Working from Home:
WOW, my friends. It's everything I dreamed it could be. And I just learned how to nurse in the moby, so YEAH. One sweet month of livin ' the dream before I'm back to wearing real pants, remembering my key code and doing my designated week of office kitchen duty. That's gonna hurt.
She Has a Home
Mystery solved: neighborhood-wandering chicken (who survived the cold snap! aw snap!) is the tragic result of a chicken escape that happened to my corner neighbors. Except the chicken was to be a gift, so the neighbors aren't exactly eager to get her back, as they never intended to own her. They tell me that the only way to catch a chicken is to wait until it's asleep and then sneak up on it and grab it, so... not bloody likely. Looks like I'll be cleaning chicken shit off my sidewalk for a good long while, or until the chicken meets with whatever natural predators a chicken might encounter 18 blocks from the smack-middle of a major metropolitan area. I must say it satisfies my country-livin' yearnings to see her pecking and scratching around outside the kitchen window every morning.
And speaking of urban living:
My friend J. recently tried to help me understand why in the holy hell one would live 30 miles away from one's workplace, explaining that he really didn't mind his super long-ass commute to work, or the traffic, or the fact that he puts in the equivalent of almost one extra work day each week just getting there and back. He said that on that very morning, he had left his subdivision and continued his commute through a stretch of hills and farmland, where a light morning fog was just beginning to lift over the giant, stoic hay bales dotting the fields. And something about a deer or a fox or a magical unicorn that inspired him to turn up the Dave Matthews, sip his Starbucks Mochachino and really JAM.
Well.
One morning, I saw a dude gracefully drop trou and take a shit in a garbage can on the Main Street Bridge, like it was nothing. Salut!
Things go missing sometimes:
I almost surely popped a box of granola bars in the library drop box along with my library books by mistake. (Hey, it happens.) Later, there was some discrepancy at the Library about books I had not returned, which I swore up and down I had returned. I defended my honor by stating that I absolutely remembered returning those books, because I returned them with a box of granola bars! See!?! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER MY GRANOLA BARS, LIBARY GUY? WERE THEY DELICIOUS? HUH? WERE THEY?
And then, I found the books under Birdy's bed. And the granola bars in the car.
And showed my true crazy to the library guy in one short vignette.
Pretty Much What I Expected When I Said I'd Bear his Children:
This weekend I walked in on A. in the living room drinking a bloody mary, dancing around with Birdy and watching the Humpty Dance on YouTube. A true peach, my friends.
Showing posts with label Marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marriage. Show all posts
25 January 2010
10 January 2009
You set 'em up, babe, I'll knock 'em down.
TV commercial: That's right, CASH for your GOLD!!
A: They smelt it.
B: Aaaaaand they dealt it.
A. That was the Best. Joke. Ever.
A: They smelt it.
B: Aaaaaand they dealt it.
A. That was the Best. Joke. Ever.
02 December 2008
Chat from a Marriage
What you need to know: A. chose and purchased a deodorant stick at the grocery store labeled "The Official Scent of Confidence."
8:38 AM
a: so you are going to the gym today
8:38 AM
a: so you are going to the gym today
me: As Sarah Palin would say, "You betcha!" (wink) "Maverick!"
a: don't do that anymore
me: sorry
a: but good for you
me: yes, I am doughy around the middle, need to cook
a: you will feel so much better if you go regularly
me: I really think so
8:39 AM a: I think I am stinky today
as in
me: oh, nice
a: dog slept on my pants
me:how did that happen?
andy: not sure
but not good
me: yeah, not good.
a: at least I have the scent of confidence
8:40 AM me: yeah, confident that you smell like a dog's ass
a: zing
ok then
me: ok then
Thanksgiving post coming soon. Like, maybe probably tomorrow.
29 October 2008
Scenes From A Marriage
"It seems like it might need a little more... something."
"Something like what?"
"Rice, maybe?"
"We're out of brown rice, but I bought some white rice this week. It's in the pantry."
"You are such a ricist."
"Something like what?"
"Rice, maybe?"
"We're out of brown rice, but I bought some white rice this week. It's in the pantry."
"You are such a ricist."
21 September 2008
Yahrrr
HI, excuse, excuse, eleven days no post, yawn, hello.
Friday night A. took a wicked (and completely accidental) finger jab to the eye from a certain pre-schooler I know. Over the last few days it's worsened-- ending in a trip to Urgent Care this afternoon, some magic goo, huge eye bandage and a nice black pirate-style eye patch.
This evening, making dinner, I was chopping broccoli, all like, "blah blah your mom probably just couldn't hear the phone..." and I look up and A. is looking at me like I've sprouted an extra head, so I asked, "why are you looking at me all weird?"
"Because I'm wearing an EYEPATCH."
He seems to have confused "eyepatch" with "permission to look deranged" Which, I suppose, is better than confusing "eyepatch" with something more dangerous, like "cloak of invisibility."
I would love to post a photo, but a pirate seems to have reconfigured the PC/ Mac hodge-podge up in here and I can't find the cord to make that work at the moment.
More soon, promise-- big work, big thoughts, everything big. Bigger! Better! Later!
Friday night A. took a wicked (and completely accidental) finger jab to the eye from a certain pre-schooler I know. Over the last few days it's worsened-- ending in a trip to Urgent Care this afternoon, some magic goo, huge eye bandage and a nice black pirate-style eye patch.
This evening, making dinner, I was chopping broccoli, all like, "blah blah your mom probably just couldn't hear the phone..." and I look up and A. is looking at me like I've sprouted an extra head, so I asked, "why are you looking at me all weird?"
"Because I'm wearing an EYEPATCH."
He seems to have confused "eyepatch" with "permission to look deranged" Which, I suppose, is better than confusing "eyepatch" with something more dangerous, like "cloak of invisibility."
I would love to post a photo, but a pirate seems to have reconfigured the PC/ Mac hodge-podge up in here and I can't find the cord to make that work at the moment.
More soon, promise-- big work, big thoughts, everything big. Bigger! Better! Later!
24 July 2008
Hanger
As I write this, I am finally emerging from the murky depths of a fierce hangover, which I earned 100% last night on the back porch with A., flipping through a calendar and having a nice tense conversation about where to be and when over the Holidays. It’s an annual discussion I like to call, “Who will be disappointed the most?” and it most certainly flows better with an adult beverage or four.
And for the record, the reason I don’t usually drink white wine (ah, yes. NOW she remembers) is because it goes down a little too fast, a little too easy. And I end up with a wicked case of the bedspins and, eventually, huddled around the upstairs commode (which is gross by itself) assuring Andy that I’m fine and making wild arm gestures, waving him back to bed and saving him from the wretchedness that is me.
And so, today. I have worked very hard at nothing except sitting completely still and trying not to move my eyes. It has been exhausting work. My mouth tastes vaguely metallic and my body aches. My brain feels cold and my thinking is slow and sticky. I was asked to proofread a booklet with unimaginably tiny type and tedious subject matter, and that hurt me everywhere. For lunch, I dragged my sorry self over to A’s office and sought shelter in a warm, white Jimmy John’s sandwich eaten in a sort of upright fetal position next to his desk. He showed me recently unearthed home videos of us seven years ago, when we were skinny and lively and able to bounce back from two bottles of Chenin Blanc without incident. He rubbed my face to ease my headache, and only laughed at me a little bit, because he is a kind man.
11 February 2008
I Received an Email Demanding a Blog Post, So
Here we are on the Greenway on Saturday. A truly lovely day, fantastic weather, quality family time.
While we were walking along the greenway, we heard a bicycle whizzing up behind us (a common occurance on this trail), and as he approached, the biker said, "On your left, Ladies!"
And then I said to A. "Huh. He just called you a lady."
++++++++
So the not smoking thing is going GREAT. Greater than great. A. has made it through situations (drinks, backyard fire pit, bars, band practice) I would never have dreamed he could make it through, and has remained his funny, easygoing self instead of morphing into a six-headed monster throughout the process. And because of that, I have been extra-strong as well. It's been over two weeks and I haven't wanted to hurt anyone or crawl into a corner and die, so that's a plus. And an even bigger plus is that I haven't really wanted to smoke. It's only a taste of success and I realize that, but yum.
+++++++
This work, this work! There is such bullshit running unchecked! As in, my boss totally did a no-call no-show on Friday and FLAT OUT LIED to me about it. MY BOSS. Hello, we are being led by a tenth-grader.
+++++
So, we haven't been sleeping well at our house, for a few reasons. Weather, for one. Tennessee has had some dramatic nights in the sky as of late, with wind and lightning and slapping rain, bright red radar screens on the news and devastating photos the morning after. Even if we could sleep through it, the big dog does not and he's a quivering, drooling, pacing mess before, during, and after the storm. And he totally wants to plant his stinky ass in YOUR bed until the sky gets quiet.
Bird has not been sleeping well, either, and when Bird doesn't sleep well, nobody sleeps well. She's clingy, on the verge of a winter cold and still staving it off, but barely. One of us spends at least half the night mashed into her twin-sized bed with her while she flops and clings and whines and pops up in the middle of the night fully awake and wanting to change her clothes. We've got to make another game plan-- I haven't woken up next to my husband in several days.
I also have not been sleeping well, with a tense body and a zillion things on my mind that keep my wheels whirring in the dark. I'm a champion sleeper, and In my life, not being able to sleep is the equivalent of not being able to enjoy, say, cheesecake. It's absurd.
And the fact that much of my unwelcome wakefulness is related to my work frustration makes me even more angry. I have plenty of important things to worry about, but for some reason I can't let this one go.
+++++++
Because the big things really are big and they bust open a hole so big in the fence of my brain that all of the smaller worries can slither in after them and there is no stopping it: No money in the bank or in the pocket or anywhere I can see it, Grandpa in intensive care with ilius and a MRSA infection, other Grandfather in his final days with family and hospice hovering close by, dad having prostate surgery to remove stage 2 cancerous spot on Thursday, Mom shouldering all of this worry, child not sleeping, immense job dissatisfaction, looming exam, dog with mystery hairless patch on bum, attic needing insulation, car tags needing renewing, giving up cheese for lent (stupid), clogged sink in upstairs bathroom, out of tomatoes, no clean underwear, and on and on like this until I find myself drilling down to a point of lying in the dark and obsessing about whether or not the dogs are going to ruin the garden I have not yet planted, purchased, or planned.
Welcome, it's scary and disorganized in here. And there aren't any cigarettes, so don't ask.
++++++++
Me: Ouch, Bird. You're pulling my hair. I don't like that.
Bird: I don't care.
++++++++
Okay, there's a story behind that. A. was trying to get Bird back down to sleep night before last, and she was trying to lay on his face in the middle of a sleepless vacuum of time, and he was all, "no, Bird, you can't lay on my face." and she was all, "Daddy, I don't like that when you say I can't lay on your face," and he was all, "I don't care, you can't lay on my face."
The next morning they talked about their rough night and hurt feelings. Bird told A. that it hurt her feelings when he said he didn't care. He said he was sorry, and that he was frustrated and tired. They kissed and snuggled made up.
But we're still left with the occasional "I don't care." She throws it out there and looks at you like, "Holy shit, what's going to happen next?" And I look at her like, "Holy shit, what do I say next?" And I have a whiz bang glimpse of the future where I am standing nose to nose with an adolescent Bird and I have to just snap out of it already and enjoy that I have to try not to laugh now because man alive, it is so not going to be funny when she is thirteen, no sir.
++++++++
Bird: (running laps through the house as we're trying to cook dinner and have some semblance of a conversation) POOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOOOPOOPOOPOOPOOMOUSE!!!
A: Hey Bird, I think it's time to call your parents and tell them to come get you.
++++++++
Just kidding.
Just look at her, so cute.
So TWO.
+++++++
So, A. shaved off his mustache. I think this is the closest he's come to psychosis while taking Chantix. He started out trimming his beard, and I got in the shower, and when I got out he was sporting a mean fu manchu. The fu was quickly removed, but the redneck photo is freaking priceless. I am fortunate to have married a man so weird and lovable.
18 November 2007
Scenes From A Marriage
Leaving church this morning with a styrofoam cup filled with coffee:
A: I really like this coffee, but I think I like it because I don't like it, you know?
Me: um, no.
A: I really like this coffee, but I think I like it because I don't like it, you know?
Me: um, no.
12 November 2007
Ten Years
Birdy's current favorite books are a couple of ten-ish year-old photo albums that live on the shelf beside the couch. They are full of photos of A. and I, so young (21!) and so cute, on vacation at the lake and the beach and being rowdy college near-graduates in our run-down house in Bloomington with a young, fat bear dog, not a dime to our names, and not a care in the world. Except maybe who was playing at Second Story and where we were going afterwards.
I watch A. flip through these books with Bird and I think that this is it, finally, that it's happening. That this is what I secretly or maybe even unconsciously wished for back when these pictures were snapped, before marriage, before babies, before Tennessee, that this scene would actually be real after ten years of storing these not-even-that-great photos. That I would be here, watching my husband page through these little books with this amazing little Bird, watching him
explain, "that's your mommy. And that's daddy. And that's Bear with a Wheat Thin on his head. That's your uncle Dave. That's mommy in a bikini. That's mommy and daddy on the boat. That was our house in the country. That was our roommate. That was the time your mom made manicotti."Sometimes I look through these and think, "wow, who knew?"
And then I think, "we did."
08 November 2007
A Piece of Advice from Me to You
Don't do this.
That's right. You're looking at deep fried mac n' cheese that you eat in your car at Sonic. And I ate 6 of these evil little bites today on my way home from a patient visit.
Here's a snippet of telephone conversation:
SCENE I
Parked at Sonic, Columbia, TN, waiting for my order.
me: I'm at Sonic. Guess what they have.
A: dunno.
me: Macaroni and cheese bites.
A: Macaroni and cheese cokes?
me: gross. I'm hanging up.
A: no, really, what?
me: macaroni and cheese bites. I'm so excited. I have to go.
SCENE II
back on the road
A: Hello?
me: These things are so fucking awesome.
A: bye.
SCENE III
ten minutes later
A: Hello?
me: um, they had a weird aftertaste.
A: Maybe you should have ordered a mac and cheese coke to go with them.
And A Bonus Installment of Scenes From a Marriage:
me: Dammit! The zipper on these pants won't stay up all of a sudden.
A: mwahahaha, my plan is working!
me: Your plan to have me walk around the grocery store with my fly down?
A: (defensive) It still needs some work.
That's right. You're looking at deep fried mac n' cheese that you eat in your car at Sonic. And I ate 6 of these evil little bites today on my way home from a patient visit.
Here's a snippet of telephone conversation:
SCENE I
Parked at Sonic, Columbia, TN, waiting for my order.
me: I'm at Sonic. Guess what they have.
A: dunno.
me: Macaroni and cheese bites.
A: Macaroni and cheese cokes?
me: gross. I'm hanging up.
A: no, really, what?
me: macaroni and cheese bites. I'm so excited. I have to go.
SCENE II
back on the road
A: Hello?
me: These things are so fucking awesome.
A: bye.
SCENE III
ten minutes later
A: Hello?
me: um, they had a weird aftertaste.
A: Maybe you should have ordered a mac and cheese coke to go with them.
And A Bonus Installment of Scenes From a Marriage:
me: Dammit! The zipper on these pants won't stay up all of a sudden.
A: mwahahaha, my plan is working!
me: Your plan to have me walk around the grocery store with my fly down?
A: (defensive) It still needs some work.
06 November 2007
What I probably should not share
Sometimes I go into the bathroom at work and flip off the new boss from behind the door, both birds raised and blazing. It's quiet but I'm yelling.Also, when I come home from a rotten day and A. is in an equally rotten mood, it does not double the rotten, but rather, makes rotten squared.
25 October 2007
No Title This Time
Y'all.
I'm cooked.
So many things, not enough things, too many things.
Bird:
is two. Wants to do things "all my byself." Is funny. Is friendly and kind. Is charming. Is in need of a bath. Is not getting enough of my attention.
A:
Is my soother. I encourage you, if you are wound tight or worried about something, to talk to him about it. He will make a few simple comments, dilute the whole thing, and you'll be all like, "okay, pass me a beer, please. All is well." His motto: "nothing is fucked here, dude."
New boss:
is a man, is younger than me, eats out every meal (oh, the days of no babies), is totally for-serious, of the not-fuckin-around variety, will probably put the kibosh on my PT daycare opportunity (scheduling issues) and possibly my PT job opportunity. But there are advantages to a non-PT salary, so I'm sitting still and waiting for shit to settle. Something about doors closing and windows opening.
Also something about not having another job and really needing an income, about being in less control than I'd like to believe.
Job:
Where do I begin. I'm doing everyone else's lately. Finding myself in the mental state I fled two years ago when I declared my disdain for offices, slacks, and small talk. Somehow I have a real job again, and a part of me feeds on that, while another part gets food poisoning.
School:
Was over two months ago. Have not started studying for exam. Have not scheduled exam. Have not really thought about massage in a while. Either I'm ignoring the idea because It's easier to get comfortable-ish where I am (I know my way around non-profit work, to be sure), or because I made a sizable mistake when I borrowed all of that money to go to school. Stay tuned on that one.
Dogs:
Are stinky.
Clothes:
All are stupid, ill-fitting, worn or stained. New ones are expensive. And new boss has been wearing a tie every day, so I have a feeling I'm going to get the "talk" at some point, for my continued pushing (shoving?) the limit of casual workplace.
Bangs:
Over it. Growing out.
Edited to Add:
Um, so sorry, this post is pretty much a rerun of the last post. Obviously in need of some changes in the ole life-aroo.
I'm cooked.
So many things, not enough things, too many things.
Bird:
is two. Wants to do things "all my byself." Is funny. Is friendly and kind. Is charming. Is in need of a bath. Is not getting enough of my attention.
A:
Is my soother. I encourage you, if you are wound tight or worried about something, to talk to him about it. He will make a few simple comments, dilute the whole thing, and you'll be all like, "okay, pass me a beer, please. All is well." His motto: "nothing is fucked here, dude."
New boss:
is a man, is younger than me, eats out every meal (oh, the days of no babies), is totally for-serious, of the not-fuckin-around variety, will probably put the kibosh on my PT daycare opportunity (scheduling issues) and possibly my PT job opportunity. But there are advantages to a non-PT salary, so I'm sitting still and waiting for shit to settle. Something about doors closing and windows opening.
Also something about not having another job and really needing an income, about being in less control than I'd like to believe.
Job:
Where do I begin. I'm doing everyone else's lately. Finding myself in the mental state I fled two years ago when I declared my disdain for offices, slacks, and small talk. Somehow I have a real job again, and a part of me feeds on that, while another part gets food poisoning.
School:
Was over two months ago. Have not started studying for exam. Have not scheduled exam. Have not really thought about massage in a while. Either I'm ignoring the idea because It's easier to get comfortable-ish where I am (I know my way around non-profit work, to be sure), or because I made a sizable mistake when I borrowed all of that money to go to school. Stay tuned on that one.
Dogs:
Are stinky.
Clothes:
All are stupid, ill-fitting, worn or stained. New ones are expensive. And new boss has been wearing a tie every day, so I have a feeling I'm going to get the "talk" at some point, for my continued pushing (shoving?) the limit of casual workplace.
Bangs:
Over it. Growing out.
Edited to Add:
Um, so sorry, this post is pretty much a rerun of the last post. Obviously in need of some changes in the ole life-aroo.
19 September 2007
The Smoke is Clearing
I should have written a blog post yesterday, as A. had a quite-late meeting and I chose to sit in front of my home computer during that time and burn my eyeballs to raisins. But instead of creating something (or cleaning out a closet or a drawer for chrissakes) I sat and read blog after blog, because have you seen my blogroll over there? Out of control. Some editing is in order.
Usually when A. has these late meetings (which happen on our back porch, with beer, I might add), I visit the meeting for a bit and enjoy some beverage and a few smokes. But alas, I have quit smoking-- again-- so I sat inside and frittered away time with nothing to show for it, as I have been known to do.
This quitting has been a good quitting so far-- I'm on day 5, and doing okay. My dear husband has also quit, and while I applaud his effort and I feel hopeful for the both of us, I will say that quitting smoking + marriage = rocky times. Especially when one of us (him) turns into a mean neat freak and the other (me) turns into a big no-skinned over-sensitive weenie. We have our moments when we see each other through the fog and apologize and understand it's a temporary insanity, and we have moments like last night where the two-ish hours I spent with my husband were far, far more difficult than the entire day I spent with a two year old, tantrums and all.
But.
It will get better.
Parts
Yesterday Bird and I ran a ton of errands in the morning. We also went to the library. Which Bird pronounces "Labia."
"Bird, where are we going?"
"To the LABIA!!"
"What will we do there?"
"SEE MONKEYS!"
And while we are on the subject of anatomically correct names for parts, I had always intended to teach Bird the real words for things-- parts, genitals-- rather than give her a cutsey substitute word to use that would somehow lead to her being ridiculed in 6th grade sex ed when she refers to her "cupcake" or other nonsense. But when the time came to step up to the plate, I failed. When she started asking "whassat?" about everything, right around 14 months, I said, "that's your business." And it stuck.
Not that there's anything wrong with "business." She was pointing to an entire region when I said that, not a specific part. And it was just easier. So now she goes around talking about everybody's "bensins," mine, daddy's, even poking at my poor eunich dogs and reminding them how much "bensins" they have missed out on.
It's time to introduce the real words for things, I think. And here's how it went yesterday, I shit you not:
"Bird, do you know what your business is called?"
"BENSINS!"
"Yes, but do you know the word for your business?"
"BENSINS!"
"It's called vagina."
"Potato!"
"No, va-gi-na."
"PO-TA-TO!"
"VAGINA!"
"POTATO!"
And this concludes the first round of the great Vagina-Potato debate of 2007.
Thirty Year Old Granola is Better
Also yesterday while running errands, Bird and I nearly starved to death, so we ran to Harris-this-is-going-to-cost-you-a-hundred-bucks-Teeter looking for snacks. And oh, did we find some snacks. I also heard Sheryl Crow's version of "Sweet Child of Mine" and it was the longest and most grueling three and a half minutes of my life, and I have had a baby come right out of my body.
Anyway. In no time we were back in the car cruising along and scarfing down granola bars. Damn good granola bars. Granola bars bought in haste. "Surely," I said aloud, "these are packed full of bullshit." And do you know what? THEY ABSOLUTELY WERE, full of high fructose maltose nastiness. So when we got home I drug out my own mama's recipe from an old seventies health-food cookbook and went to work. Damn fine granola bars, folks, don't waste your cash at the HarryTeet. I don't have the recipe here with me at work but I will post it later. You won't want to miss it.
It's turned into a free-for-all
Since my wheels are turning too fast (it has become so obvious that I am a morning person), I will stop with the sentences and just list of everything that I am thinking for the next minute or so:
Usually when A. has these late meetings (which happen on our back porch, with beer, I might add), I visit the meeting for a bit and enjoy some beverage and a few smokes. But alas, I have quit smoking-- again-- so I sat inside and frittered away time with nothing to show for it, as I have been known to do.
This quitting has been a good quitting so far-- I'm on day 5, and doing okay. My dear husband has also quit, and while I applaud his effort and I feel hopeful for the both of us, I will say that quitting smoking + marriage = rocky times. Especially when one of us (him) turns into a mean neat freak and the other (me) turns into a big no-skinned over-sensitive weenie. We have our moments when we see each other through the fog and apologize and understand it's a temporary insanity, and we have moments like last night where the two-ish hours I spent with my husband were far, far more difficult than the entire day I spent with a two year old, tantrums and all.
But.
It will get better.
Parts
Yesterday Bird and I ran a ton of errands in the morning. We also went to the library. Which Bird pronounces "Labia."
"Bird, where are we going?"
"To the LABIA!!"
"What will we do there?"
"SEE MONKEYS!"
And while we are on the subject of anatomically correct names for parts, I had always intended to teach Bird the real words for things-- parts, genitals-- rather than give her a cutsey substitute word to use that would somehow lead to her being ridiculed in 6th grade sex ed when she refers to her "cupcake" or other nonsense. But when the time came to step up to the plate, I failed. When she started asking "whassat?" about everything, right around 14 months, I said, "that's your business." And it stuck.
Not that there's anything wrong with "business." She was pointing to an entire region when I said that, not a specific part. And it was just easier. So now she goes around talking about everybody's "bensins," mine, daddy's, even poking at my poor eunich dogs and reminding them how much "bensins" they have missed out on.
It's time to introduce the real words for things, I think. And here's how it went yesterday, I shit you not:
"Bird, do you know what your business is called?"
"BENSINS!"
"Yes, but do you know the word for your business?"
"BENSINS!"
"It's called vagina."
"Potato!"
"No, va-gi-na."
"PO-TA-TO!"
"VAGINA!"
"POTATO!"
And this concludes the first round of the great Vagina-Potato debate of 2007.
Thirty Year Old Granola is Better
Also yesterday while running errands, Bird and I nearly starved to death, so we ran to Harris-this-is-going-to-cost-you-a-hundred-bucks-Teeter looking for snacks. And oh, did we find some snacks. I also heard Sheryl Crow's version of "Sweet Child of Mine" and it was the longest and most grueling three and a half minutes of my life, and I have had a baby come right out of my body.
Anyway. In no time we were back in the car cruising along and scarfing down granola bars. Damn good granola bars. Granola bars bought in haste. "Surely," I said aloud, "these are packed full of bullshit." And do you know what? THEY ABSOLUTELY WERE, full of high fructose maltose nastiness. So when we got home I drug out my own mama's recipe from an old seventies health-food cookbook and went to work. Damn fine granola bars, folks, don't waste your cash at the HarryTeet. I don't have the recipe here with me at work but I will post it later. You won't want to miss it.
It's turned into a free-for-all
Since my wheels are turning too fast (it has become so obvious that I am a morning person), I will stop with the sentences and just list of everything that I am thinking for the next minute or so:
- Yoga and why the fuck I am not doing it
- Cutting my hair short (pixie) again
- If the stuff used to kill off the roaches is going to poison us in the end
- Scheduled maintenance for my car
- Severe lack of money, but I feel like the answer is within reach, just can't see it
- Why do I tune in to Dave Ramsey, that smug sonofabitch
- Why can't I get Mint to recognize my bank info (that's the reason I got on the computer last night in the first place, now I remember)
- Throwing things away, thowing LOTS of things away
- Why do I let my dogs get to a point of stink-out when I could just wash them
- Whether or not to switch from Shutterfly (used for parents in Indiana, etc) to Flickr (which is 700X easier to organize)
- Making play dough for Bird
- Waldorf school, Montessori school
- LACK OF MONEY
- Thankful I will be listening to Larry Flick this morning on my drive to see a patient
- Oh shit, I'm going to be late.
14 August 2007
Scenes from a Marriage
Me: I had the strangest dream last night.
A: Mmmghhh.
Me: We were at our house, but it wasn't our house, it was kind of like my grandmother's house but only in the attic, and there was this giant gold rug in the bathroom and they had a huge jar of allspice in the kitchen [blah blah, standard dream descriptions about how it was like this but not this exactly]
A: Brmgghhh.
Me: and I had to go somewhere, and it was like an hour and a half away, and you had to go somewhere else, but then you came with me, and we were driving an old blue car.
A: Grummmbhuhhhgh.
Me: And then all of a sudden I realized we'd left Bird asleep upstairs in my grandmother's attic, but we were an hour and a half away from her and nobody was home.
A: mmmghhh.
Me: It was so terrifying. We couldn't get to her quickly and there was nothing we could do and we knew she was up in that attic all alone and that she might fall down the stairs or any other horrible thing. But for some reason we stopped at Pizza Hut as we were trying to get back and the service was sooooo slow.
A: What did you order?
Me: A personal pan pizza.
A: (very concerned) Why would you order a personal pan pizza if we were together?
A: Mmmghhh.
Me: We were at our house, but it wasn't our house, it was kind of like my grandmother's house but only in the attic, and there was this giant gold rug in the bathroom and they had a huge jar of allspice in the kitchen [blah blah, standard dream descriptions about how it was like this but not this exactly]
A: Brmgghhh.
Me: and I had to go somewhere, and it was like an hour and a half away, and you had to go somewhere else, but then you came with me, and we were driving an old blue car.
A: Grummmbhuhhhgh.
Me: And then all of a sudden I realized we'd left Bird asleep upstairs in my grandmother's attic, but we were an hour and a half away from her and nobody was home.
A: mmmghhh.
Me: It was so terrifying. We couldn't get to her quickly and there was nothing we could do and we knew she was up in that attic all alone and that she might fall down the stairs or any other horrible thing. But for some reason we stopped at Pizza Hut as we were trying to get back and the service was sooooo slow.
A: What did you order?
Me: A personal pan pizza.
A: (very concerned) Why would you order a personal pan pizza if we were together?
02 June 2007
Scenes From A Marriage, Again
MS and A. are driving home from the library with Bird. A. played a show last night. And we have been watching a lot of Planet Earth lately. Begin.
A: Oh! I completely forgot to tell you what I saw last night at the show.
MS: mmm?
A: A guy with a mohawk... but with a bald spot in the middle.
MS: Yikes. From where he was going bald?
A: Yep.
MS: So you saw the elusive Split Hawk?
A: It's one of the only ones in existence today.
MS: I've heard it's almost extinct.
A: It is. [long pause] He is the Last of the Mohawkans.
A: Oh! I completely forgot to tell you what I saw last night at the show.
MS: mmm?
A: A guy with a mohawk... but with a bald spot in the middle.
MS: Yikes. From where he was going bald?
A: Yep.
MS: So you saw the elusive Split Hawk?
A: It's one of the only ones in existence today.
MS: I've heard it's almost extinct.
A: It is. [long pause] He is the Last of the Mohawkans.
02 February 2007
Feverino
So, where have I been?
Nursing a feverish Bird.
Daycare called on Monday to report that her fever was 103. Tuesday she was off to the doctor with A, and Wednesday she hovered around 100 all day and slept and snuggled, and Thursday started to look like she was on the mend, until I discovered a pinpoint-y rash all over her little tummy and neck.
Turns out it's probably a reaction to the MMR vaccine, or a virus she picked up when we went in to get it last Friday. At least it wasn't the chickenpox. And at least she's feeling better. High fevers scare the shit out of me, because I start thinking about Little House on the Prairie, and how somebody always had some kind of dramatically high fever and had to get in an ice bath and they always died or almost died.
Or lost their hearing. Or was it her sight? It was her sight. Mary was blind.* Because of a fever, I think. I used to have a patient who went deaf as a child as a result of a high fever. She was wild and crazy, and I once spend a solid six hours with her in the emergency room waiting area after she'd downed a bottle of calamine lotion because her face was itchy.
(The hospital I speak of is a part of Prestigious Private University, and offered 18 different language translation options in the ER, but NO American Sign Language. Which wouldn't have mattered anyway because this person's signs were for the most part all her own made-up gestures, and when we finally made it to the desk to sign forms, she drew huge hearts all over the pages and refused to write anything except "I Love Lucy." But still. No ASL. Screw you, Deaf people! And especially you, deaf and crazy people! But bring on the Turkish interpreters!)
Anyway, so Mary Ingalls was blind, not deaf. And the high fevers on the Prairie are one of the many reasons I do not care for "pioneer"-type stories. There you have it.
In any case, I've hardly been in my office at all this week. How do people do it? How do moms without ridiculously flexible work situations (like mine, fortunately) do this? I feel guilty for neglecting my job when I stay home with Bird (though she is my most important job, make no mistake), and then guilty when I come to work and leave my still-clingy Bird at daycare. With all this guilt, I might as well just suck it up and convert to Catholicism. At least my father-in-law would be happy.
This schedule suits me, though-- one and a half days in the office, about four hours of freelance work during naptimes and after bedtime. I could get used to this. I mean, I wish I could get used to this. For this short week, I felt like my time was allotted in line with my priorities.
I remember last year at this time, working at my strangely rigid non-job (where I did literally absolutely nothing and my suspicion is that I was not the only one by a long shot, but everyone took it all very seriously), when Bird first started daycare and got sick and then sicker, mended and then sicker, after being thrown into the cesspool Baby Warehouse. We lost so much sleep, and I missed so much work. I remember being called into one of the partners' offices to be told that "You have used all of your personal days, and any time you take to care for Bird from this point forward will be unpaid." And I remember feeling so fucking DOOMED by the whole thing, because I sure as shit wasn't going to let such a meaningless job make me less of a mother than it already had, but at the same time, I felt like I had crossed some kind of line, was pushing my luck with my bosses. Doomed and Damned. I cried over that.
PANICPANICPANIC
Today our city essentially shut down, due to about an inch (you heard me) of snow. But I am a Hoosier! I'm used to this shit, you wussy middle Tennesseans! SUCK IT UP! BWAH!!
Stinky Drink
Oh, and it's finally happened... someone brought flavored coffee into the office. It stinks like charred Kahlua, and I won't be drinking any. In fact, I wish I didn't have to breathe it. Like my grandpa once said, "Tastes like coffee with perfume in it."
He washes darks with lights, but he's still the Greatest
This morning, A. went out to scrape off the cars while Bird and I ate cheerios and watched Teletubbies (which is so bizarre, but I know you know that) in our jammies. Snow day, remember? I looked out the front window to find him gloveless, having a snowball fight with our neighbor kid who was out of school with no kids around to play with. He may be an Alfani man, but that husband of mine has a heart of gold. And really, really cold hands.
*Edited to Add: Mary did not go blind due to fever.
Nursing a feverish Bird.
Daycare called on Monday to report that her fever was 103. Tuesday she was off to the doctor with A, and Wednesday she hovered around 100 all day and slept and snuggled, and Thursday started to look like she was on the mend, until I discovered a pinpoint-y rash all over her little tummy and neck.
Turns out it's probably a reaction to the MMR vaccine, or a virus she picked up when we went in to get it last Friday. At least it wasn't the chickenpox. And at least she's feeling better. High fevers scare the shit out of me, because I start thinking about Little House on the Prairie, and how somebody always had some kind of dramatically high fever and had to get in an ice bath and they always died or almost died.
Or lost their hearing. Or was it her sight? It was her sight. Mary was blind.* Because of a fever, I think. I used to have a patient who went deaf as a child as a result of a high fever. She was wild and crazy, and I once spend a solid six hours with her in the emergency room waiting area after she'd downed a bottle of calamine lotion because her face was itchy.
(The hospital I speak of is a part of Prestigious Private University, and offered 18 different language translation options in the ER, but NO American Sign Language. Which wouldn't have mattered anyway because this person's signs were for the most part all her own made-up gestures, and when we finally made it to the desk to sign forms, she drew huge hearts all over the pages and refused to write anything except "I Love Lucy." But still. No ASL. Screw you, Deaf people! And especially you, deaf and crazy people! But bring on the Turkish interpreters!)
Anyway, so Mary Ingalls was blind, not deaf. And the high fevers on the Prairie are one of the many reasons I do not care for "pioneer"-type stories. There you have it.
In any case, I've hardly been in my office at all this week. How do people do it? How do moms without ridiculously flexible work situations (like mine, fortunately) do this? I feel guilty for neglecting my job when I stay home with Bird (though she is my most important job, make no mistake), and then guilty when I come to work and leave my still-clingy Bird at daycare. With all this guilt, I might as well just suck it up and convert to Catholicism. At least my father-in-law would be happy.
This schedule suits me, though-- one and a half days in the office, about four hours of freelance work during naptimes and after bedtime. I could get used to this. I mean, I wish I could get used to this. For this short week, I felt like my time was allotted in line with my priorities.
I remember last year at this time, working at my strangely rigid non-job (where I did literally absolutely nothing and my suspicion is that I was not the only one by a long shot, but everyone took it all very seriously), when Bird first started daycare and got sick and then sicker, mended and then sicker, after being thrown into the cesspool Baby Warehouse. We lost so much sleep, and I missed so much work. I remember being called into one of the partners' offices to be told that "You have used all of your personal days, and any time you take to care for Bird from this point forward will be unpaid." And I remember feeling so fucking DOOMED by the whole thing, because I sure as shit wasn't going to let such a meaningless job make me less of a mother than it already had, but at the same time, I felt like I had crossed some kind of line, was pushing my luck with my bosses. Doomed and Damned. I cried over that.
PANICPANICPANIC
Today our city essentially shut down, due to about an inch (you heard me) of snow. But I am a Hoosier! I'm used to this shit, you wussy middle Tennesseans! SUCK IT UP! BWAH!!
Stinky Drink
Oh, and it's finally happened... someone brought flavored coffee into the office. It stinks like charred Kahlua, and I won't be drinking any. In fact, I wish I didn't have to breathe it. Like my grandpa once said, "Tastes like coffee with perfume in it."
He washes darks with lights, but he's still the Greatest
This morning, A. went out to scrape off the cars while Bird and I ate cheerios and watched Teletubbies (which is so bizarre, but I know you know that) in our jammies. Snow day, remember? I looked out the front window to find him gloveless, having a snowball fight with our neighbor kid who was out of school with no kids around to play with. He may be an Alfani man, but that husband of mine has a heart of gold. And really, really cold hands.
*Edited to Add: Mary did not go blind due to fever.
15 January 2007
Quote
"I'm listening to you. I'm just trying to put my mustache in my nose."
- A. Snee, January 14, 2007, after being accused of not listening to his wife in the car.
Seriously. He was sitting over there with his lips all puckered up, trying to stick his mustache hair in his nostril.
- A. Snee, January 14, 2007, after being accused of not listening to his wife in the car.
Seriously. He was sitting over there with his lips all puckered up, trying to stick his mustache hair in his nostril.
04 January 2007
Welcome, 2007! So far, so Barf.
Here's our New Year's story:
Visited my family and grandparents in Southern Indiana, had a lovely time, Bird picked a dilly of a day to practice her "cry it out" techniques at bedtime in a hotel room, went to a bridal shower for my almost-sister in law. Everything lovely. Flying by at rapid pace, but lovely. Got a tour of all of the cheeses in my grandmother's refrigerator. There were many.
On our last Hoosier night, A. became very, violently, run-to-the-bathroom, column-of-barf sick. The barfing portion of the illness was relatively swift, but the lingering soreness and overall puniness lasted a few days, and we spent New Year's eve like this: Stopped in briefly to a gathering, back home and A. in bed by 9:30, me falling asleep on the couch at about 10 watching a taped episode of NOVA. Yep, you read that right.
I'm hoping this week isn't a preview of our new year, because if it is, we're going to be doing a lot of barfing and a lot of wallowing around and showing up to places disheveled and unprepared. Also a lot of nerdy activities, like watching taped episodes of NOVA.
Doing
It really is amazing how quickly I slip here at work, as I started out this morning like gangbusters and then checked bloglines and it has been a quick tumble downhill on the productivity scale this afternoon.
The Infirmed
Went out! on Tuesday! to see an old friend/ roommate play her super-great songs at a nice little club near downtown. And I am not kidding you, right as she took the stage, my phone rang, and it was A., and apparently Bird was barfing her guts up all over the place. So I went home, after one song. Poor Birdy. So scared of the barfing. It was heart-wrenching.
Also, it passed quite quickly, much like A's mystery illness, for which I am thankful.
Two Wishes
Another pretending to be a SAHM day yesterday, as school has not started and working part time means I have some time away from work, until it is filled up with school. Met S. and her boys at the park, a party planned due to its limited physical contact due to the recent barfing. I can't stop thinking about how that's what I'm supposed to be doing. (SAHMing, not barfing.) You should've (and would've, if I'd remembered the camera) seen my little Bird running around out there.
Speaking of cameras, I have an aging digital snapshot camera that is a decent machine except for the four-minute delay between the time you push the button and the time the photo is taken, and its tough stance on not taking clear photos of anything that is not lit by bright, clear daylight, save for the flash that makes every subject look like the cops have just busted down the front door and are shining a spotlight in their face and yelling at them to GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR! I know, I bitch a lot. At least I have a camera. But I would really like a nice fancy camera to take some keepers of my Bird. **sigh**
Frontbutt
My husband watches a little football, but not in a "hold on don't talk to me I have to see this
play" kind of way. And I am fortunate that he is the kind of guy who is not so into his sports that he can't tolerate my babbling and question-asking, like "Why do they do that?" "Did the referee just say that was to legit to quit?" and, from last night, "Did that guy just eat a Cheeto?"
Above all, though, my favorite thing to spot in a football game is the frontbutt. It's an occupational hazard of being a sideline coach guy. Every time I see it, I throw my arms up in the air like it's a touchdown, and I say "Yesssssss! Frontbutt!" And my husband still thinks that's funny. I am a lucky, lucky girl, folks.
Blogoshere
So, the fabulous k is a kindhearted lady, and said some nice things about this blog over at hers. Really, that was so kind of her. Go visit. The night I started this blog up, I set all of my settings and controlled all of my controls, and then started hitting the "next blog" button at the top of the page. I landed at Out, Out Damn Spot and I've been a reader ever since, including the two months before I discovered bloglines and literally checked her blog about 59 times every day.
Also go visit the Kim Family Auction. I have added several new crafty blogs to my blogroll after finding the beautiful wares and their creators there. Beautiful little things, really.
Visited my family and grandparents in Southern Indiana, had a lovely time, Bird picked a dilly of a day to practice her "cry it out" techniques at bedtime in a hotel room, went to a bridal shower for my almost-sister in law. Everything lovely. Flying by at rapid pace, but lovely. Got a tour of all of the cheeses in my grandmother's refrigerator. There were many.
On our last Hoosier night, A. became very, violently, run-to-the-bathroom, column-of-barf sick. The barfing portion of the illness was relatively swift, but the lingering soreness and overall puniness lasted a few days, and we spent New Year's eve like this: Stopped in briefly to a gathering, back home and A. in bed by 9:30, me falling asleep on the couch at about 10 watching a taped episode of NOVA. Yep, you read that right.
I'm hoping this week isn't a preview of our new year, because if it is, we're going to be doing a lot of barfing and a lot of wallowing around and showing up to places disheveled and unprepared. Also a lot of nerdy activities, like watching taped episodes of NOVA.
Doing
It really is amazing how quickly I slip here at work, as I started out this morning like gangbusters and then checked bloglines and it has been a quick tumble downhill on the productivity scale this afternoon.
The Infirmed
Went out! on Tuesday! to see an old friend/ roommate play her super-great songs at a nice little club near downtown. And I am not kidding you, right as she took the stage, my phone rang, and it was A., and apparently Bird was barfing her guts up all over the place. So I went home, after one song. Poor Birdy. So scared of the barfing. It was heart-wrenching.
Also, it passed quite quickly, much like A's mystery illness, for which I am thankful.
Two Wishes
Another pretending to be a SAHM day yesterday, as school has not started and working part time means I have some time away from work, until it is filled up with school. Met S. and her boys at the park, a party planned due to its limited physical contact due to the recent barfing. I can't stop thinking about how that's what I'm supposed to be doing. (SAHMing, not barfing.) You should've (and would've, if I'd remembered the camera) seen my little Bird running around out there.
Speaking of cameras, I have an aging digital snapshot camera that is a decent machine except for the four-minute delay between the time you push the button and the time the photo is taken, and its tough stance on not taking clear photos of anything that is not lit by bright, clear daylight, save for the flash that makes every subject look like the cops have just busted down the front door and are shining a spotlight in their face and yelling at them to GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR! I know, I bitch a lot. At least I have a camera. But I would really like a nice fancy camera to take some keepers of my Bird. **sigh**
Frontbutt
My husband watches a little football, but not in a "hold on don't talk to me I have to see this
play" kind of way. And I am fortunate that he is the kind of guy who is not so into his sports that he can't tolerate my babbling and question-asking, like "Why do they do that?" "Did the referee just say that was to legit to quit?" and, from last night, "Did that guy just eat a Cheeto?"Above all, though, my favorite thing to spot in a football game is the frontbutt. It's an occupational hazard of being a sideline coach guy. Every time I see it, I throw my arms up in the air like it's a touchdown, and I say "Yesssssss! Frontbutt!" And my husband still thinks that's funny. I am a lucky, lucky girl, folks.
Blogoshere
So, the fabulous k is a kindhearted lady, and said some nice things about this blog over at hers. Really, that was so kind of her. Go visit. The night I started this blog up, I set all of my settings and controlled all of my controls, and then started hitting the "next blog" button at the top of the page. I landed at Out, Out Damn Spot and I've been a reader ever since, including the two months before I discovered bloglines and literally checked her blog about 59 times every day.
Also go visit the Kim Family Auction. I have added several new crafty blogs to my blogroll after finding the beautiful wares and their creators there. Beautiful little things, really.
29 December 2006
Christmas Came and Went.
Hasn't it been a long-ish time?
Do you really want to hear about our Christmas? Because it seems like it happened a thousand years ago. Or at least last year. And I feel like I've already talked it to death on the back porch with A.
Here's a list of things related to this year's Christmas:
1. Hand-made wooden rocking horse for Bird, handiwork by Grandpa Snee.
2. A's declaration of feeling strangely like only a half-adult around his parents, me pointing out that he received a remote-control helicopter as his centerpiece gift.
3. Horseballs, the game. We own a set. A set of horse balls. Wanna come over?
4. Christmas in the mid-south vs. Christmas in Central Indiana:
6. S. and S. visiting from Spokane with the cutie boys. Spent an afternoon walking to the fire station and the coffee shop, playing in the living room, pretending like they live here.
7. (Snapshot of a Marriage) A. got underwear from his parents, as he does every year (see "not feeling like an adult", item 1), and they were these high-end Nordstromy boxer briefs with several buttonholed buttons (why? are you going to unbutton those teensy buttons? Are you going to unbutton them half way and let your banana fruit cup peek from your undies? Are you going to layer underneath with a different color?) and all kinds of high-falootin' packaging. Packaging which featured an image of this guy. So for almost a full week now, A. has been talking about the "Alfani Man." Declaring himself an "Alfani Man." Talking about what is and is not suitable for an "Alfani Man." Do you think an Alfani Man cleans out the cat box? Think again, friends! Is it inappropriate for a wife to get herself a piece of pie and coolwhip and not prepare a similar plate for an Alfani Man? Yes! It is wholly inappropriate! It has come down to a (and I am not kidding here) serious sit-down conversation about how the Alfani Man jokes are OVER and need to STOP RIGHT NOW.
8. That reminded me of something from the gigantic Family Hoo Haa at the cabins a couple of weeks ago: A. and his cousins talked about patenting the Booze-iere, which would be a bra with compartments for liquid-- like a water bra but made for sneaking booze into the Kentucky Derby. (inspired by an incident this year involving ziplock baggies). They decided, being enterprising young gentlemen, that they should invent one for men, also, called the "cock-tail." It's clever, no?
Do you really want to hear about our Christmas? Because it seems like it happened a thousand years ago. Or at least last year. And I feel like I've already talked it to death on the back porch with A.
Here's a list of things related to this year's Christmas:
1. Hand-made wooden rocking horse for Bird, handiwork by Grandpa Snee.
2. A's declaration of feeling strangely like only a half-adult around his parents, me pointing out that he received a remote-control helicopter as his centerpiece gift.
3. Horseballs, the game. We own a set. A set of horse balls. Wanna come over?
4. Christmas in the mid-south vs. Christmas in Central Indiana:
- Pros: no travel, no packing, no paying the dog lady, no buying gas, no squishing a thousand presents in one car that was already full on the way up. No back-and-forth between my family and A's family (it IS a big deal, they're 30 minutes apart). No cold weather. No taking vacation days. Actually having a Christmas tree.
- Cons: It felt like totally fake Christmas. Not cold (freakishly warm, in fact), definitely not snowy. No catching up with college friends who are also home for the holidays. No lazing around at my mom's house. No reading other people's magazines and using fancy shampoo.
- All that stuff on the cons list? That's all part of the holiday tradition for A. and I. That's just how it's always been. And when you take all of that away and insert the Christmas into our house, it feels so much different. Plus, I didn't exactly feel like the Christmas guests arrived with an open mind about the changing of tradition, but damn, we travel every mothereffing year. One year it took us fifteen hours to drive one way in a snow storm, including a closed interstate, an overnight stay, dogs on an elevator, and overpriced burritos and beer in bed in a hotel room on Christmas Eve. (actually, those last two were okay.) We deserved a break from traveling, we got it, and it didn't feel the same. Game over.
6. S. and S. visiting from Spokane with the cutie boys. Spent an afternoon walking to the fire station and the coffee shop, playing in the living room, pretending like they live here.
7. (Snapshot of a Marriage) A. got underwear from his parents, as he does every year (see "not feeling like an adult", item 1), and they were these high-end Nordstromy boxer briefs with several buttonholed buttons (why? are you going to unbutton those teensy buttons? Are you going to unbutton them half way and let your banana fruit cup peek from your undies? Are you going to layer underneath with a different color?) and all kinds of high-falootin' packaging. Packaging which featured an image of this guy. So for almost a full week now, A. has been talking about the "Alfani Man." Declaring himself an "Alfani Man." Talking about what is and is not suitable for an "Alfani Man." Do you think an Alfani Man cleans out the cat box? Think again, friends! Is it inappropriate for a wife to get herself a piece of pie and coolwhip and not prepare a similar plate for an Alfani Man? Yes! It is wholly inappropriate! It has come down to a (and I am not kidding here) serious sit-down conversation about how the Alfani Man jokes are OVER and need to STOP RIGHT NOW.
8. That reminded me of something from the gigantic Family Hoo Haa at the cabins a couple of weeks ago: A. and his cousins talked about patenting the Booze-iere, which would be a bra with compartments for liquid-- like a water bra but made for sneaking booze into the Kentucky Derby. (inspired by an incident this year involving ziplock baggies). They decided, being enterprising young gentlemen, that they should invent one for men, also, called the "cock-tail." It's clever, no?
21 December 2006
Oppa Bubba!
Loosely translated, it means "Up above the" as in "Up above the world so high," and it's Bird's cue that it's time to sing "Twinkle Twinkle" OR ELSE. Or else she will keep putting her arms up in the air and shouting "Oppa Bubba!" which, let's be honest, is pretty damn cute.
The Bird has been a little under the weather this week, thanks to the mingling of the Middle Tennessee germs with the Northern Indiana ones at the Christmas shindig last weekend. She's been sleeping in crazy late, and I keep thinking I'll stay home from work and we'll watch videos and snuggle up on the couch until she gets better, so I postpone my shower and do domestic things like fold laundry while she's sleeping until 8. But then she wakes up perky and mostly fine save for the snot, and we race around trying to get ready to leave the house. Trickster.
Snapshot of a Marriage, part something-something
Last night, I asked A. if the Christmas Tree needed water. He answered from the next room, "I took care of it." But what I heard was, "Ask Gary about it."
Which launched into a scenario about Gary Coleman's Tree Watering Service, where a customer would call up and ask, "Do you think my tree needs more water?" And Gary Coleman would answer, "Whatchoo talkin' bout, Mama Snee?"
Which reminds me of one of my favorite Christmas episodes of the Simpsons, where at the end of the episode Homer and Gary Coleman and Bart are standing around a pile of burning Funzos, and Gary Coleman comes over for Christmas dinner and delivers the sweet and sentimental holiday line to tie it all up: "Whatchoo talkin 'bout everybody."
You Totally Don't Want to Know This
Yesterday, I farted and it smelled totally not like a fart, but exactly like an old lady's house-- like musty furniture and chicken broth. And I've been eating neither!
It's, um, due to eating ONLY chocolate covered pretzels yesterday, out of the office stash. Didn't even eat my sandwich. Terrible gas. Don't try this at home, because your home will smell like knee-high pantyhose and twenty-year-old issues of Reader's Digest.
LOST
We've been renting it. Maybe I've told you that. But it's got me by the balls, for real. God bless DVDs and God bless Netflix. It's the only way I can watch a series of shows, and I can watch them every single night, so I don't have to retain much from one episode to the next.
Mental Health Memory Lane
One of my patients was standing in the parking lot in the torrential rain, waiting for her ride home from the center. Another staff person ran out and brought her back into my office to dry off and wait for her ride. She was about sixty years old at the time (and one of my all-time favorites), wearing no bra, thin polyester shirt, soaking freaking wet. She wanted to go back outside and smoke a cigarette on the covered porch, but I told her she looked like she'd been in a wet t-shirt contest and that she'd be giving everyone a show. She responded with, "OOooh! Can they see my furburger?" Furburger. From a sixty-year old woman who could crochet an afghan in two minutes flat.
In Two Days
My in-laws descend upon us. There will be many, many bags of chips.
In One Day
S. and her delightful husband and two fabulous boys arrive in our fair city, all the way from Freezing Ass Cold Spokane. Could not be more excited.
Mine Mine Mine
How do you other bloggers set up that "copyright 2006" business at the bottom of your blogs? Do you have to apply/ pay for that, or do you just throw it out there like some prospector gold-rush jig-dancer staking a claim? Please advise. Because you know there are people lurking out there just waiting to claim my old-lady-house farts as their own. Bastards.
The Bird has been a little under the weather this week, thanks to the mingling of the Middle Tennessee germs with the Northern Indiana ones at the Christmas shindig last weekend. She's been sleeping in crazy late, and I keep thinking I'll stay home from work and we'll watch videos and snuggle up on the couch until she gets better, so I postpone my shower and do domestic things like fold laundry while she's sleeping until 8. But then she wakes up perky and mostly fine save for the snot, and we race around trying to get ready to leave the house. Trickster.
Snapshot of a Marriage, part something-something
Last night, I asked A. if the Christmas Tree needed water. He answered from the next room, "I took care of it." But what I heard was, "Ask Gary about it."
Which launched into a scenario about Gary Coleman's Tree Watering Service, where a customer would call up and ask, "Do you think my tree needs more water?" And Gary Coleman would answer, "Whatchoo talkin' bout, Mama Snee?"
Which reminds me of one of my favorite Christmas episodes of the Simpsons, where at the end of the episode Homer and Gary Coleman and Bart are standing around a pile of burning Funzos, and Gary Coleman comes over for Christmas dinner and delivers the sweet and sentimental holiday line to tie it all up: "Whatchoo talkin 'bout everybody."
You Totally Don't Want to Know This
Yesterday, I farted and it smelled totally not like a fart, but exactly like an old lady's house-- like musty furniture and chicken broth. And I've been eating neither!
It's, um, due to eating ONLY chocolate covered pretzels yesterday, out of the office stash. Didn't even eat my sandwich. Terrible gas. Don't try this at home, because your home will smell like knee-high pantyhose and twenty-year-old issues of Reader's Digest.
LOST
We've been renting it. Maybe I've told you that. But it's got me by the balls, for real. God bless DVDs and God bless Netflix. It's the only way I can watch a series of shows, and I can watch them every single night, so I don't have to retain much from one episode to the next.
Mental Health Memory Lane
One of my patients was standing in the parking lot in the torrential rain, waiting for her ride home from the center. Another staff person ran out and brought her back into my office to dry off and wait for her ride. She was about sixty years old at the time (and one of my all-time favorites), wearing no bra, thin polyester shirt, soaking freaking wet. She wanted to go back outside and smoke a cigarette on the covered porch, but I told her she looked like she'd been in a wet t-shirt contest and that she'd be giving everyone a show. She responded with, "OOooh! Can they see my furburger?" Furburger. From a sixty-year old woman who could crochet an afghan in two minutes flat.
In Two Days
My in-laws descend upon us. There will be many, many bags of chips.
In One Day
S. and her delightful husband and two fabulous boys arrive in our fair city, all the way from Freezing Ass Cold Spokane. Could not be more excited.
Mine Mine Mine
How do you other bloggers set up that "copyright 2006" business at the bottom of your blogs? Do you have to apply/ pay for that, or do you just throw it out there like some prospector gold-rush jig-dancer staking a claim? Please advise. Because you know there are people lurking out there just waiting to claim my old-lady-house farts as their own. Bastards.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)