Guess what happens when you have no gall bladder and eat chicken alfredo for dinner, followed by birthday cake.
I'll be discreet and say, "severe intestinal distress."
SEVERE!
Back to watching my fat intake like an ever-loving hawk. And I'm sort of glad to have this internal alert system.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Further Proof It's Good To Be Queen
Because anyone who reads this blog probably isn't 100% sure I am spoiled rotten.
My birthday haul. How cute is the purse? I love it and the shoes! I also love that DQ gets me a purse and shoes. She knows her Mama! I made my cake this year. Completely my decision. White Sour Cream Almond filled with rasberry jam and frosted with whipped cream icing. Mmmmmmm. Good thing I've opted to postpone the watching what I eat until my birthday celebration wraps up, eh? I've got green curry and lemon pie coming this weekend. The money is for a much-needed haircut and pedicure. I know what I'm doing on Mother's Day! You can't see the Bath & Body Works stuff that Mr. Clairol picked out for me. Orange and Ginger, mmmmmm. Just the thing to soak in while I read the new Jim Butcher novel.
She made me sugar cookies! Most of you have no idea how fantastic her cookies are. I dream of them all year, until Christmas rolls around and she sends out her cookie plates. I never, never share the sugar cookies, though I did let the wee ones split a cookie when we picked up big sis. It was my birthday and I was feeling generous. Don't tell my husband, but they are probably my favorite gift this year!
My birthday haul. How cute is the purse? I love it and the shoes! I also love that DQ gets me a purse and shoes. She knows her Mama! I made my cake this year. Completely my decision. White Sour Cream Almond filled with rasberry jam and frosted with whipped cream icing. Mmmmmmm. Good thing I've opted to postpone the watching what I eat until my birthday celebration wraps up, eh? I've got green curry and lemon pie coming this weekend. The money is for a much-needed haircut and pedicure. I know what I'm doing on Mother's Day! You can't see the Bath & Body Works stuff that Mr. Clairol picked out for me. Orange and Ginger, mmmmmm. Just the thing to soak in while I read the new Jim Butcher novel. The bushel baskets are from Andrea, and had a sweet surprise all their own.
She made me sugar cookies! Most of you have no idea how fantastic her cookies are. I dream of them all year, until Christmas rolls around and she sends out her cookie plates. I never, never share the sugar cookies, though I did let the wee ones split a cookie when we picked up big sis. It was my birthday and I was feeling generous. Don't tell my husband, but they are probably my favorite gift this year!
And how can I forget the roses my husband brought me? Every girl needs a dozen roses, now and then.
A lovely, lovely birthday. Lots of hugs and kisses, lots of laughter, lots of well wishes. I literally could not ask for more. Thank you all for your kind thoughts!
Hawpy Boofday to Yoooooo!
Any day that starts like this has to be good! Here's to no repeat of last year!
Have a great day and lift a glass to me today!
Why yes, I am a shameless birthday whore.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I Have Smart Readers
I got some really great advice from you guys. Maggie asked if I would post the advice I received and frankly, I thought this was an excellent idea.
Noble Pig says this:
You have to eat very close to the earth. Not a lot of processed quick foods, they leave you too hungry. Most importantly start the day right. Eat a good portion of your calories for breakfast with protein, carbs and some fat.Take your weight and multiply it by twelve. That will maintain your current weight. Eat 500 calories less than that number a day to lose 1 lb per week. For breakfast eat 500-600 calories. 2 slices of of bread like Roman Meal Whole grain (it's very low cal), 2 packages of Light String Cheese, 2.5-3 ounces turkey lunch meat, 1 oz of dark chocolate and 8 oz nonfat milk. If you eat this it's about 500-600 calories...I swear you will be full until after lunch and it will stave off cravings. (you must get a kitchen scale that weighs in ounces). Lots of apples with nonfat vanilla yogurt, but the trick is roasted veggies...especially red bell peppers, cauliflower and asparagus. No oil, just some salt. They are so filling and almost calories free. You can eat so many and be stuffed. Okay you probably know all this but I wish you well. I guess you can't do it unless you really want it. I do think calorie counting is the best way and keeping track on spark people is awesome.
There is a lot of wisdom here, just what you'd expect from a prominent food blogger. America's love affair with highly processed foods and it's climbing obesity rates can't be a coincidence. I don't believe our bodies are designed to process these foods efficiently. I've been slowly moving my family towards foods in their natural state. At this point, the most common processed foods we have in the house are pastas, sandwich rolls and buns, breakfast cereals and the beloved blue box Mac & Cheese.
Eating a higher percentage of your calories for breakfast is also smart, especially if you snack a lot in the late morning, early afternoon. This isn't my particular pattern. I tend to snack late in the afternoon and at night. I always eat breakfast, but I keep mine pretty light and have a large lunch. This helps me not snack in the afternoon. Evenings, I just have to say no. Not eating after 7:00 is a habit I'm trying to adopt. Of course, last night's buttered popcorn and M&Ms fly in the face of this. I should have been making more baby presents.
And Spark People IS awesome. A free way to track you food intake online, menu suggestions, fitness plans and exercise tracking; it is the perfect tool for me.
Marnie says:
If we were closer I'd make your ass (pun intended) go walking with me. We could jabber jabber about nothing and lose together.
If Marnie and I lived closer, we'd be pretty damned dangerous, me thinks. An exercise buddy is a fantastic thing. Mr. Clairol and I are resurrecting our evening walks, much to the Beast's delight. There's an element of accountability in walking with a friend that keeps you both moving, even when you don't want to. And the iPod doesn't count.
From frogponder:
Eat better. I love this book - In Defense of Food by Michael Pollen. It makes sense. We need to get back to basic, nutritious food and away from the crap we are marketed to these days.
Frogponder is the second person to recommend this book to me. I have requested it from the library and can't wait to see what wisdom lies within.
The ever lovely Miss Ginger Grant weighs in with:
I just started Nutrisystem- today! It seems pretty brainless. And you're even allowed to add portions of grocery store food, so I made a rule for myself. When I get it home I measure it into portion sizes before it even goes into the fridge. So I can grab a days worth of food an go. Hope it works! Good luck, honey!
First off, I'm sorry for the pun, Miss Ginger. The idea of portioning out food when you get home is brilliant. I should be doing this with everything, now that my children are independent enough to find their own snacks. By not having to think about how much you can have, you make it easier to maintain portion size. The only catch? You can't let yourself snack while portioning it out!
Anne tells me:
Oh Girl, I'm so with you! I started working out two weeks ago on my friend's walking machine or some such thing - 20 minutes a day. I've done it 12 out of 14 days. I just got tired of bitching about my weight and decided to shut up and do something. But note how convenient it is to have said machine. It has helped my outlook enough that I'm trying to cut back on sodas and sweets. I learned how to walk my dog on a leash yesterday so that we can have for real walks with me in charge instead of him, and that will help us both. Its just hard work when it all comes down to it and I don't want to do it most of the time.When I was at Weight Watchers I found this little saying to be true and I need to get back to it:"Nothing tastes as good as how feeling thin feels." And its true, if I could just get back to the motivation thing.
My mother often recites that little gem to me. Since she was heavy most of my life, before shedding about 100 pounds and becoming a gorgeous, slender 40 year old, I tend to believe her. Exercise helps more than you body. It truly changes your outlook on things. It boosts your mood and makes it easier to make smart choices when eating.
Kim says:
I've been seeing a nutritionist and these are her food suggestions:
1) Eat two cups of veggies a day
2) Eat breakfast
3) Increase fiber, each piece of bread should have more than 3g/slice
4) Cut alcohol in half
I wish I could afford a nutritionist. My new mini goal is to get two cups of veggies every day. I'm applying Miss Ginger's advice here and prepping the veggies when I get home from the store. That way it's easy to grab and go. Two cups is less than you might think. For me, it winds up to be a 1/2 cup of mini carrots and spinach salad every day. Noble Pig's roasted veggies are delicious and quick for the days I don't feel like salad.
The breakfast and fiber are under control. The beauty of homemade bread is it's fiber content. My every day bread has 3 grams of fiber. I boosted it from 2.5, by adding extra flax meal and wheat bran. And since I can't drink with the Welbutrin, cutting my alcohol intake is a done deal.
Right now, I'm trying to stay motivated. Motivation seems to be pretty ephemeral for me. It's very easy for me to say, "Aw, screw it," and eat whatever is calling to me. But I wonder if the trick is to keep going after that happens. Because it does happen. To everyone. And when it does, you have a choice. Either ride the wave until it plays itself out, or get over the feeling of failure and get back on track. With a surgery behind me and my 37th birthday approaching in a matter of hours, I feel like it's now or never time. I don't want to be fat and forty.
In order to keep this from becoming a weight-loss blog, I'm resurrecting The Quest For Skinny Pants (again). I'll also post occasional updates and rants here. Thank you all for your advice, support and love. It is much easier to do this in a community.
Noble Pig says this:
You have to eat very close to the earth. Not a lot of processed quick foods, they leave you too hungry. Most importantly start the day right. Eat a good portion of your calories for breakfast with protein, carbs and some fat.Take your weight and multiply it by twelve. That will maintain your current weight. Eat 500 calories less than that number a day to lose 1 lb per week. For breakfast eat 500-600 calories. 2 slices of of bread like Roman Meal Whole grain (it's very low cal), 2 packages of Light String Cheese, 2.5-3 ounces turkey lunch meat, 1 oz of dark chocolate and 8 oz nonfat milk. If you eat this it's about 500-600 calories...I swear you will be full until after lunch and it will stave off cravings. (you must get a kitchen scale that weighs in ounces). Lots of apples with nonfat vanilla yogurt, but the trick is roasted veggies...especially red bell peppers, cauliflower and asparagus. No oil, just some salt. They are so filling and almost calories free. You can eat so many and be stuffed. Okay you probably know all this but I wish you well. I guess you can't do it unless you really want it. I do think calorie counting is the best way and keeping track on spark people is awesome.
There is a lot of wisdom here, just what you'd expect from a prominent food blogger. America's love affair with highly processed foods and it's climbing obesity rates can't be a coincidence. I don't believe our bodies are designed to process these foods efficiently. I've been slowly moving my family towards foods in their natural state. At this point, the most common processed foods we have in the house are pastas, sandwich rolls and buns, breakfast cereals and the beloved blue box Mac & Cheese.
Eating a higher percentage of your calories for breakfast is also smart, especially if you snack a lot in the late morning, early afternoon. This isn't my particular pattern. I tend to snack late in the afternoon and at night. I always eat breakfast, but I keep mine pretty light and have a large lunch. This helps me not snack in the afternoon. Evenings, I just have to say no. Not eating after 7:00 is a habit I'm trying to adopt. Of course, last night's buttered popcorn and M&Ms fly in the face of this. I should have been making more baby presents.
And Spark People IS awesome. A free way to track you food intake online, menu suggestions, fitness plans and exercise tracking; it is the perfect tool for me.
Marnie says:
If we were closer I'd make your ass (pun intended) go walking with me. We could jabber jabber about nothing and lose together.
If Marnie and I lived closer, we'd be pretty damned dangerous, me thinks. An exercise buddy is a fantastic thing. Mr. Clairol and I are resurrecting our evening walks, much to the Beast's delight. There's an element of accountability in walking with a friend that keeps you both moving, even when you don't want to. And the iPod doesn't count.
From frogponder:
Eat better. I love this book - In Defense of Food by Michael Pollen. It makes sense. We need to get back to basic, nutritious food and away from the crap we are marketed to these days.
Frogponder is the second person to recommend this book to me. I have requested it from the library and can't wait to see what wisdom lies within.
The ever lovely Miss Ginger Grant weighs in with:
I just started Nutrisystem- today! It seems pretty brainless. And you're even allowed to add portions of grocery store food, so I made a rule for myself. When I get it home I measure it into portion sizes before it even goes into the fridge. So I can grab a days worth of food an go. Hope it works! Good luck, honey!
First off, I'm sorry for the pun, Miss Ginger. The idea of portioning out food when you get home is brilliant. I should be doing this with everything, now that my children are independent enough to find their own snacks. By not having to think about how much you can have, you make it easier to maintain portion size. The only catch? You can't let yourself snack while portioning it out!
Anne tells me:
Oh Girl, I'm so with you! I started working out two weeks ago on my friend's walking machine or some such thing - 20 minutes a day. I've done it 12 out of 14 days. I just got tired of bitching about my weight and decided to shut up and do something. But note how convenient it is to have said machine. It has helped my outlook enough that I'm trying to cut back on sodas and sweets. I learned how to walk my dog on a leash yesterday so that we can have for real walks with me in charge instead of him, and that will help us both. Its just hard work when it all comes down to it and I don't want to do it most of the time.When I was at Weight Watchers I found this little saying to be true and I need to get back to it:"Nothing tastes as good as how feeling thin feels." And its true, if I could just get back to the motivation thing.
My mother often recites that little gem to me. Since she was heavy most of my life, before shedding about 100 pounds and becoming a gorgeous, slender 40 year old, I tend to believe her. Exercise helps more than you body. It truly changes your outlook on things. It boosts your mood and makes it easier to make smart choices when eating.
Kim says:
I've been seeing a nutritionist and these are her food suggestions:
1) Eat two cups of veggies a day
2) Eat breakfast
3) Increase fiber, each piece of bread should have more than 3g/slice
4) Cut alcohol in half
I wish I could afford a nutritionist. My new mini goal is to get two cups of veggies every day. I'm applying Miss Ginger's advice here and prepping the veggies when I get home from the store. That way it's easy to grab and go. Two cups is less than you might think. For me, it winds up to be a 1/2 cup of mini carrots and spinach salad every day. Noble Pig's roasted veggies are delicious and quick for the days I don't feel like salad.
The breakfast and fiber are under control. The beauty of homemade bread is it's fiber content. My every day bread has 3 grams of fiber. I boosted it from 2.5, by adding extra flax meal and wheat bran. And since I can't drink with the Welbutrin, cutting my alcohol intake is a done deal.
Right now, I'm trying to stay motivated. Motivation seems to be pretty ephemeral for me. It's very easy for me to say, "Aw, screw it," and eat whatever is calling to me. But I wonder if the trick is to keep going after that happens. Because it does happen. To everyone. And when it does, you have a choice. Either ride the wave until it plays itself out, or get over the feeling of failure and get back on track. With a surgery behind me and my 37th birthday approaching in a matter of hours, I feel like it's now or never time. I don't want to be fat and forty.
In order to keep this from becoming a weight-loss blog, I'm resurrecting The Quest For Skinny Pants (again). I'll also post occasional updates and rants here. Thank you all for your advice, support and love. It is much easier to do this in a community.
Monday, April 27, 2009
I Think I Finally Get It
We watched Quantum of Solace last night, and may I say, I am finally a Bond fan.
Not just because Daniel Craig is sex on a stick. Roger Moore, Sean Connery, Pierce Brosnan...all very sexy men, but not enough to get me interested in the 007 franchise. They were too slick, too skilled. Craig is flawed, rough around the edges, violent and a little mean. I'm surprised to find I like those things in a man.
We saw Casino Royale, because Mr. Clairol wanted to. I owed him for all the Harry Potter films he's napped through. I liked the film, despite my expectations. It wasn't the first of the series for me. I've seen Goldfinger, Live and Let Die, View To A Kill and Die Another Day. All of them left me underwhelmed. I assumed that Bond must be a male thing, much like transmissions and pork rinds.
Upon returning from my trip to BlockBuster (where I had been given carte blanche), I whipped out the copy of Quantum that I had rented and Mr. Clairol fainted from shock. Okay, not really, but he was surprised. And truthfully, if there had been a single copy of Doubt left, I would have rented that instead. But there wasn't and I needed some good wife points, so we settled into Bond last night (sans buttered popcorn, thank-you KCRA) and watched Craig bust heads.
It's a good story. I enjoyed the fact that it built on the previous film. A note to those in charge: this is an excellent way to hook female viewers. And let's face it, spending 107 minutes looking at Craig isn't a hardship. The exposition is a little weak, the chemistry is a little wan and I sort of don't get the whole Bond Girl thing, but I enjoyed the movie. Or maybe I just enjoyed Daniel Craig.
Next weekend, Wolverine comes to visit for my birthday and I'm getting all fan-girl geeky just thinking about it. Not for Hugh Jackman, but because we finally get to see Gambit on the big screen. I AM A GEEK!
But Hugh in tight jeans doesn't turn my stomach or anything.
Not just because Daniel Craig is sex on a stick. Roger Moore, Sean Connery, Pierce Brosnan...all very sexy men, but not enough to get me interested in the 007 franchise. They were too slick, too skilled. Craig is flawed, rough around the edges, violent and a little mean. I'm surprised to find I like those things in a man.
We saw Casino Royale, because Mr. Clairol wanted to. I owed him for all the Harry Potter films he's napped through. I liked the film, despite my expectations. It wasn't the first of the series for me. I've seen Goldfinger, Live and Let Die, View To A Kill and Die Another Day. All of them left me underwhelmed. I assumed that Bond must be a male thing, much like transmissions and pork rinds.
Upon returning from my trip to BlockBuster (where I had been given carte blanche), I whipped out the copy of Quantum that I had rented and Mr. Clairol fainted from shock. Okay, not really, but he was surprised. And truthfully, if there had been a single copy of Doubt left, I would have rented that instead. But there wasn't and I needed some good wife points, so we settled into Bond last night (sans buttered popcorn, thank-you KCRA) and watched Craig bust heads.
It's a good story. I enjoyed the fact that it built on the previous film. A note to those in charge: this is an excellent way to hook female viewers. And let's face it, spending 107 minutes looking at Craig isn't a hardship. The exposition is a little weak, the chemistry is a little wan and I sort of don't get the whole Bond Girl thing, but I enjoyed the movie. Or maybe I just enjoyed Daniel Craig.
Next weekend, Wolverine comes to visit for my birthday and I'm getting all fan-girl geeky just thinking about it. Not for Hugh Jackman, but because we finally get to see Gambit on the big screen. I AM A GEEK!
But Hugh in tight jeans doesn't turn my stomach or anything.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Shut-up And Do It Already!
I'm still traumatized by my ass being broadcast on the most -watched Sacramento news program. I can't quit thinking about it. And it leads me to wonder if it isn't time to get off that monumental tuchus and maybe, I don't know, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?!?!?!?!
Gee, I've only been whining about my weight for 15 years now. Hmmmmm. And if, I'm honest, I know exactly what to do. It's a simple equation I've heard a million times. Eat less, move more. Confusion isn't the problem. Motivation is. How do I want the skinny more than I want the food?
My friend, David, is losing weight. I read his updates and even though he has slip-ups, he's trying. I've stopped trying, so I'm pretty envious and full of admiration. I'm going to start trying as well. Tomorrow.
(Yeah, I know, but in the spirit of full disclosure, I had three palmier cookies with my tea this morning.)
So what are your tricks? How do you tackle the motivational side of weight loss?
Gee, I've only been whining about my weight for 15 years now. Hmmmmm. And if, I'm honest, I know exactly what to do. It's a simple equation I've heard a million times. Eat less, move more. Confusion isn't the problem. Motivation is. How do I want the skinny more than I want the food?
My friend, David, is losing weight. I read his updates and even though he has slip-ups, he's trying. I've stopped trying, so I'm pretty envious and full of admiration. I'm going to start trying as well. Tomorrow.
(Yeah, I know, but in the spirit of full disclosure, I had three palmier cookies with my tea this morning.)
So what are your tricks? How do you tackle the motivational side of weight loss?
Friday, April 24, 2009
SOOOOO Not Fair
Not only did I spend 6 and 1/2 hours on my feet at the JBF sale, ringing up sales, *BUT* my giant ass was on the 5:00 and 6:00 news last night. Because the crew just had to set up right *behind* my register. Awesome. Fucking. Awesome. There is no amount of money that will heal that particular trauma.
* Puns totally intended. I love me some booty humor.
* Puns totally intended. I love me some booty humor.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Doing Time
I've embarked a new adventure. Consignment. Frankly, I'm undecided as to whether this adventure will be a one-time jaunt or a continuing thing in my life.
Here's the thing: we have a lot of shit. A lot. And a large portion of it originates with our spawn. My kids are death on clothes. I only had a few pieces that were in good enough shape to sell. But toys? Oh yeah, baby. It's like Santa exploded up in here.
I'll confess, we don't buy many toys. But my family? They more than make up for our stingy habits. My kids have so many toys that I keep half of them put away in labeled bins and rotate them every few weeks. When I went through to cull out the baby toys, I had two enormous bins brimming over, a large outdoor climbing structure, and 4 grocery bags stuffed full of books from DQ's room. Ridiculous.
So, I decided to register for the Just Between Friends consignment sale. I've had friends tell me it's fantastic and well worth the trouble. I don't know that I'd go that far, but I also haven't gotten my check yet. They have two sales a year, one for Spring/Summer and one for Fall/Winter. You register online, create tags for your stuff, hang it, tag it and drop it off. The sale lasts one weekend and at the end of it, your unsold items either get donated or picked up. In return, they take 40% of your profit, leaving you with 60%.
This seemed like a deal to me, since Once Upon A Child only gives you 50% of what they will sell it for. You can get 70% if you volunteer for five hours. Volunteering also gets you admission to a pre-sale before the general public is admitted and early admission to the half off sale that happens Saturday night. Of course, I'm volunteering. Again, I'm not sure it's worth it.
I spent five hours, inspecting other people'scrap stuff, calmly explaining that I was not allowed to accept long sleeved items, sweat suits, sweaters, etc. Brutal. I was floored by how much stuff people had, until a veteran volunteer explained that the really serious sellers buy things at garage sales all year long, then sell it here. On one hand, that seems like a really good idea, but dang! what a lot of work. Of course, I was inspecting one woman's 6 racks of clothes (all Gymboree, most immaculate) and she told me that they made over $900 at the last sale. Whoa. Even better, she called herself a "Gymbor-whore," which oh my hades, made me wet myself.
I go back today for another five hour shift. Because I'm picking up my unsold toys after the sale, I also have to go in for two hours on Sunday. Fun. I'm reserving judgement until I've seen what the pre-sale has to offer and how much money I make. I will say, it was a lot of fun looking at other people's cast-offs and chatting with them. I think I'm more of an extrovert than I give myself credit for.
But I'm really sad I can't have any wine at the end of a long-ass volunteer shift. Damn that Cipro. Of course, there's always the Darvocet...
Here's the thing: we have a lot of shit. A lot. And a large portion of it originates with our spawn. My kids are death on clothes. I only had a few pieces that were in good enough shape to sell. But toys? Oh yeah, baby. It's like Santa exploded up in here.
I'll confess, we don't buy many toys. But my family? They more than make up for our stingy habits. My kids have so many toys that I keep half of them put away in labeled bins and rotate them every few weeks. When I went through to cull out the baby toys, I had two enormous bins brimming over, a large outdoor climbing structure, and 4 grocery bags stuffed full of books from DQ's room. Ridiculous.
So, I decided to register for the Just Between Friends consignment sale. I've had friends tell me it's fantastic and well worth the trouble. I don't know that I'd go that far, but I also haven't gotten my check yet. They have two sales a year, one for Spring/Summer and one for Fall/Winter. You register online, create tags for your stuff, hang it, tag it and drop it off. The sale lasts one weekend and at the end of it, your unsold items either get donated or picked up. In return, they take 40% of your profit, leaving you with 60%.
This seemed like a deal to me, since Once Upon A Child only gives you 50% of what they will sell it for. You can get 70% if you volunteer for five hours. Volunteering also gets you admission to a pre-sale before the general public is admitted and early admission to the half off sale that happens Saturday night. Of course, I'm volunteering. Again, I'm not sure it's worth it.
I spent five hours, inspecting other people's
I go back today for another five hour shift. Because I'm picking up my unsold toys after the sale, I also have to go in for two hours on Sunday. Fun. I'm reserving judgement until I've seen what the pre-sale has to offer and how much money I make. I will say, it was a lot of fun looking at other people's cast-offs and chatting with them. I think I'm more of an extrovert than I give myself credit for.
But I'm really sad I can't have any wine at the end of a long-ass volunteer shift. Damn that Cipro. Of course, there's always the Darvocet...
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
They Don't Make 'Em Like Dr. Ross Anymore
Monday was such a great day. I felt good, my husband had the day off and I got to play at preschool with all my Mommy friends. That afternoon, Mr. Clairol took me to Home Depot, where I bought compost and two dwarf citrus trees. We had some delicious Chinese food for dinner (Thank you, Panda!), turned on the front sprinkler and let the kids go crazy while we planted these trees.
I am now the proud parent of Improved Meyer lemon and Mexican Key lime trees. But that wasn't the best part of the day. Not by a long shot. After the kids went to bed, I made a call to Schmaiser's after-hours help line, since I was noticing the onset of a fun little lady problem. The kind that sends you scurrying to the bathroom every three minutes for nothing. I hate these.
I got my appointment and sat down to facebook for a while. After chatting with a friend I haven't seen since high school, I got up to go to bed and noticed significant pain in my lower back. Hmmm. That was one of the symptoms they said to call back for. So I did, because I am nothing if not obedient. I was told to take some Tylenol and call if the pain got worse. So I went to bed. I went to sleep. I woke up at 1:30 with screaming pain in my left lower back and side. Pain like labor. (But did I take a Darvocet? No. I am dumb.)
I called and they told me to come right to emergency room. By this time Mr. Clairol was awake and rubbing my back as I tried not to cry. We had to wake up DQ, then tootle off to the ER, which is always a party. The use of "tootle" is misleading, since it implies that my husband drove in a safe and leisurely fashion. So not the case. I am grateful for the lax police department of Citrus Heights and the surrounding areas.
Luckily, they took me right in, got me on a bed and set me up with an IV. The whole time I'm sitting there thinking, "No. I'm supposed to be done with IVs, hospital gowns and uncomfortable gurneys" You know, when I wasn't thinking, "AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE this hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts!"
Shortly after the party began, I was introduced to the single best drug I've ever encountered. Dilaudid. Beautiful, beautiful Dilaudid. Once that stuff hit my IV, I was floating on a pink puffy cloud. All through the poking, prodding, x-raying and questions, I drifted. Lovely. I didn't feel incoherent or loopy, just peaceful. I finally get the lure of narcotics.
They brought up a number of possibilities. Ectopic pregnancy, kidney stones, ruptured ovarian cyst. But it wasn't any of those. It was freakin' bladder infection. A BLADDER INFECTION! Can I just tell you guys how stupid I feel? In my defense, that is the single most painful infection I've ever had. I wanted to die before the IV. They sent me home with antibiotics and more Darvocet. Apparently they keep the good stuff for themselves. Damn those bastards.
So I'm back on a steady cocktail of Welbutrin, Cipro and Darvocet. I slept most of yesterday, so loopy from the Darvocet that sleep was the better option for everyone. The pain is pretty much gone today, thank you, God. I'm up and around and back to refusing the Big D in favor of ibuprofen. And my brother has generously offered to take the remaining Darvocet off my hands. He's going to have to wrestle Ramona and Kathy for it though. I'm thinking of selling tickets.
I am now the proud parent of Improved Meyer lemon and Mexican Key lime trees. But that wasn't the best part of the day. Not by a long shot. After the kids went to bed, I made a call to Schmaiser's after-hours help line, since I was noticing the onset of a fun little lady problem. The kind that sends you scurrying to the bathroom every three minutes for nothing. I hate these.
I got my appointment and sat down to facebook for a while. After chatting with a friend I haven't seen since high school, I got up to go to bed and noticed significant pain in my lower back. Hmmm. That was one of the symptoms they said to call back for. So I did, because I am nothing if not obedient. I was told to take some Tylenol and call if the pain got worse. So I went to bed. I went to sleep. I woke up at 1:30 with screaming pain in my left lower back and side. Pain like labor. (But did I take a Darvocet? No. I am dumb.)
I called and they told me to come right to emergency room. By this time Mr. Clairol was awake and rubbing my back as I tried not to cry. We had to wake up DQ, then tootle off to the ER, which is always a party. The use of "tootle" is misleading, since it implies that my husband drove in a safe and leisurely fashion. So not the case. I am grateful for the lax police department of Citrus Heights and the surrounding areas.
Luckily, they took me right in, got me on a bed and set me up with an IV. The whole time I'm sitting there thinking, "No. I'm supposed to be done with IVs, hospital gowns and uncomfortable gurneys" You know, when I wasn't thinking, "AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE this hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts!"
Shortly after the party began, I was introduced to the single best drug I've ever encountered. Dilaudid. Beautiful, beautiful Dilaudid. Once that stuff hit my IV, I was floating on a pink puffy cloud. All through the poking, prodding, x-raying and questions, I drifted. Lovely. I didn't feel incoherent or loopy, just peaceful. I finally get the lure of narcotics.
They brought up a number of possibilities. Ectopic pregnancy, kidney stones, ruptured ovarian cyst. But it wasn't any of those. It was freakin' bladder infection. A BLADDER INFECTION! Can I just tell you guys how stupid I feel? In my defense, that is the single most painful infection I've ever had. I wanted to die before the IV. They sent me home with antibiotics and more Darvocet. Apparently they keep the good stuff for themselves. Damn those bastards.
So I'm back on a steady cocktail of Welbutrin, Cipro and Darvocet. I slept most of yesterday, so loopy from the Darvocet that sleep was the better option for everyone. The pain is pretty much gone today, thank you, God. I'm up and around and back to refusing the Big D in favor of ibuprofen. And my brother has generously offered to take the remaining Darvocet off my hands. He's going to have to wrestle Ramona and Kathy for it though. I'm thinking of selling tickets.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
At Long Last
It's been a month since I announced that I had completed my bathroom project and promised pictures. Don't take it personally. I pretty much operate my life a month behind schedule. I find the racing to meet deadlines already past exhilarating, don't you?
I finally got on the ball, downloaded the pictures from the memory card and got them into blogger. Why is it such a fat pain in the ass to put pictures on your blog? I don't know. But it is. There are also some disclaimers. I have a tiny little bathroom and a crappy point 'n shoot camera, so the pictures are not all that they should be. I've done my level best to give you guys an image of what it was and what it now is, but I dunno. I will say, if you're ever tootling around Citrus Heights, give me a call and I'll give you a tour. With cookies and homemade lemonade.
I've arranged the pictures so that you can see what each element was and what it now is. It is virtually impossible to get the entire room in a single shot. God knows I tried.
This is the view when you enter. A rather nice little vanity and formica sink. You can sort of see the old-fashioned floral wallpaper behind it. It really was lovely paper, but it didn't work with the bedroom decor, which is geometric and modern. Ironically, I didn't change this part at all. The finish is gorgeous and wouldn't accept paint, so that stayed as is. See the bottom edge of the medicine cabinet and how it doesn't match at all? That's what I changed.
The medicine cabinet got a coat of paint and some fresh hardware. Come to thing of it, the vanity got matching knobs as well, so I guess I didn't leave it entirely as is. I also traded the wall paper for a fresh white wall.
The wall cabinet. It appears, in this photo, to match the medicine cabinet. It did not. The medicine cabinet was a yellowy pine, the wall cabinet a honey oak. Let me just say, this drove me bat-shit crazy. For four years. Now they match and I can crap shower in peace.
Pretty, huh? The body of the cabinet is the same shade as my bedroom wall and the accent color is the shade we painted all the doors. I love it. I'm looking for a pretty planter for a tropical plant. I love a little green in a bathroom. You can see the shower curtain as well. It was quite a find because it echoes the paint colors nicely. And it was cheap. I like cheap.
The light fixture. I hated these globes. A lot. I actually loved the fixture itself, but I "accidentally" broke one of the globes, oh darn it, so new ones were a necessity.
Cute, huh? I took these in the evening, so to get a decent shot, I had to loosen that bulb and leave the other on. The lengths I go to for you people!
One of two new switch plates. You only get to see the one because I was lazy and took a single picture. You may notice that I couldn't get Mr. Clairol to trade out the old cream toggle for a new white one. He's so mean. If he's not careful, I'm going to Google it and do it myself.
The most complete shot of the finished product that is possible to achieve. See me standing on my bed to get the angle? And yes, I am holding a pillow in front of my fat legs so you don't perish from over-exposure to pasty fat. That doohickey on the wall by the mirror? That's a clever little hook we got at IKEA. Two more rest in the wall opposite and hold robes and towels next to the shower.
Wasn't that worth the wait? NO? Well Phbbbt.
The medicine cabinet got a coat of paint and some fresh hardware. Come to thing of it, the vanity got matching knobs as well, so I guess I didn't leave it entirely as is. I also traded the wall paper for a fresh white wall.The wall cabinet. It appears, in this photo, to match the medicine cabinet. It did not. The medicine cabinet was a yellowy pine, the wall cabinet a honey oak. Let me just say, this drove me bat-shit crazy. For four years. Now they match and I can Pretty, huh? The body of the cabinet is the same shade as my bedroom wall and the accent color is the shade we painted all the doors. I love it. I'm looking for a pretty planter for a tropical plant. I love a little green in a bathroom. You can see the shower curtain as well. It was quite a find because it echoes the paint colors nicely. And it was cheap. I like cheap.
The light fixture. I hated these globes. A lot. I actually loved the fixture itself, but I "accidentally" broke one of the globes, oh darn it, so new ones were a necessity.Cute, huh? I took these in the evening, so to get a decent shot, I had to loosen that bulb and leave the other on. The lengths I go to for you people!
One of two new switch plates. You only get to see the one because I was lazy and took a single picture. You may notice that I couldn't get Mr. Clairol to trade out the old cream toggle for a new white one. He's so mean. If he's not careful, I'm going to Google it and do it myself.
And there you have it
The most complete shot of the finished product that is possible to achieve. See me standing on my bed to get the angle? And yes, I am holding a pillow in front of my fat legs so you don't perish from over-exposure to pasty fat. That doohickey on the wall by the mirror? That's a clever little hook we got at IKEA. Two more rest in the wall opposite and hold robes and towels next to the shower.
Wasn't that worth the wait? NO? Well Phbbbt.
Shower Curtain: $9
Switch plates: $12
New cabinet hardware: $5
Globes: $14
Hooks: $4
Paint: $0 (leftover from bedroom re-do)
Paint: $0 (leftover from bedroom re-do)
Rugs:$0
Candle holders: $0
Total Cost: $44
Slightly higher than my original total, but those globes put me over. And they were worth every stinkin' penny. Now I'm off to go bask in my new bathroom. Don't ask what I'll be doing. You really don't want to know.
Monday, April 20, 2009
My Latest Endeavor
While I've been down, I've not been out. Oh no, not at all. I've been a busy little bee, children.I watched a hell of a lot of movies, including, but not limited to the entire John Hughes catalog, Twilight and the first two Mummy movies. I've finished the Harry Dresden books by Jim Butcher. I've completed many, many crosswords. I've played many games of computer Mah Johng.
And I've learned to crochet.
Now, if a little shiver just went up your spine, you are a smart person. I've discovered that, while crocheting is a perfect past time for the laid-back, an intense individual such as myself should find another hobby. Fencing, perhaps, or skydiving. Maybe fire-swallowing.
It's not that I find the work boring. Quite the opposite. I'm hunched over the little scrap I'm creating, driving the hook through the stitches as if my survival depends on working the tip through the loop. The hook is a sharp stick and the scrap is the ocean and I am starving on this deserted island, trying to catch a fish. (Oh yeah, I'm watching a lot of LOST as well.)
My stitches are so impossibly tight I've had to adjust my technique, hooking the stitch and yanking it open, just so the next stitch can be added. My wrist aches and my neck and shoulders are so knotted, I'm considering refilling the Darvocet. This is a struggle for me. An epic, woman against yarn struggle.
I haven't given up. Oh no. In fact, I think I might be able to parlay this new torture hobby into income. I'm planning on opening an Etsy store full of baby gifts for people you hate. My first item for sale? A burp cloth.
Now it's not done, but wouldn't this be a perfect gift for that bitchy woman you just despise? Can't you just see her face when she opens it at the baby shower? I especially like the flared end. The uneven edges are a nice touch as well. I may charge extra for that chewed up look. I really think there's a market for this sort of thing. I won't tag them, so the buyer can claim it's homemade. How brilliant is this idea?!?
I think knitting will be my next challenge. Think of all the damage I could do with two needles instead of a single hook!
Friday, April 17, 2009
High School Is Going To Kill Me
Last night, I sat in a crowded cafeteria with 350 other parents and listened to what the next four years of my life will become. I'm not sure who is more anxious about high school, me or Drama Queen.
She'll start in Algebra 2, Spanish 3, Honors English and History. Her science placement is decided by the school, based on her final grade in her current class (Physical Science). PE is also up in the air. We do know she'll be taking a double course of summer school this year, both in PE, since the IB requirements don't allow room for PE classes during the year. She's positively giddy with the prospect. (Note: heavy sarcasm should be inferred)
In addition to these piddly little classes, she'll also be completing a personal project during her freshman and sophomore year. Some of the sample projects we were shown were a line of recycled clothing, sewn by a young woman, a concert of a young man who had learned to play the piano for his project, a detailed dietary plan that boosted the nutritional content of three countries typical meals and my personal favorite, a video game designed and marketed by the student. And 150 hours of community service. Plus electives!
Dear Hades. No wonder gifted kids are so socially awkward. We leave them no time to do anything social.
Her senior year will consist of testing and prep for said testing. If she passes her exams, she will graduate from high school with credit that is equivalent to the A-G classes at a California State University. Which will be awesome, if we survive.
I'll be busy as well. Because IB parents are heavilyguiltedencouraged to join the IB parent's club, volunteer at a Bingo parlor that supports our school, help with grant research and writing, join at least three committees and hold an elected position within either the PTSA or the IBPO. Because if you don't, you hate your child and are condemning them to a life spent flipping burgers and wrestling with the question of why their parent's didn't care enough to dispense Bingo cards to the elderly.
Hello? I have a life. And a blog. And two other children. Plus, my husband likes it when I'm awake beyond 8:00 pm. I'm scared, you guys. This is way more than I bargained for. Is it too late to home school her?
She'll start in Algebra 2, Spanish 3, Honors English and History. Her science placement is decided by the school, based on her final grade in her current class (Physical Science). PE is also up in the air. We do know she'll be taking a double course of summer school this year, both in PE, since the IB requirements don't allow room for PE classes during the year. She's positively giddy with the prospect. (Note: heavy sarcasm should be inferred)
In addition to these piddly little classes, she'll also be completing a personal project during her freshman and sophomore year. Some of the sample projects we were shown were a line of recycled clothing, sewn by a young woman, a concert of a young man who had learned to play the piano for his project, a detailed dietary plan that boosted the nutritional content of three countries typical meals and my personal favorite, a video game designed and marketed by the student. And 150 hours of community service. Plus electives!
Dear Hades. No wonder gifted kids are so socially awkward. We leave them no time to do anything social.
Her senior year will consist of testing and prep for said testing. If she passes her exams, she will graduate from high school with credit that is equivalent to the A-G classes at a California State University. Which will be awesome, if we survive.
I'll be busy as well. Because IB parents are heavily
Hello? I have a life. And a blog. And two other children. Plus, my husband likes it when I'm awake beyond 8:00 pm. I'm scared, you guys. This is way more than I bargained for. Is it too late to home school her?
I'm Easily Impressed
Little known fact: Drama Queen used to be mortified by the fact that her mother didn't buy cookies. She thought the fact that she only had homemade meant we were poor. We were, but that wasn't the point. I like homemade cookies. I believe thay are better than storebought. And I'm the mommy which means I have total control over cookie production, including veto power.
I try not to let it go to my head, but it's hard.
Now, of course, she loves it. It's suddenly exotic and her friends think it's cool. My husband really loves it. When we married, he wasn't much a sweets person. I've changed that over seven years of marriage. I get some complaints from his belt, but it's hard to hear since his belly muffles it. (Love you, baby!)
Needless to say, I do a lot of baking. I make a lot of cookies, since my daughter and husband are fond of sharing. At least, I hope my husband is sharing. He routinely takes a dozen or two into work. Hmmmm, should probably check on this. But it leads to a problem. I get sick of mixing up a batch of cookies 3-4 times a week. As much as I love to cook, the measuring and dragging ingredients in and out is tedious. Plus, cookies are always better the day they are baked, right? So I've gotten clever.
I've started making double batches of two or three recipes at a time. I portion the cookies out on a cookie sheet with my scoop, but instead of the oven, I pop them in the freezer! See? I told you I was clever! *preen* After the dough is firm (about an hour), I transfer them to a plastic bag. I label the bags by batch and write the oven temperature and bake time on the bag. Then, when we need cookies, I just bake up a couple dozen. You can even bake them frozen. YAY! So far, I've tried this with my oatmeal-raisin, peanut-butter-chocolate-chip, plain chocolate chip and sandies. I'm not sure how it would work with cookies like snickerdoodles or chocolate crinkles, but I'll be trying that after I recover from surgery.
Confession: I'm 75% sure I read this in a magazine some time ago. It sort of smacks of Real Simple or Martha. If you know of a source for this tip, let me know so I can credit them, rather than bounce around thinking I'm the shiz-nit. I should probably be taken down a peg, you know?
I try not to let it go to my head, but it's hard.
Now, of course, she loves it. It's suddenly exotic and her friends think it's cool. My husband really loves it. When we married, he wasn't much a sweets person. I've changed that over seven years of marriage. I get some complaints from his belt, but it's hard to hear since his belly muffles it. (Love you, baby!)
Needless to say, I do a lot of baking. I make a lot of cookies, since my daughter and husband are fond of sharing. At least, I hope my husband is sharing. He routinely takes a dozen or two into work. Hmmmm, should probably check on this. But it leads to a problem. I get sick of mixing up a batch of cookies 3-4 times a week. As much as I love to cook, the measuring and dragging ingredients in and out is tedious. Plus, cookies are always better the day they are baked, right? So I've gotten clever.
I've started making double batches of two or three recipes at a time. I portion the cookies out on a cookie sheet with my scoop, but instead of the oven, I pop them in the freezer! See? I told you I was clever! *preen* After the dough is firm (about an hour), I transfer them to a plastic bag. I label the bags by batch and write the oven temperature and bake time on the bag. Then, when we need cookies, I just bake up a couple dozen. You can even bake them frozen. YAY! So far, I've tried this with my oatmeal-raisin, peanut-butter-chocolate-chip, plain chocolate chip and sandies. I'm not sure how it would work with cookies like snickerdoodles or chocolate crinkles, but I'll be trying that after I recover from surgery.
Confession: I'm 75% sure I read this in a magazine some time ago. It sort of smacks of Real Simple or Martha. If you know of a source for this tip, let me know so I can credit them, rather than bounce around thinking I'm the shiz-nit. I should probably be taken down a peg, you know?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Back In The Saddle, Sort Of
Let me first say, how darling is my husband? I asked him to moderate my comments and maybe post an update when he got me home. I think he's finally discovered the lure of blogging. I only get to look at the comments when I can beat him to the computer now. He really likes you guys and has decided you really do exist! YAY!
I wish you could see how he takes care of me. He brings me meals on a tray, helps me up and down, buys me crossword puzzles and novels, makes me take my pain meds. He hasn't once yet told me to get over myself. Which is an accomplishment, since I don't tend to do laid-up very well. The kids are dressed every day and he survived his day at preschool with minimal trauma.
I on the other hand, am hating this. Every freaking minute of it. So now that I can be up at the computer for longer than 3-4 minutes, I want to moan and bitch and whine. Doesn't that sound like fun? Here are the things I've learned about myself during this recovery.
1. I don't like pain medication. At all. I'd rather be in pain than feeling that dizzy, cork-bobbing-in-the-ocean feeling. It sucks. Darvocet sucks.
2. I miss walking. I know, I never thought I'd say that either.
3. I miss cooking. After I got Missy's me book updated, I went to work on my cookbook project and poring through those recipes made me long for my kitchen again. That being said, we have gotten delicious meals during this last week. Including a pot roast that made me want to weep for joy. SO GOOD.
4. My children have incredibly bony elbows and radar for placing them on incision sites. I wish this were a marketable skill.
5. I miss writing. Sadly, sitting up like this for longer than 15 minutes makes me sore and dizzy. Since I'm trying to avoid the pain meds, I'm limiting upright time.
6. I miss you guys. I'm trying to visit a blog or two every day, but when you visit as many places as I do, that gets hard. It would help if you guys could just stop posting for a while, let me get all caught up, you know? No? Okay, fine. Be that way.
Thank you all for you kind words and good thoughts. I'm looking forward to coming back full-strength!
I wish you could see how he takes care of me. He brings me meals on a tray, helps me up and down, buys me crossword puzzles and novels, makes me take my pain meds. He hasn't once yet told me to get over myself. Which is an accomplishment, since I don't tend to do laid-up very well. The kids are dressed every day and he survived his day at preschool with minimal trauma.
I on the other hand, am hating this. Every freaking minute of it. So now that I can be up at the computer for longer than 3-4 minutes, I want to moan and bitch and whine. Doesn't that sound like fun? Here are the things I've learned about myself during this recovery.
1. I don't like pain medication. At all. I'd rather be in pain than feeling that dizzy, cork-bobbing-in-the-ocean feeling. It sucks. Darvocet sucks.
2. I miss walking. I know, I never thought I'd say that either.
3. I miss cooking. After I got Missy's me book updated, I went to work on my cookbook project and poring through those recipes made me long for my kitchen again. That being said, we have gotten delicious meals during this last week. Including a pot roast that made me want to weep for joy. SO GOOD.
4. My children have incredibly bony elbows and radar for placing them on incision sites. I wish this were a marketable skill.
5. I miss writing. Sadly, sitting up like this for longer than 15 minutes makes me sore and dizzy. Since I'm trying to avoid the pain meds, I'm limiting upright time.
6. I miss you guys. I'm trying to visit a blog or two every day, but when you visit as many places as I do, that gets hard. It would help if you guys could just stop posting for a while, let me get all caught up, you know? No? Okay, fine. Be that way.
Thank you all for you kind words and good thoughts. I'm looking forward to coming back full-strength!
Monday, April 13, 2009
And The World Loses Another Light
I have never read the Spohr's website before tonight. I was unfamiliar with their story. I have been randomly scanning blogs, trying to get at least a little caught up before Darvocet bends me over a prescription bottle and has it's way with me. I keep seeing new purple backgrounds and the news that a lovely little girl with a smile that has so much light and love, it could solve the energy crisis, has died.
Died. Her parents took her to the doctor's office and then the hospital and had to leave without her. Forever. And though I don't know these people, my heart breaks. I am typing this through tears for a child I just met tonight. Reading through her mother's blog, I realize you can be eating ice cream one night, complaining about your weight, then get bitch-slapped by life. I cry because losing a child is my greatest fear, the one thing I am not sure I could live through. I suffer for them. Their child is in a better place and safe in the loving arms of God, I know. I don't cry for her. I weep for her parents, who will miss her every single day for the rest of their lives. Every year, there will be days of pain, as they commemorate her birthday and her death.
If you wish, there are lots of ways to help them. Sarcastic Mom has a wonderful, comprehensive map of your options and truthfully, the pain medication has it's hand up my nightgown, so I'll send you over to her. If you do nothing else for them, send a good thought.
I'm going to go cry now.
Died. Her parents took her to the doctor's office and then the hospital and had to leave without her. Forever. And though I don't know these people, my heart breaks. I am typing this through tears for a child I just met tonight. Reading through her mother's blog, I realize you can be eating ice cream one night, complaining about your weight, then get bitch-slapped by life. I cry because losing a child is my greatest fear, the one thing I am not sure I could live through. I suffer for them. Their child is in a better place and safe in the loving arms of God, I know. I don't cry for her. I weep for her parents, who will miss her every single day for the rest of their lives. Every year, there will be days of pain, as they commemorate her birthday and her death.
If you wish, there are lots of ways to help them. Sarcastic Mom has a wonderful, comprehensive map of your options and truthfully, the pain medication has it's hand up my nightgown, so I'll send you over to her. If you do nothing else for them, send a good thought.
I'm going to go cry now.
I've Finally Made It
If there's been one thing that was a fly in my blogging ointment, it was the complete lack of trolls. I mean c'mon. Everyone has had a troll or two, right? And you know what they say, you're not a real blogger until you've had an anonymous nasty comment. So really, while I adore you all and your comments have made you my friends, I've long wondered why the trolls never bothered me.
To be honest, I was sort of getting a complex. I was feeling like I wasn't good enough to even merit their attention. And as weird as it is, I'm being sincere. This is not my feelings are hurt and I'm playing it off as funny. I really was wondering. But I don't have to anymore.
I GOT MY FIRST NASTY COMMENT!
Whew! When I opened my moderation page and read anonymous's words, my eyes welled. "Finally!" I shouted at my empty house. "Someone cares enough to be mean! " Thank you, Anonymous. Thank you for pointing out that people have the right to hate children. It means so much to me that out of all the mommy blogs out there, you chose mine to crap on. Because it tells me I'm doing something right. I needed that affirmation right now.
I was going to reprint the comment here for you guys, but really, I don't have the energy to cut and paste right now. Fucking surgery. It's put a crimp in my boogie, that much is fo' sho'. But I did publish it, so you can go back to this post and read about how just because I think my kids are being well behaved doesn't mean everyone needs to say hi or be nice. Which actually has merit. Anonymous is right. Some people hate kids. Whatever. I can now have fun tormenting them with my spawn, which, I gotta tell you, makes me giddy with anticipation! I never thought about it that way. It truly puts my errand running in a whole new light and I can now view running errands as a way to piss people off. I live for that.
Thank you, Anonymous. I'm not going to be ungrateful and ask that you check your use of capitals and punctuation next time. That would just be bitchy. (Though your message would have more impact if it were correctly punctuated. Sorry, it's the teacher in me.) You were gentle and considerate as you popped my cherry. I'll always remember your words of truth. You've delighted this little mommy blogger to no end. MWAH! Call me, okay?
To be honest, I was sort of getting a complex. I was feeling like I wasn't good enough to even merit their attention. And as weird as it is, I'm being sincere. This is not my feelings are hurt and I'm playing it off as funny. I really was wondering. But I don't have to anymore.
I GOT MY FIRST NASTY COMMENT!
Whew! When I opened my moderation page and read anonymous's words, my eyes welled. "Finally!" I shouted at my empty house. "Someone cares enough to be mean! " Thank you, Anonymous. Thank you for pointing out that people have the right to hate children. It means so much to me that out of all the mommy blogs out there, you chose mine to crap on. Because it tells me I'm doing something right. I needed that affirmation right now.
I was going to reprint the comment here for you guys, but really, I don't have the energy to cut and paste right now. Fucking surgery. It's put a crimp in my boogie, that much is fo' sho'. But I did publish it, so you can go back to this post and read about how just because I think my kids are being well behaved doesn't mean everyone needs to say hi or be nice. Which actually has merit. Anonymous is right. Some people hate kids. Whatever. I can now have fun tormenting them with my spawn, which, I gotta tell you, makes me giddy with anticipation! I never thought about it that way. It truly puts my errand running in a whole new light and I can now view running errands as a way to piss people off. I live for that.
Thank you, Anonymous. I'm not going to be ungrateful and ask that you check your use of capitals and punctuation next time. That would just be bitchy. (Though your message would have more impact if it were correctly punctuated. Sorry, it's the teacher in me.) You were gentle and considerate as you popped my cherry. I'll always remember your words of truth. You've delighted this little mommy blogger to no end. MWAH! Call me, okay?
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Brother For Sale
Is pestiness encoded in the DNA of little brothers? It must be because Red is driving Missy (and me) crazy.
I remember these struggles with my own little brother. As an adult, I can see that his behavior wasn't as awful as it seemed, but he still gets on my nerves sometimes, so the little brother effect never completely fades. It was made worse by the fact that my mother seemed to always take his side. I was older, so I needed to share, to play with him, to be kind. Not that I did any of those things. I wasn't as fabulous then, as I am now.
It's bad right now. Red is an early riser and Missy is not. On the days we don't have to get up and take Drama Queen to school, Missy will sleep until 8-9 o'clock, which is torture for my little early bird. I have to work hard at keeping him from waking her up and frequently, like Last Monday, he manages to get by me and wake a very grumpy four-year-old. He's baffled that she isn't more grateful for the wake-up call. After all, there's fun to be had!
Missy is mostly to blame for this. If she wasn't so cool and awesome and hilarious, Red wouldn't want to be just like her. Everything she does, he copies. Everywhere she goes, he wants to follow. He wants to play with what she plays with, eat what she eats, say what she's saying. But it's hard to get perspective on that when all you really want to do is play with your damn Polly Pockets and your stupid poo-poo head of a brother is using their speed boat as an airplane. Or making the dolls jump off the side of the bed. Or chewing on a dress. I completely understand the desire to push him off the bed, even if I cannot support that course of action.
There's a lot of yelling these days. A lot of crying and time-out. A lot of toys that need to take a rest because they're not being shared. Frankly, I'm tempted to take all the toys away and make them use each other as toys. Heh heh. That would be YouTube worthy. If they both make it to Adulthood alive and without too many scars (physical and psychological) I'll have done my job.
The good news is I've discovered all of the places in our house that you can imprison a sibling. I think.
I remember these struggles with my own little brother. As an adult, I can see that his behavior wasn't as awful as it seemed, but he still gets on my nerves sometimes, so the little brother effect never completely fades. It was made worse by the fact that my mother seemed to always take his side. I was older, so I needed to share, to play with him, to be kind. Not that I did any of those things. I wasn't as fabulous then, as I am now.
It's bad right now. Red is an early riser and Missy is not. On the days we don't have to get up and take Drama Queen to school, Missy will sleep until 8-9 o'clock, which is torture for my little early bird. I have to work hard at keeping him from waking her up and frequently, like Last Monday, he manages to get by me and wake a very grumpy four-year-old. He's baffled that she isn't more grateful for the wake-up call. After all, there's fun to be had!
Missy is mostly to blame for this. If she wasn't so cool and awesome and hilarious, Red wouldn't want to be just like her. Everything she does, he copies. Everywhere she goes, he wants to follow. He wants to play with what she plays with, eat what she eats, say what she's saying. But it's hard to get perspective on that when all you really want to do is play with your damn Polly Pockets and your stupid poo-poo head of a brother is using their speed boat as an airplane. Or making the dolls jump off the side of the bed. Or chewing on a dress. I completely understand the desire to push him off the bed, even if I cannot support that course of action.
There's a lot of yelling these days. A lot of crying and time-out. A lot of toys that need to take a rest because they're not being shared. Frankly, I'm tempted to take all the toys away and make them use each other as toys. Heh heh. That would be YouTube worthy. If they both make it to Adulthood alive and without too many scars (physical and psychological) I'll have done my job.
The good news is I've discovered all of the places in our house that you can imprison a sibling. I think.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
FREEDOM RINGS IN OUR LIVING ROOM
WELL FOLKS TODAY IS A NEW DAY AND OUR GIRL IS SMILING AND UP N AROUND.STILL SORE BUT HAPPY TO BE FREE OF THAT EVIL BED.THE NEW MEDS SEEM TO BE WORKING OK .NO WORRIES SHE WILL BE BACK SOON====MR C
As The Parking Lot Turns
Proof that I am far closer to red-neckedness than I want to admit: My husband and I had a deep, meaningful, tear-inducing conversation in a Wal-Mart parking lot.
It began as a rant against the state of her room. He was concerned that I had let her spend the night at a friend's house when her room could qualify as a hazardous waste dump site. We discussed how we were going to approach this battle that frankly, I believe we are destined to lose. It was a good discussion but as discussions tend to do, it bled out onto other topics.
Turns out he's terrified she's going to wander through life, never holding a job, evading any responsibility and continually letting down people who love her. In other words, he's afraid she's going to turn into her father. That's why he's so concerned about her actions now. Because he sees so much of her father in them. This makes me tear up a little. I knew he's be a good father to her and I knew he'd love her, but he's gone beyond that. In his mind, she is his daughter. There is no "step." And I get a little weepy when I think of how incredibly blessed we are to have this man.
It also turns out that he's having visions of the Boyfriend Whom We Had Hoped Was Gay copping a feel at the next dance. So he has decided to chaperon. In his words, "I don't want to be there, but at the same time? I want to be there and I want him to know I'm there." MMM-hmmm. So he's practicing his thousand yard stare and asking me if having his face tattooed is overkill. To which I reply, "Not at all, as long as you're having fluffy, pink bunnies marching across your forehead." He's not, by the way. Which is a shame, because that would be fucking hilarious.
And yes, I nixed the bandoleer and poncho. He's also not allowed to ask if BWWHHWG feels lucky. Or stand between them during slow dances. You know, I think I better chaperon this one.
It began as a rant against the state of her room. He was concerned that I had let her spend the night at a friend's house when her room could qualify as a hazardous waste dump site. We discussed how we were going to approach this battle that frankly, I believe we are destined to lose. It was a good discussion but as discussions tend to do, it bled out onto other topics.
Turns out he's terrified she's going to wander through life, never holding a job, evading any responsibility and continually letting down people who love her. In other words, he's afraid she's going to turn into her father. That's why he's so concerned about her actions now. Because he sees so much of her father in them. This makes me tear up a little. I knew he's be a good father to her and I knew he'd love her, but he's gone beyond that. In his mind, she is his daughter. There is no "step." And I get a little weepy when I think of how incredibly blessed we are to have this man.
It also turns out that he's having visions of the Boyfriend Whom We Had Hoped Was Gay copping a feel at the next dance. So he has decided to chaperon. In his words, "I don't want to be there, but at the same time? I want to be there and I want him to know I'm there." MMM-hmmm. So he's practicing his thousand yard stare and asking me if having his face tattooed is overkill. To which I reply, "Not at all, as long as you're having fluffy, pink bunnies marching across your forehead." He's not, by the way. Which is a shame, because that would be fucking hilarious.
And yes, I nixed the bandoleer and poncho. He's also not allowed to ask if BWWHHWG feels lucky. Or stand between them during slow dances. You know, I think I better chaperon this one.
Friday, April 10, 2009
MY GIRL IS DOING OK
JUST WANTED TO LET YOU ALL KNOW OUR GIRL IS DOING FINE.A LOT MORE PAIN TODAY .IVE GOT A CALL IN FOR STRONGER MEDS--NO WORRIES SHE,S TOUGHER THAN YOU THINK..MR CLAIROL
Falling Out Of Bloggy Love
I used to follow a blog. It was my very favorite and I visited every single day. The author was a hilarious single parent whose writing skill left me feeling like a paltry little ant.
And then she changed.
It was gradual. Her circumstances changed but that didn't phase me. She was still witty and brilliant. But gradually, her attitude became grating. She would describe a problem she was having and in the next post, sarcastically scold her commenters for offering their thoughts. She began to sound judgemental. She began campaigning for whatever alarmist food propaganda was making the rounds. No hormones in the milk! Only buy organic! You can't love your children and feed them high fructose corn syrup! Genetically modified food will kill us all! And all the while, writing about rolling her eyes at people who had done nothing but exist and try to make pleasant conversation with her in real life.
Ugh.
Here's the thing. I agree with her on a lot of things. I don't like hormones in my milk. I try to feed my children the best food I can afford. But who wants read through a cloud of smug? I don't like reading derision, couched in a way that I assume is supposed to be funny, but is just mean-spirited?
I don't read her every day anymore. When I do wander over, I tend to do a lot of eye-rolling myself and I have to stop myself from leaving comments like, "Relax, lady or you'll get splinters from that stick up your ass." So I'm taking her off my favorites, because you guys know me. Someday soon, that temptation will overcome my better judgement and I'll become an obnoxious troll. I don't do mean girls, even when they're funny as hell bloggers. I'm a little shocked I haven't already.
Let me be clear, I'm not trying to punish anyone. It's not going to make a whit of difference to this woman. This blogger is a semi rock-star. She doesn't even know I'm alive. It's me, not her. Okay, actually it is her, but she never has to know that. And I think this sort of thing happens a lot. Blogging isn't forever. People change. It's the circle of blog or some such shit.
Do me a favor. If I ever get so obnoxious that you can't read me anymore, give me a heads up, particularly if I'm preachy. I detest preachy. I might not correct the problem. But I promise not to scold you in a post for giving me "ass-vice." I'll probably cry though. Since I'm such a sensitive little bunny. And if I stop amusing you, it's okay to stop reading. I'll miss you terribly, but if you love something, set if free. Yes, my Bible is now entirely made up of Sting lyrics. It is the New Sting Version. More pop than King James, but deeper than The Student Bible. Pardon me, while I duck a lightning strike.
If you caught the South Park reference, you will make me weep tears of joy. Or maybe fart.
And then she changed.
It was gradual. Her circumstances changed but that didn't phase me. She was still witty and brilliant. But gradually, her attitude became grating. She would describe a problem she was having and in the next post, sarcastically scold her commenters for offering their thoughts. She began to sound judgemental. She began campaigning for whatever alarmist food propaganda was making the rounds. No hormones in the milk! Only buy organic! You can't love your children and feed them high fructose corn syrup! Genetically modified food will kill us all! And all the while, writing about rolling her eyes at people who had done nothing but exist and try to make pleasant conversation with her in real life.
Ugh.
Here's the thing. I agree with her on a lot of things. I don't like hormones in my milk. I try to feed my children the best food I can afford. But who wants read through a cloud of smug? I don't like reading derision, couched in a way that I assume is supposed to be funny, but is just mean-spirited?
I don't read her every day anymore. When I do wander over, I tend to do a lot of eye-rolling myself and I have to stop myself from leaving comments like, "Relax, lady or you'll get splinters from that stick up your ass." So I'm taking her off my favorites, because you guys know me. Someday soon, that temptation will overcome my better judgement and I'll become an obnoxious troll. I don't do mean girls, even when they're funny as hell bloggers. I'm a little shocked I haven't already.
Let me be clear, I'm not trying to punish anyone. It's not going to make a whit of difference to this woman. This blogger is a semi rock-star. She doesn't even know I'm alive. It's me, not her. Okay, actually it is her, but she never has to know that. And I think this sort of thing happens a lot. Blogging isn't forever. People change. It's the circle of blog or some such shit.
Do me a favor. If I ever get so obnoxious that you can't read me anymore, give me a heads up, particularly if I'm preachy. I detest preachy. I might not correct the problem. But I promise not to scold you in a post for giving me "ass-vice." I'll probably cry though. Since I'm such a sensitive little bunny. And if I stop amusing you, it's okay to stop reading. I'll miss you terribly, but if you love something, set if free. Yes, my Bible is now entirely made up of Sting lyrics. It is the New Sting Version. More pop than King James, but deeper than The Student Bible. Pardon me, while I duck a lightning strike.
If you caught the South Park reference, you will make me weep tears of joy. Or maybe fart.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
SWAK
Thursday, Drama Queen got into the car with a huge smile on her face. She looked at me and said, "It happened."
And I knew exactly what she meant. It didn't freak me out the way I thought it would. I was simply happy for her. A little bummed that the "best-gay-friend" boyfriend may, in fact, not be gay, but happy nonetheless.
My baby girl had her first kiss. And she told me about it.
(For the record, I have her permission to blog about it.)
Mr. Clairol freaked. Quietly, but royally. We're sitting at dinner, DQ asking everyone how their day was, in this weird, cheesy voice. Mr. C knowing something is up, asks DQ how her day was.
DQ: Exxxxxcellent!
MC: What made it so good?
DQ: Ohhh, nothing. *huge satisfied smile on face*
MC: Something had to make it that good.
DQ: Just an aura of happiness over the day, is all.
Yes, I did tell her that teasing her father was the wrong way to go about keeping it a secret. This went on for a while, but I love my husband and don't want him to stroke out, so I looked at him and made kissy noises. DQ wanted to tell him, I know she did, but it was embarrassing and this was her passive aggressive way of getting me to tell him what had happened. I truly hate it when she does this.
He didn't yell, or threaten to hunt this boy down. He did ask her how it had happened and she evaded, blushing the brightest pink I've ever seen skin achieve. Which I don't understand at all, because hey, doesn't every girl want to tell her father all about her first kiss in excruciating detail? They went 'round and 'round and I'll be honest, I totally lost my shit, laughing so hard I wet myself a little. He wanted details and it was killing her to actually talk about it. These are the moments that warm a mother's heart. Rather than laugh my ass off for the rest of dinner, I helped by asking DQ detailed questions, providing the information my husband was seeking. I am a very good mother and wife. I think he was satisfied, but if not, he took her to school the next morning, so the was opportunity for the Inquisition to continue.
Our Baby is growing up.
And I knew exactly what she meant. It didn't freak me out the way I thought it would. I was simply happy for her. A little bummed that the "best-gay-friend" boyfriend may, in fact, not be gay, but happy nonetheless.
My baby girl had her first kiss. And she told me about it.
(For the record, I have her permission to blog about it.)
Mr. Clairol freaked. Quietly, but royally. We're sitting at dinner, DQ asking everyone how their day was, in this weird, cheesy voice. Mr. C knowing something is up, asks DQ how her day was.
DQ: Exxxxxcellent!
MC: What made it so good?
DQ: Ohhh, nothing. *huge satisfied smile on face*
MC: Something had to make it that good.
DQ: Just an aura of happiness over the day, is all.
Yes, I did tell her that teasing her father was the wrong way to go about keeping it a secret. This went on for a while, but I love my husband and don't want him to stroke out, so I looked at him and made kissy noises. DQ wanted to tell him, I know she did, but it was embarrassing and this was her passive aggressive way of getting me to tell him what had happened. I truly hate it when she does this.
He didn't yell, or threaten to hunt this boy down. He did ask her how it had happened and she evaded, blushing the brightest pink I've ever seen skin achieve. Which I don't understand at all, because hey, doesn't every girl want to tell her father all about her first kiss in excruciating detail? They went 'round and 'round and I'll be honest, I totally lost my shit, laughing so hard I wet myself a little. He wanted details and it was killing her to actually talk about it. These are the moments that warm a mother's heart. Rather than laugh my ass off for the rest of dinner, I helped by asking DQ detailed questions, providing the information my husband was seeking. I am a very good mother and wife. I think he was satisfied, but if not, he took her to school the next morning, so the was opportunity for the Inquisition to continue.
Our Baby is growing up.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
MY GIRL IS HOME (minus the marble thingys)
WELL THE END OF THE DAY IS HERE AND MY GIRL IS HOME SAFE AND SOUND A BIT WOOZY AND SORE BUT OK .THANK YOU ALL FOR COMMENTS AND DOES ANYBODY KNOW IF HAVING THAT GIZZARD THING TAKEN OUT IF IT MAKES YOU LESS ORNERY.=-=-MR CLAIROL
Help Wanted
This surgery is doing more than relieving me of pain. It is also reducing my vanity. This is actually a good thing.
I have trouble accepting help. A lot of trouble and I think this is pretty widespread among mothers. We feel we should be able to be organized enough that being out of commission for 1-6 weeks shouldn't be a problem. News flash: it is a problem.
People offer help in this scenario. And being the arrogant little brat that I am, I usually claim I have it under control, but thank you very much and yes, I know you wish you were as on top of things as me. Which is vanity, pure and simple. Also, dishonesty, since really, staying in control of this particular situation is virtually impossible.
I haven't done that this time. Several people have offered help, bringing meals by, running the odd errand or two for us. I've accepted each offer of help, gratefully. Because I don't have it under control and I'm not going to shoot myself in the foot by pretending I do.
A very lovely woman that I go to church with called and offered to bring a meal. Yes! I said. Someone else asked what they could do and I told them, straight out, that a meal would be a blessing. And oddly, I don't feel awkward about this at all. Because we do need the help and Mr. Clairol is going to have his hands full, even if he doesn't realize it yet.
I suppose this is one more step in my personal evolution. It's a major one, since I'm more of a helper than a helpee. Yet one more reason to be grateful for this surgery.
I have trouble accepting help. A lot of trouble and I think this is pretty widespread among mothers. We feel we should be able to be organized enough that being out of commission for 1-6 weeks shouldn't be a problem. News flash: it is a problem.
People offer help in this scenario. And being the arrogant little brat that I am, I usually claim I have it under control, but thank you very much and yes, I know you wish you were as on top of things as me. Which is vanity, pure and simple. Also, dishonesty, since really, staying in control of this particular situation is virtually impossible.
I haven't done that this time. Several people have offered help, bringing meals by, running the odd errand or two for us. I've accepted each offer of help, gratefully. Because I don't have it under control and I'm not going to shoot myself in the foot by pretending I do.
A very lovely woman that I go to church with called and offered to bring a meal. Yes! I said. Someone else asked what they could do and I told them, straight out, that a meal would be a blessing. And oddly, I don't feel awkward about this at all. Because we do need the help and Mr. Clairol is going to have his hands full, even if he doesn't realize it yet.
I suppose this is one more step in my personal evolution. It's a major one, since I'm more of a helper than a helpee. Yet one more reason to be grateful for this surgery.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
T-Minus
Today, I'm supposed to hear from Schmaiser. They'll tell me when to come in for my procedure and what to do in the hours leading up to it. I'm not nervous, probably because I'm frantically trying to get things done. I have an observation to type, some preschool projects to finish, the ever-present laundry and I'd like to vacuum and dust. Heh, heh. I just said I'd like to vacuum and dust! Never thought those words would cross my keyboard.
Mr. Clairol nixed the idea of frozen meals. I think he felt like they were a commentary on his ability to keep the house running. Maybe they were. Y'all may not have noticed, but I tend to be a bit controlling. (Quit laughing) I think I'm being helpful by leaving day-by-day detailed instructions, like when to take the day's meal out of the freezer and what outfit each child should wear every day.
I wish I were exaggerating. I threw the five page document out last night. He can handle it, and even though it isn't what I would do, it's okay. Though I'm shuddering a bit at the idea of my children subsisting on Hamburger helper and Shells n' Velveeta for a week. I did make him promise to serve at least one green vegetable with each dinner. I didn't tell him what to serve each night and that's progress in my book.
I've written and scheduled several posts over the coming days. (See how I take care of you guys?) Mr. Clairol may get brave and decide to post status updates, but then again, he's walking a mile in my shoes and we all know how crazy that can be. Especially since he doesn't want any help. Oye.
Wish me luck, children.
Mr. Clairol nixed the idea of frozen meals. I think he felt like they were a commentary on his ability to keep the house running. Maybe they were. Y'all may not have noticed, but I tend to be a bit controlling. (Quit laughing) I think I'm being helpful by leaving day-by-day detailed instructions, like when to take the day's meal out of the freezer and what outfit each child should wear every day.
I wish I were exaggerating. I threw the five page document out last night. He can handle it, and even though it isn't what I would do, it's okay. Though I'm shuddering a bit at the idea of my children subsisting on Hamburger helper and Shells n' Velveeta for a week. I did make him promise to serve at least one green vegetable with each dinner. I didn't tell him what to serve each night and that's progress in my book.
I've written and scheduled several posts over the coming days. (See how I take care of you guys?) Mr. Clairol may get brave and decide to post status updates, but then again, he's walking a mile in my shoes and we all know how crazy that can be. Especially since he doesn't want any help. Oye.
Wish me luck, children.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Too Stupid To Live
I've debated all day over whether to post this. It's really embarrassing, gross and details exactly how neurotic I am. I wasn't going to. But I think I must.
At my pre-op appointment, the darling little PA gave me a detailed list of what to avoid in the days leading up to my surgery. Aspirin, ibuprofen and naproxen were first on the list. No sweat, I thought. I can do that.
Wrong.
After a grueling Sunday, I went to bed and could not get comfortable. I tossed and turned and placed pillows at strategic spots. Nothing helped. Then I remembered to take my meds. Awesome. While I'm up, I decide to take some ibuprofen for my back. I'm swallowing stuff anyway, right? Immediately after I swallow, I realize what I have done.
And freak the hell out.
No exaggeration, I'm crying, cussing, and making myself throw up. Yes, you read that correctly. I am actually gagging myself until I have nothing left to bring up. Still freaking out. And cussing. While throwing up. What can I say? I'm pretty talented. I finally brush my teeth, take a hot shower (still crying and praying that they don't insist on rescheduling the surgery.) My poor husband is standing in the bathroom doorway, trying to reassure me.
I cannot be reassured.
"No, no, no...it's not going to be okay! You just took all this time off from work and I've told everyone and their dog. People are bringing meeeeeee-aaaaaaals!" (For some reason, this upset me to an unreasonable degree. Trust me to spaz about food.) "I'm so stupid. What if they don't reschedule and I die?" Don't feel bad. Typing this I want to slap myself as well. People, I sat up until almost two o'fucking clock, writing out instructions for my husband, in case of my death. Stuff like how to fold the towels so they fit in the linen closet and where I keep all of the warranties and who to call is he needs advice about raising Missy.
I will be hearing about this for years. He's hidden the instructions. I'm fairly certain he snickered over it all day at work.
This morning, I called my surgeon and guess what? It's fine, but I shouldn't take any more. No big deal.
I am a total idiot.
At my pre-op appointment, the darling little PA gave me a detailed list of what to avoid in the days leading up to my surgery. Aspirin, ibuprofen and naproxen were first on the list. No sweat, I thought. I can do that.
Wrong.
After a grueling Sunday, I went to bed and could not get comfortable. I tossed and turned and placed pillows at strategic spots. Nothing helped. Then I remembered to take my meds. Awesome. While I'm up, I decide to take some ibuprofen for my back. I'm swallowing stuff anyway, right? Immediately after I swallow, I realize what I have done.
And freak the hell out.
No exaggeration, I'm crying, cussing, and making myself throw up. Yes, you read that correctly. I am actually gagging myself until I have nothing left to bring up. Still freaking out. And cussing. While throwing up. What can I say? I'm pretty talented. I finally brush my teeth, take a hot shower (still crying and praying that they don't insist on rescheduling the surgery.) My poor husband is standing in the bathroom doorway, trying to reassure me.
I cannot be reassured.
"No, no, no...it's not going to be okay! You just took all this time off from work and I've told everyone and their dog. People are bringing meeeeeee-aaaaaaals!" (For some reason, this upset me to an unreasonable degree. Trust me to spaz about food.) "I'm so stupid. What if they don't reschedule and I die?" Don't feel bad. Typing this I want to slap myself as well. People, I sat up until almost two o'fucking clock, writing out instructions for my husband, in case of my death. Stuff like how to fold the towels so they fit in the linen closet and where I keep all of the warranties and who to call is he needs advice about raising Missy.
I will be hearing about this for years. He's hidden the instructions. I'm fairly certain he snickered over it all day at work.
This morning, I called my surgeon and guess what? It's fine, but I shouldn't take any more. No big deal.
I am a total idiot.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Sometimes, I Really Hate People
I got brave stupid last week and took the kids with me to get some errands done. Surprisingly, it went really well. For the most part. Unfortunately, the problem wasn't with my children, it was with the world at large. Because people are butt-heads.
We left early because that tends to be the best time of the day for Red. First stop: Target. As I strolled throught the aisles, I was reflecting on how well the kids were behaving. Missy was walking right by my side, hardly touching anything and Red was sitting in the cart, talking to me and flirting with the random stranger. The store was pretty empty, so I decided to let Red walk as well. As I was debating between the merits of Legos vs. PlayMobile for a birthday present, the kids were checking out the displays and deciding what Santa was going to bring them. In March. Niiiice.
Red sees a Kung Fu Panda action figure and starts running up and down the aisle, randomly jumping to a stop, thrusting out his arms and saying "Hi-YAH!" He was staying in the empty aisle, using an indoor voice and not hitting anything. I consider it fast forward yoga, frankly. Not everyone shares my view. Another mother entered the aisle and as I beckoned Red to stay with me, she sniffs at me and says, "Do you think it's wise to let your children run rampant that way?"
Girlie, you just threw down with the wrong mama.
"Yes. I think it's spectacular parenting to let my child stretch his legs in an empty aisle, doing nothing inherently dangerous or discourteous. I also like to let them run with scissors, eat high fructose corn syrup and skip vaccinations. I'll make you a deal. You raise your children and I'll raise mine. I'm leaving now so that I don't teach your child any of the four letter words that mine have been saying since they exited the womb."
Uh-huh. I did. I actually said it, rather than thinking it as I replayed the scene over and over in my mind. And the look on her face was priceless.
FYI, I went with the Legos. I knew that was just eating you up inside.
Next stop: WalMart. Yes, I ran two errands with children in tow. Keep reading. It gets even more thrilling.
I'm loading up on toilet paper, paper towels, and random odds and ends. Red is saying hi to everyone that passes and I'm trying to convince Missy that not every older person is a grandma, grandpa, mommy or daddy. (She still thinks I'm full of crap, but whatever.) Russ delivers a particularly adorable hello to an elderly woman and she looks right at him and says, "In my day, children were meant to be seen and not heard." Out of respect for her advanced age and large cane, I simply shot her a dirty look and walked away. I did say (loudly) to Red that it was okay, sometimes people were just really grumpy and rude.
I would estimate that probably 1 out of every 5 people responded to Red's cheerful greetings. What does it cost you to say hi to a toddler? C'mon people.
Last stop: Grocery Store. We made it through, relatively unscathed, except for the cereal aisle, where I bought an extremely rare box of Pop-Tarts for DQ. A little boy is wailing and pulling at his mother, begging for Pop-Tarts. His mother shakes him off and looking square at me, tells him, "NO! Those things are like poison and I would be a terrible mother if I fed you garbage like that."
And I just laughed. In her face. Because I'm a big girl (literally) and that sort of judgement rolls right off my ripply thighs. I looked at her and said, "Yeah, my mom never let me eat Pop-Tarts either. Good luck with that."
Errands done. We drove home and even though I said what was on my mind, it's nagged at me. I didn't tell anyone about this until now, because on some level, that judgement hurts me where I'm most vulnerable. Right in that squishy, open part of my soul that wonders if I am a decent mother, or if I am utterly ruining the children God has given me. But Heather posted about this very issue recently and got a nasty little anonymous troll sniping at her. What is up with people?
Here's my theory. It's a lot easier to see the flaws of others and bitch about them, than it is to deal with your own shit. That or there are just a hell of a lot of miserable crapbags running around out there, hoping to infect those of us with a life. I don't want to be a judgemental crapbag, thank you very much. I have a lot of trouble hauling my fat ass onto that high horse and I'm a little nervous that the soapbox won't support my weight.
I'm going to try to remember that everyone out there is a brother or sister and that I don't know everything. I don't have it all together and you know what? Neither do you. We'd all be a lot happier if we left off with the judgement and allowed others to live their lives (and raise their children) free of judgement and accusation. And crapbags? I suggest you do the same. Because I just unplugged my filter.
We left early because that tends to be the best time of the day for Red. First stop: Target. As I strolled throught the aisles, I was reflecting on how well the kids were behaving. Missy was walking right by my side, hardly touching anything and Red was sitting in the cart, talking to me and flirting with the random stranger. The store was pretty empty, so I decided to let Red walk as well. As I was debating between the merits of Legos vs. PlayMobile for a birthday present, the kids were checking out the displays and deciding what Santa was going to bring them. In March. Niiiice.
Red sees a Kung Fu Panda action figure and starts running up and down the aisle, randomly jumping to a stop, thrusting out his arms and saying "Hi-YAH!" He was staying in the empty aisle, using an indoor voice and not hitting anything. I consider it fast forward yoga, frankly. Not everyone shares my view. Another mother entered the aisle and as I beckoned Red to stay with me, she sniffs at me and says, "Do you think it's wise to let your children run rampant that way?"
Girlie, you just threw down with the wrong mama.
"Yes. I think it's spectacular parenting to let my child stretch his legs in an empty aisle, doing nothing inherently dangerous or discourteous. I also like to let them run with scissors, eat high fructose corn syrup and skip vaccinations. I'll make you a deal. You raise your children and I'll raise mine. I'm leaving now so that I don't teach your child any of the four letter words that mine have been saying since they exited the womb."
Uh-huh. I did. I actually said it, rather than thinking it as I replayed the scene over and over in my mind. And the look on her face was priceless.
FYI, I went with the Legos. I knew that was just eating you up inside.
Next stop: WalMart. Yes, I ran two errands with children in tow. Keep reading. It gets even more thrilling.
I'm loading up on toilet paper, paper towels, and random odds and ends. Red is saying hi to everyone that passes and I'm trying to convince Missy that not every older person is a grandma, grandpa, mommy or daddy. (She still thinks I'm full of crap, but whatever.) Russ delivers a particularly adorable hello to an elderly woman and she looks right at him and says, "In my day, children were meant to be seen and not heard." Out of respect for her advanced age and large cane, I simply shot her a dirty look and walked away. I did say (loudly) to Red that it was okay, sometimes people were just really grumpy and rude.
I would estimate that probably 1 out of every 5 people responded to Red's cheerful greetings. What does it cost you to say hi to a toddler? C'mon people.
Last stop: Grocery Store. We made it through, relatively unscathed, except for the cereal aisle, where I bought an extremely rare box of Pop-Tarts for DQ. A little boy is wailing and pulling at his mother, begging for Pop-Tarts. His mother shakes him off and looking square at me, tells him, "NO! Those things are like poison and I would be a terrible mother if I fed you garbage like that."
And I just laughed. In her face. Because I'm a big girl (literally) and that sort of judgement rolls right off my ripply thighs. I looked at her and said, "Yeah, my mom never let me eat Pop-Tarts either. Good luck with that."
Errands done. We drove home and even though I said what was on my mind, it's nagged at me. I didn't tell anyone about this until now, because on some level, that judgement hurts me where I'm most vulnerable. Right in that squishy, open part of my soul that wonders if I am a decent mother, or if I am utterly ruining the children God has given me. But Heather posted about this very issue recently and got a nasty little anonymous troll sniping at her. What is up with people?
Here's my theory. It's a lot easier to see the flaws of others and bitch about them, than it is to deal with your own shit. That or there are just a hell of a lot of miserable crapbags running around out there, hoping to infect those of us with a life. I don't want to be a judgemental crapbag, thank you very much. I have a lot of trouble hauling my fat ass onto that high horse and I'm a little nervous that the soapbox won't support my weight.
I'm going to try to remember that everyone out there is a brother or sister and that I don't know everything. I don't have it all together and you know what? Neither do you. We'd all be a lot happier if we left off with the judgement and allowed others to live their lives (and raise their children) free of judgement and accusation. And crapbags? I suggest you do the same. Because I just unplugged my filter.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Will Work For Money
Did you know that when a job application asks what languages you speak, fluent toddler doesn't count? Phhbt, whatever.
That's Phhhbt, yoo ucka di-pah head, in toddler.
Also, being able to simultaneously make lunch for two, write a blog post, find a missing toy and do laundry is not what employers consider a valuable skill set. Because they are stupid.
Can you guess what I've been about these days?
I have to find a job. One that lets me work only nights. One that isn't dangerous. One that isn't too illegal. The company my husband works for just enacted a 5% pay cut, doubled our co-pays and suspended 401K contributions. In other words, we are sunk. This sucks more than I can possible express. But at least he still has a job.
So I'm applying at various retail establishments, and trying not to roll my eyes when they ask me why I've been unemployed for the past three years. Trying not to smack them upside the head when they ask me what skills I have that might be valuable to their organization. Trying not to laugh when they ask if I can be flexible about my schedule.
Does anyone know of a job where a terrible attitude is considered an asset? HEY! I could get a job in customer service!
That's Phhhbt, yoo ucka di-pah head, in toddler.
Also, being able to simultaneously make lunch for two, write a blog post, find a missing toy and do laundry is not what employers consider a valuable skill set. Because they are stupid.
Can you guess what I've been about these days?
I have to find a job. One that lets me work only nights. One that isn't dangerous. One that isn't too illegal. The company my husband works for just enacted a 5% pay cut, doubled our co-pays and suspended 401K contributions. In other words, we are sunk. This sucks more than I can possible express. But at least he still has a job.
So I'm applying at various retail establishments, and trying not to roll my eyes when they ask me why I've been unemployed for the past three years. Trying not to smack them upside the head when they ask me what skills I have that might be valuable to their organization. Trying not to laugh when they ask if I can be flexible about my schedule.
Does anyone know of a job where a terrible attitude is considered an asset? HEY! I could get a job in customer service!
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
The To-Do List From Hell
The countdown has begun. Yesterday, I got a surgery date from Schmaiser. It took them four weeks to find a time for my surgery. I'm going in one week from today.
ONE WEEK FROM TODAY!
So I have approximately six and a half days to prepare and schedule and create lists for being down at least a week and a half, but likely a full six weeks. In addition to all of the shit that is usually on my list. Whoo-fuckin'-hoo! Thank you Schmaiser, for taking into account that I am a mother of three.
So far I've made a list of meals that can be made ahead and looked at the preschool jobs my husband will be taking care of. He gets to make a butterfly life cycle chart with the kids, one that uses various pastas to depict the glorious metamorphosis. Should be a party. I'm also prepping the art project I'll be doing with the kids when I return at the end of the month. Pom-pom caterpillars. Feel free to envy the glamour that makes up my life.
I need to create a detailed schedule for him, including household chores and places the kids need to be. I need to create a grocery list that will keep the family fed for two weeks, then a master list that he can add to for the following weeks. I need to prepare several meals for the freezer, get laundry done, floors vacuumed and sheets changed. I need to stock up on books and movies, magazines and craft supplies. I need to finish my pending preschool tasks and get them turned in. I need to create a list of questions for my surgeon. I need to relax and quit stressing about being under anesthesia for the first time. I need to get library books returned. I need to pay bills. I need to schedule posts. I need to not have an aneurysm.This is probably the hardest thing to do. I need a strong drink, some great sex and a sleeping pill.
Pray for me. Please. And be patient for the next few weeks. Posting may be light and I probably won't be responding to much. LONG LIVE VICODINE!
ONE WEEK FROM TODAY!
So I have approximately six and a half days to prepare and schedule and create lists for being down at least a week and a half, but likely a full six weeks. In addition to all of the shit that is usually on my list. Whoo-fuckin'-hoo! Thank you Schmaiser, for taking into account that I am a mother of three.
So far I've made a list of meals that can be made ahead and looked at the preschool jobs my husband will be taking care of. He gets to make a butterfly life cycle chart with the kids, one that uses various pastas to depict the glorious metamorphosis. Should be a party. I'm also prepping the art project I'll be doing with the kids when I return at the end of the month. Pom-pom caterpillars. Feel free to envy the glamour that makes up my life.
I need to create a detailed schedule for him, including household chores and places the kids need to be. I need to create a grocery list that will keep the family fed for two weeks, then a master list that he can add to for the following weeks. I need to prepare several meals for the freezer, get laundry done, floors vacuumed and sheets changed. I need to stock up on books and movies, magazines and craft supplies. I need to finish my pending preschool tasks and get them turned in. I need to create a list of questions for my surgeon. I need to relax and quit stressing about being under anesthesia for the first time. I need to get library books returned. I need to pay bills. I need to schedule posts. I need to not have an aneurysm.This is probably the hardest thing to do. I need a strong drink, some great sex and a sleeping pill.
Pray for me. Please. And be patient for the next few weeks. Posting may be light and I probably won't be responding to much. LONG LIVE VICODINE!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Technorati
I'm Networked!
Welcome to My World
Look At All These BEE-YOU-TEE-FUL People!
Places I Like
