathroom mirrors from steaming up while you shower, you should leave a lit candle by the mirror. I tried this once, and the candle was out by the time I got out of the shower. The steam snuffed it out on the way to my mirror.

There have also been times when I would be showering and my husband would come into the bathroom to tell me something, and then flip the switch for that stupid fan on his way out. This did absolutely NA DA to eliminate my bathroom’s steam room-like qualities. I still had to wipe a circle in the mirror to see myself in it.

Ross insists that it works, and for him it does—because he doesn’t have a mirror to steam up in his bathroom—the shower and toilet are separated from the bathroom sinks and mirrors by a door. He also rarely ever shuts that door, so steam is a non-issue for him, but he thinks it is all due to that dumb fan.

Nevertheless, I have discovered a couple of tried and true techniques for both PREVENTING your bathroom mirrors from getting fogged over or ELIMINATING the steam very quickly without the annoying towel marks all over your mirror:

For prevention of steam build-up, simply LEAVE THE DOOR OPEN. Just a crack, mind you, so as not to create an uncomfortable atmosphere upon exiting your shower. I, for one, get very cold, so this only works for me every third Friday evening of the month, when our central air goes out on a weekend getaway.

For elimination of the steam, all you have to do is wrap yourself in a towel and OPEN THE DOOR immediately following your shower. PRESTO! The fog will dissipate within moments!

This is cutting edge, state-of-the art technology, folks. I am going to patent this idea, so remember where you read it first!

Let’s move on to kitchen sink rags, shall we?

I am a firm believer in wringing them out, opening them up and draping them over the sink to dry out for future re-use. Ross, on the other hand, believes in the ol’ “leave it in a clump” method. Surprisingly, my mother also believes in this method—which boggles my mind. This woman raised me??!!

That mode of operation doesn’t work for me because I inevitably walk away with an extremely unsavory smell on my hands due to the bacteria and mildew growth that quickly sets in when you leave any wet cloth in a clump.

It usually takes awhile for me to figure out where that god awful smell is coming from and when I finally realize it, I can’t seem to stop myself from taking that one final sniff of my hands just to be sure.

This almost always makes me dry heave into my hand, which makes me gag, which makes me gasp for air, which makes instinctively draw my hands to my face, which makes me smell my hands again., which makes me dry heave, and so on.

During this process, I have to somehow manage to get myself back to the sink, lower my hands, stand there for a second and wait for the vomit to fall back down my esophagus. This is no small feat, folks.

Next, I must begin furiously scrubbing my hands with Bath and Body Works Kitchen Spice antibacterial soap. Sometimes the antibacterial soap alone is not enough and that’s when I have to break out the bleach.

I then get out a pair of tongs to transport the smelly rag outside, where it can dry out and later be forwarded on to the laundry department.

All this hand washing and bleaching is not good for the skin, and I’m busy enough trying to take care of that kid of ours without having to take the extra time out of my day to complete these steps, so can we all just drape the open rags over the fucking sink to prevent all of this misery?!??

Thank you.