Monday, March 21, 2016
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
Random IX
Charles and I were pretending to be adults last night and were talking about our wishes after we died. I told him that in no way was I to be cremated because if there is a zombie apocalypse, I fully intend to participate to the best of my abilities. Charles then remarked that he limps around anyways due to his knees, so really it was not going to be too much of a stretch for him to be a zombie anyways, at least movement-wise. I then also told him to be sure to part me out as well, though given my health it is unlikely that they would use any of my spare parts unless the doctor really hated the patient and wanted to kill them. And if that is the case, I'm pretty sure you have bigger problems than just needing my organs. Like probably you should find a new doctor.
Getting a new iPhone: Well, it was free since I traded my old one in and this was when Verizon still let you get one for fairly cheap.
Downloading the Amazon Music app: Also free, though if you want to get technical I do pay for Amazon Prime, so maybe the app really cost like $99 but I'm deluding myself that it is free.
Downloading Air Supply's "I'm All Out of Love": Well....also free, but possibly $99. See above.
Rocking out to "I'm All Out of Love" at the top of your lungs and totally embarrassing your 9 year old even though you were alone in the house: Priceless, bitchez. Isn't that why we had kids?
I've been hiding at work lately. Mostly because of our accrediting body doing their visit and everyone being all cranky. And because we have to have all of the doors shut in the hallways, so now I am firmly convinced that someone is going to jump out and murder me. And because I am in a back hallway pretty much by myself since my supervisor is on maternity leave, no one would hear me getting murdered. I've got too much stuff to do at home, people, for me to get murdered at work. So I will stay in my office, thankyouverymuch.
Getting a new iPhone: Well, it was free since I traded my old one in and this was when Verizon still let you get one for fairly cheap.
Downloading the Amazon Music app: Also free, though if you want to get technical I do pay for Amazon Prime, so maybe the app really cost like $99 but I'm deluding myself that it is free.
Downloading Air Supply's "I'm All Out of Love": Well....also free, but possibly $99. See above.
Rocking out to "I'm All Out of Love" at the top of your lungs and totally embarrassing your 9 year old even though you were alone in the house: Priceless, bitchez. Isn't that why we had kids?
I've been hiding at work lately. Mostly because of our accrediting body doing their visit and everyone being all cranky. And because we have to have all of the doors shut in the hallways, so now I am firmly convinced that someone is going to jump out and murder me. And because I am in a back hallway pretty much by myself since my supervisor is on maternity leave, no one would hear me getting murdered. I've got too much stuff to do at home, people, for me to get murdered at work. So I will stay in my office, thankyouverymuch.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Dresses
One thing that no one mentions when you sign up for this thing called parenting is that the pain does not stop after the child has exited the vagina (or, as in the case of Charlie, the abdominal incision). No one tells you about things like molars. Orthodontia. Caillou and Dora. Prom.
That's right, bitchez. Your child, will, at some point, be statistically likely to go to a formal dance. And if your kid does not, PLEASE share your secrets with me so I can put them into play for the next two. Unless it involves things such as bullying or severe social anxiety. I'm pretty much not a fan of those kinds of things.
When your child goes to said formal dance, they will need clothes for it as it is generally frowned upon to go in your birthday suit. And not just any clothes...dear sweet mother of God, it has to be a dress. And one usually finds dresses in a store, which is in a mall. I fucking hate the mall with all the fiery passion I usually reserve for such things as Katy Perry's singing, food touching, and spring. This is where having boys would come in handy, cause I could just totally punt that off to Charles as being in his domain. I'm pretty sure, though, that as tolerant as that man is and despite the number of tea parties he has attended, wearing a crown no less, prom dress shopping is where he draws the line.
You know how I shopped for my prom dress? I put Elizabeth in her stroller, walked into JC Penny's, and found a cream colored plain dress within 10 minutes. It fit, was simple, and I did not have to venture any further into the mall for it. Plus it was like $30. The entire ordeal took me less than 45 minutes.
I'm not what you would call a girly girl.
It has never been that simple with Elizabeth. Now mind you, she has attended prom every year of high school so far. I try not to think about that fact too hard, but I figure her prom dresses are cheaper than the dance I pay for for her sisters, so it's really hard to complain. (Word of advice...encourage your child to play the less expensive sports.) That and I tend to be a sucker for my children...not that they are spoiled, as they most definitely are not, but I do try to make special occasions, well, special for them. So I begrudgingly get in the car and take her dress shopping.
She has learned from past experiences, I think, and did not attempt to drag me to the mall. For which I am eternally grateful because I don't think I could have handled that today as I had dress rehearsal for competition with the little girls and I was already high on the fumes from hairspray and whatever chemicals sequins and feathers emit. I would have put this off, but a.) I work 7 days/week, and b.) I completely get the anxiety she would have had because prom is almost two months away and dear GOD, what if she did not find a dress? I can appreciate that kind of anxiety cause I live it myself daily. However, she did drag me to a store 2 hours away. That had literally thousands of dresses.
Holy fucking shit, my ADHD kicked in big time. I was like a 10 month old baby who was completely overstimulated and just did not know what to do and was running on fumes and completely unable to be soothed. There were so many dresses. They started looking alike after a while. Thankfully, we brought her date, a friend, and my sister with us because had it just been the two of us, this might have been a disaster rivaling the decision to allow me to be on the Internet unsupervised.
We decided against the $700 dress. Seven. Hundred. Fucking. Dollars. For a prom dress. My wedding dress cost half that. That's almost my fucking mortgage. Just...FUCK. That being said, we did not spend anywhere near that amount. But it was still painful. Maybe not to the point of requiring an epidural, but damn. Some Xanax would have been nice. Or a shot at least. A bullet to bite on perhaps?
That's right, bitchez. Your child, will, at some point, be statistically likely to go to a formal dance. And if your kid does not, PLEASE share your secrets with me so I can put them into play for the next two. Unless it involves things such as bullying or severe social anxiety. I'm pretty much not a fan of those kinds of things.
When your child goes to said formal dance, they will need clothes for it as it is generally frowned upon to go in your birthday suit. And not just any clothes...dear sweet mother of God, it has to be a dress. And one usually finds dresses in a store, which is in a mall. I fucking hate the mall with all the fiery passion I usually reserve for such things as Katy Perry's singing, food touching, and spring. This is where having boys would come in handy, cause I could just totally punt that off to Charles as being in his domain. I'm pretty sure, though, that as tolerant as that man is and despite the number of tea parties he has attended, wearing a crown no less, prom dress shopping is where he draws the line.
You know how I shopped for my prom dress? I put Elizabeth in her stroller, walked into JC Penny's, and found a cream colored plain dress within 10 minutes. It fit, was simple, and I did not have to venture any further into the mall for it. Plus it was like $30. The entire ordeal took me less than 45 minutes.
I'm not what you would call a girly girl.
It has never been that simple with Elizabeth. Now mind you, she has attended prom every year of high school so far. I try not to think about that fact too hard, but I figure her prom dresses are cheaper than the dance I pay for for her sisters, so it's really hard to complain. (Word of advice...encourage your child to play the less expensive sports.) That and I tend to be a sucker for my children...not that they are spoiled, as they most definitely are not, but I do try to make special occasions, well, special for them. So I begrudgingly get in the car and take her dress shopping.
She has learned from past experiences, I think, and did not attempt to drag me to the mall. For which I am eternally grateful because I don't think I could have handled that today as I had dress rehearsal for competition with the little girls and I was already high on the fumes from hairspray and whatever chemicals sequins and feathers emit. I would have put this off, but a.) I work 7 days/week, and b.) I completely get the anxiety she would have had because prom is almost two months away and dear GOD, what if she did not find a dress? I can appreciate that kind of anxiety cause I live it myself daily. However, she did drag me to a store 2 hours away. That had literally thousands of dresses.
Holy fucking shit, my ADHD kicked in big time. I was like a 10 month old baby who was completely overstimulated and just did not know what to do and was running on fumes and completely unable to be soothed. There were so many dresses. They started looking alike after a while. Thankfully, we brought her date, a friend, and my sister with us because had it just been the two of us, this might have been a disaster rivaling the decision to allow me to be on the Internet unsupervised.
We decided against the $700 dress. Seven. Hundred. Fucking. Dollars. For a prom dress. My wedding dress cost half that. That's almost my fucking mortgage. Just...FUCK. That being said, we did not spend anywhere near that amount. But it was still painful. Maybe not to the point of requiring an epidural, but damn. Some Xanax would have been nice. Or a shot at least. A bullet to bite on perhaps?
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Village
One of the greatest joys I have in this journey of parenting, aside from passing down functional knowledge of how to appropriately use fuck as pretty much all parts of speech, is watching my children develop their talents and interests.
Elizabeth, for instance, is a pretty kickass softball player. She definitely gets that from her dad's side of the family as I have never been able to get the hang of any sport that required a ball. Or athletic talent, really. If wine bottle opening was a sport, I'd be a fucking Olympian, however. I did run cross country in high school but I'm pretty sure that since most of us looked like we were dying out there I blended right in...that and back in the day before children and poor life choices destroyed them, I had a pretty nice rack so most of the teenage boys were likely fixated on that.
I love getting out to her games, even when it is cold. If you know me, you know that I hate Spring. One year I swear to God every single game was below freezing. Because Spring is an asshole. But by God, every game I could get to I was there. Unfortunately I usually forgot my coat, so I also have likely done some frostbite damage...but I was there. Why?
Because that's what good parents do, and I like to pretend that is what I am. And also, because those young women worked their asses off, most days of the week. They came back, game after game, and played their best every time. Despite losing most games. Despite being down a ridiculous amount of runs. It was a pleasure and a joy to watch them grow throughout the season. It was a pleasure to watch a coach of a team that previously won against them pitch a fit like a two year old when, at the end of the season, they beat his team and he couldn't get it overruled. Those players EARNED that victory. Elizabeth was part of a team and was learning important life lessons and shit. Totally worth frostbite and having to be out in Spring weather.
Charlie and Alexis are on the competition dance team, which thankfully is an indoor sport and does not require me to be outside in weather below 50* for long periods of time. It does, however, require travel to dance competitions and fun shit like putting fake eyelashes on and learning the best way to bobby pin a hat to your child's head so it won't fall off (the answer, just in case you are wondering, does not involve a staple gun. I am neither going to confirm nor deny if I ever contemplated that.) Alexis had started out dance at the age of two and a half and cried. Every.Fucking,Class. She then soon got over her hatred of people and public and socializing and realized that she loves it. She is now getting ready to do her solo. Charlie...well, it's her first year on competition so we shall see if she decides to continue it or not. I'm not sure how much of her being on the team is related to her wanting to be like her big sister; however at this point I am just grateful that it is keeping her from hiring herself out for murder or espionage or other devious deeds so I'll take it.
I recently watched the two of them dance at an informal performance. I still get choked up watching them, just as I do when I see Elizabeth doing her thing on the softball field as well. All of the work, the injuries, the practices, the tears...all culminating in a performance where they make it look so easy. These girls go out there and dance despite injuries. Despite life happening, like cancer or the death of a parent or being bullied at school. The cost is well worth it, for a variety of reasons. The life lessons that they learn. The importance of hard work. Or camaraderie, especially with other females. The sting of losing along side the joys of winning. The importance of being a part of a team, but also of doing your part and improving yourself.
I simply don't know that as a parent, I can teach these lessons as well as others can. I am too involved. Too attached. Too protective. Too anxious. Would I make them take risks? Would I push them to their limits, even as they groan and protest? Would I stand by and let them fail when they don't do that hard work? As hard as it is to admit, the answer to all of those is probably no. I can't be that for my kids, for a number of reasons (and the first is likely that I am bat shit crazy...) I freely give them to other adults, professionals in their fields, to shape and to mold. To make them what I cannot, to say the things to them that need to be said. To shape them into the young women they will be (or are, in Elizabeth's case).
It does take a village. So to all of those coaches out there...the dance teachers...the school teachers..., baby sitters... daycare providers...4H leaders...thank you. Thank you for giving my child, and many others, a chance to grow and learn. Thank you for believing in my child. Thank you for seeing worth in my child participating, and for seeing potential. Thank you for putting my child in their place when they need it, and lifting them up when they are down. Thank you for taking your time, whether volunteer or paid, to invest in my kid, even knowing that she may not become a professional dancer, or softball player, or whatever. Thank you for seeing value in children's activities.
Thank you.
Elizabeth, for instance, is a pretty kickass softball player. She definitely gets that from her dad's side of the family as I have never been able to get the hang of any sport that required a ball. Or athletic talent, really. If wine bottle opening was a sport, I'd be a fucking Olympian, however. I did run cross country in high school but I'm pretty sure that since most of us looked like we were dying out there I blended right in...that and back in the day before children and poor life choices destroyed them, I had a pretty nice rack so most of the teenage boys were likely fixated on that.
I love getting out to her games, even when it is cold. If you know me, you know that I hate Spring. One year I swear to God every single game was below freezing. Because Spring is an asshole. But by God, every game I could get to I was there. Unfortunately I usually forgot my coat, so I also have likely done some frostbite damage...but I was there. Why?
Because that's what good parents do, and I like to pretend that is what I am. And also, because those young women worked their asses off, most days of the week. They came back, game after game, and played their best every time. Despite losing most games. Despite being down a ridiculous amount of runs. It was a pleasure and a joy to watch them grow throughout the season. It was a pleasure to watch a coach of a team that previously won against them pitch a fit like a two year old when, at the end of the season, they beat his team and he couldn't get it overruled. Those players EARNED that victory. Elizabeth was part of a team and was learning important life lessons and shit. Totally worth frostbite and having to be out in Spring weather.
Charlie and Alexis are on the competition dance team, which thankfully is an indoor sport and does not require me to be outside in weather below 50* for long periods of time. It does, however, require travel to dance competitions and fun shit like putting fake eyelashes on and learning the best way to bobby pin a hat to your child's head so it won't fall off (the answer, just in case you are wondering, does not involve a staple gun. I am neither going to confirm nor deny if I ever contemplated that.) Alexis had started out dance at the age of two and a half and cried. Every.Fucking,Class. She then soon got over her hatred of people and public and socializing and realized that she loves it. She is now getting ready to do her solo. Charlie...well, it's her first year on competition so we shall see if she decides to continue it or not. I'm not sure how much of her being on the team is related to her wanting to be like her big sister; however at this point I am just grateful that it is keeping her from hiring herself out for murder or espionage or other devious deeds so I'll take it.
I recently watched the two of them dance at an informal performance. I still get choked up watching them, just as I do when I see Elizabeth doing her thing on the softball field as well. All of the work, the injuries, the practices, the tears...all culminating in a performance where they make it look so easy. These girls go out there and dance despite injuries. Despite life happening, like cancer or the death of a parent or being bullied at school. The cost is well worth it, for a variety of reasons. The life lessons that they learn. The importance of hard work. Or camaraderie, especially with other females. The sting of losing along side the joys of winning. The importance of being a part of a team, but also of doing your part and improving yourself.
I simply don't know that as a parent, I can teach these lessons as well as others can. I am too involved. Too attached. Too protective. Too anxious. Would I make them take risks? Would I push them to their limits, even as they groan and protest? Would I stand by and let them fail when they don't do that hard work? As hard as it is to admit, the answer to all of those is probably no. I can't be that for my kids, for a number of reasons (and the first is likely that I am bat shit crazy...) I freely give them to other adults, professionals in their fields, to shape and to mold. To make them what I cannot, to say the things to them that need to be said. To shape them into the young women they will be (or are, in Elizabeth's case).
It does take a village. So to all of those coaches out there...the dance teachers...the school teachers..., baby sitters... daycare providers...4H leaders...thank you. Thank you for giving my child, and many others, a chance to grow and learn. Thank you for believing in my child. Thank you for seeing worth in my child participating, and for seeing potential. Thank you for putting my child in their place when they need it, and lifting them up when they are down. Thank you for taking your time, whether volunteer or paid, to invest in my kid, even knowing that she may not become a professional dancer, or softball player, or whatever. Thank you for seeing value in children's activities.
Thank you.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Stoned
Not the kind that people are trying to legalize. Sorry.
My sister Alicia was recently in the hospital for kidney stones. She had a pretty sizable one gumming up the works so the doctor had to go in and shoot the little fucker up in a urology drive-by, then place a stent. She has the strings for the stent taped to her legs, which resulted in the following text conversation:
Me: Little girls and I might come out so they can leave more shit at ur house
Alicia: OK sounds good lol. I can't put on real pants because there are these strings and they pull so I will be stuck in the house tomorrow. Shorts are the only things that do not pull them in.
Me: Sweet. Is that your pull string like Woody? What do you say?
A: Ha ha ha you pull them and you will hear an adult version of Woody. It would probably start with a little prayer like Jesus Christ and then Mother fucker would soon follow.
Me: So a religious Woody? Great. My kids need a little Satan beaten out of them and what better way to do that than a demented Woody. Religion AND turning them away from the Disney brainwashing machine? WINNING.
A: Kind of, I would be like the toys you see on the news that people are all up in arms because it sounds like it's saying fuck but I would really be saying fuck.
As you can see, crazy runs in the family. So what better way to celebrate kidney stones than with baked goods? Of course I went there. She baked me a fucking cake. Why wouldn't I make cake ball kidney stones?
My sister Alicia was recently in the hospital for kidney stones. She had a pretty sizable one gumming up the works so the doctor had to go in and shoot the little fucker up in a urology drive-by, then place a stent. She has the strings for the stent taped to her legs, which resulted in the following text conversation:
Me: Little girls and I might come out so they can leave more shit at ur house
Alicia: OK sounds good lol. I can't put on real pants because there are these strings and they pull so I will be stuck in the house tomorrow. Shorts are the only things that do not pull them in.
Me: Sweet. Is that your pull string like Woody? What do you say?
A: Ha ha ha you pull them and you will hear an adult version of Woody. It would probably start with a little prayer like Jesus Christ and then Mother fucker would soon follow.
Me: So a religious Woody? Great. My kids need a little Satan beaten out of them and what better way to do that than a demented Woody. Religion AND turning them away from the Disney brainwashing machine? WINNING.
A: Kind of, I would be like the toys you see on the news that people are all up in arms because it sounds like it's saying fuck but I would really be saying fuck.
As you can see, crazy runs in the family. So what better way to celebrate kidney stones than with baked goods? Of course I went there. She baked me a fucking cake. Why wouldn't I make cake ball kidney stones?
Enlarged to show details, and sparkly, of course. Again, why is there not a business to make these? There appears to be a pretty solid, wide-open market for this kind of thing...
So to make these cake balls, I was Googling pictures of kidney stones because I had no fucking clue what they looked like. Charlie was looking over my shoulder and saw them, so I explained what little I knew about them and that Alicia had had surgery because she was having problems peeing (simplest explanation I could come up with). Charlie got very serious then and leaned over and told me, "I have to whisper this so Daddy can't hear."
Me: Um, OK.
C, leaning in to whisper: You know how when you get older and sometimes you bleed when you are going potty? Maybe that is what was happening. Maybe she doesn't need surgery and you just need to tell her about that.
Me: You mean her period? This was definitely not her period, Charlie. And I'm pretty sure Daddy knows about periods. It's OK for him to hear about them.
Bless her little heart. As much as that child makes me want to tear my hair out, she has a heart of gold. She and her sister even "let" Aunt Alicia win at Connect Four, because she just had surgery and all. Baked goods to celebrate surgical procedures aside, I must be doing something right here.
Friday, January 22, 2016
Random VIII
I'm a little worried about what happens when I start to get a lot of Random posts and it goes beyond my comprehension of Roman Numerals. Or maybe I will go ahead and just start using actual numerals, not of the Roman persuasion. I can do that, bitchez...ya know why? It's my fucking blog. Better watch out, it's gonna get all crazy up in here.
I'm talking about the blog titles, not my head. Ahem.
Alexis is starting to move into the fun preteen years, which means that my alcohol and/or Xanax consumption will increase proportionally as well. So far the extent of her rebellion has been NOT having me check her math homework for errors and dawdling before bed, but I am totally bracing myself for a full out rebellion in a few years. I anticipate her advocating for a Trump/Palin presidency here soon, because really that would be the best way to rebel against me. That and starting to mix her food on her plate. I don't care what people say, if that shit was meant to go together it would be cooked together or be a food thing, like mashed potatoes and gravy. Mashed potatoes and corn is not a food thing, and nothing you say can convince me otherwise. Might as well make a bread sandwich for all the carbs and starches you are getting there. It's just gluttonous. And glutinous. Well, the bread sandwich that is. Potatoes and corn are gluten free I believe. But don't fucking quote me on that shit. I'm not a doctor. Possibly need one for my head, but not because I am delusional. There's many other reasons.
I wonder if I could possibly time it so that I will never have two females getting their periods at the same time again? Two females who live here full time, that is. If the two little girls get it at the same time, my fictional prescription for benzodiazapines might become a reality. I'm not getting mine anymore, as we all celebrated with cake last year. If I can get Charlie to hold off until she's like 14, Alexis will be getting ready to graduate and go off to college...so how could I make this happen? I took my magic wand to work so I could use it there, but it might be worth me bringing back home so I can arrange this.
About that doctor...
Elizabeth cleaned the hamster's cages out a few days ago. Bean was all nice and sweet when I held her while she was doing this, even if she did try to burrow into my boobs. Must be talking to the Baby Daddy 2.0 cause he tends to try to do that too. Reggie, however, was her psychotic self and further traumatized me by squealing loudly while staring me directly in the eye from her hamster ball. I'm glad I am not fluent in hamster because I'm pretty sure she was detailing my future dismemberment. I never thought I would be afraid of something that is less than three inches long, but her tiny little hamster squeaks are similar to the howls of demons from hell. And her cold, beady eyes are dead inside. I had nightmares that night. No joke.
I'm going to relive a bit of my childhood after work with the little girls and dust off the most ridiculous of toys, the EZ Bake oven. The name is really fucking misleading...who the fuck thought it would be easy to bake with a goddamned lightbulb? Like, I wonder how many fuckheads out there tried to make like actual food in them, and not just the nasty bags of chemicals they give you that are supposed to pass for desserts (for the record, I bought a bag of sugar cookie mix from the store vs the ones strictly for the oven. If we are going to eat crap, by God it is going to be somewhat good tasting crap.) Do people try to make meatloaves in this? How about Shepherd's Pie? And also, I can't believe that Shepherd's Pie is a food thing. I certainly won't eat that. Good thing we won freedom from the British all those years back if this is what they come up with for their food things.
I'm talking about the blog titles, not my head. Ahem.
Alexis is starting to move into the fun preteen years, which means that my alcohol and/or Xanax consumption will increase proportionally as well. So far the extent of her rebellion has been NOT having me check her math homework for errors and dawdling before bed, but I am totally bracing myself for a full out rebellion in a few years. I anticipate her advocating for a Trump/Palin presidency here soon, because really that would be the best way to rebel against me. That and starting to mix her food on her plate. I don't care what people say, if that shit was meant to go together it would be cooked together or be a food thing, like mashed potatoes and gravy. Mashed potatoes and corn is not a food thing, and nothing you say can convince me otherwise. Might as well make a bread sandwich for all the carbs and starches you are getting there. It's just gluttonous. And glutinous. Well, the bread sandwich that is. Potatoes and corn are gluten free I believe. But don't fucking quote me on that shit. I'm not a doctor. Possibly need one for my head, but not because I am delusional. There's many other reasons.
I wonder if I could possibly time it so that I will never have two females getting their periods at the same time again? Two females who live here full time, that is. If the two little girls get it at the same time, my fictional prescription for benzodiazapines might become a reality. I'm not getting mine anymore, as we all celebrated with cake last year. If I can get Charlie to hold off until she's like 14, Alexis will be getting ready to graduate and go off to college...so how could I make this happen? I took my magic wand to work so I could use it there, but it might be worth me bringing back home so I can arrange this.
About that doctor...
Elizabeth cleaned the hamster's cages out a few days ago. Bean was all nice and sweet when I held her while she was doing this, even if she did try to burrow into my boobs. Must be talking to the Baby Daddy 2.0 cause he tends to try to do that too. Reggie, however, was her psychotic self and further traumatized me by squealing loudly while staring me directly in the eye from her hamster ball. I'm glad I am not fluent in hamster because I'm pretty sure she was detailing my future dismemberment. I never thought I would be afraid of something that is less than three inches long, but her tiny little hamster squeaks are similar to the howls of demons from hell. And her cold, beady eyes are dead inside. I had nightmares that night. No joke.
I'm going to relive a bit of my childhood after work with the little girls and dust off the most ridiculous of toys, the EZ Bake oven. The name is really fucking misleading...who the fuck thought it would be easy to bake with a goddamned lightbulb? Like, I wonder how many fuckheads out there tried to make like actual food in them, and not just the nasty bags of chemicals they give you that are supposed to pass for desserts (for the record, I bought a bag of sugar cookie mix from the store vs the ones strictly for the oven. If we are going to eat crap, by God it is going to be somewhat good tasting crap.) Do people try to make meatloaves in this? How about Shepherd's Pie? And also, I can't believe that Shepherd's Pie is a food thing. I certainly won't eat that. Good thing we won freedom from the British all those years back if this is what they come up with for their food things.
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Relaxation
So we completed the gingerbread houses. With minimal bickering and whining. The girls did great too.
They tasted delicious, too. Or at least the scraps did. Can you guess which on is which girl's?
I was pleasantly surprised at how well the girls got along while doing these. They shared the icing bags with the frosting in them and were generally pleasant about the whole ordeal. I kinda want to make one for myself to decorate next year.
After they were done, I set to cleaning the house. Scrubbing floors, the bathroom walls, the counters in the kitchen. Putting away all of my baking stuff that had overrun my counters. Dusting. Because that is what one does on one's first day of vacation, right?
Apparently not, according to my middle child. Alexis questioned me as to why I felt the need to clean everything. Why it was important to scrub the toilets, the walls, to get down on my hands and knees and scrub the floors. Why I had to do this in between decorating the houses and coloring with the girls and watching a movie.
(OK, I didn't actually watch the whole movie. That almost never happens. But I did sit down for a bit.)
I explained to her how it is very distressing to me to have a messy house. How I don't like it when we have clutter. How I really wasn't doing all that much. How it was a lazy day. I stayed in bed until almost 10, after all.
Alexis then looked at me and said, "Mom. You have cleaned the kitchen, bathroom, and living room. You threw clothes in the washer and dryer. You cleaned the bathroom walls. You put away all of the cookie stuff. And you also decorated gingerbread houses, colored pictures, cleaned out the van, and helped me and Charlie get dressed. How is that a lazy day?"
She has a point. When did I stop recognizing what I did during a day? When did having my self-sufficient girls allow me to lay in bed for a bit make me all of a sudden have a "lazy day?" When did the idea of having to stop and actually, RELAX, become such an anxiety provoking idea anyways? What am I trying to run away from? And who the hell is telling me that I am not good enough if I am not constantly producing?
Tomorrow....tomorrow I am going to just chill. Charlie had a cousin sleepover tonight. Tomorrow, I will make them some cinnamon roll waffles. I will play Angry Birds in bed. I will drink a lot of coffee (wait, that's every day...) and stay in jammies until we have to leave for my sister's for Christmas Eve. Hell, since the weather is closer to the actual time of Jesus's birth than to winter, I might even take the kids outside and go to the park with the dogs. Don't worry; if we do that I will put on actual clothes vs my jammies.
I took this time off from both jobs for a reason. I need to refresh. I need to reconnect with my family. I'd better damn well use it.
But not until the house is clean.
Monday, December 21, 2015
Choices
This year, for some reason not shared with me, the little girls wanted to make gingerbread houses. Since I'm all about doing crazy crafty shit like that, I agreed. Then I made a fatal parenting mistake.
I gave them a choice.
Now, don't get me wrong. I am all about choices. I'll totally give choices all fucking day long. Do you want to stay up for five more minutes or three more minutes? Would you like peas or carrots for vegetable tonight? Do you want to take a bath or a shower? Do you want me to go bat shit crazy if you keep tossing your clothes directly in front of the hamper instead of into the hamper, or just slightly psycho?
In all of those instances, I am perfectly OK with either choice. That is what you are supposed to do. You never give a goddamned choice if you aren't OK with one of them them. They will sense your weakness and swoop down upon it like a vulture does to that little dead fox in the middle of the road. And they won't let up on it just as those fucking scavengers won't let up on that carcass, even though there's a semi barreling towards them at 60 MPH.
The choice was, "Do you want to use graham crackers or do you want actual gingerbread?"
The minute those words were out of my mouth I wanted to reach into the cosmos and pull them back and then box my own ears with them. The.Fuck.Was.I.Thinking. I don't work 7 days a week or anything. I don't already have to make a bunch of cookies for my family get together. I don't have three baskets of laundry downstairs and am rapidly running out of undies. Oh wait...
I held my breath, hoping that they did not hear me. That for once, that selective hearing they are so good at wielding would pay off for my benefit. That I was using up that bit of positive energy in the cosmos that was sure to be coming my way and they totally missed me asking.
Nope. Their faces lit up like Cheech and Chong on a day ending in "Y". They were going for the fucking actual gingerbread. And sucker that I am for those children, I'm making it happen.
So now I have to find a recipe for gingerbread because I have never made it before. It didn't occur to me to grab a mix from the store until I was on the second fucking batch. Because you know, I might have slipped and gave a choice that I did not want to, but I was not going to borrow trouble and make them decorate the same house. There is only so much alcohol one can consume in an evening and I did not particularly want to be hung over the next day, after all...
Let's not forget too, the whole making the cookies for the family thing. Now I actually enjoy baking, so this was not a big deal really. However, I also got struck with a streak of nostalgia for past Christmases and decided that I was going to make Mexican Swizzle sticks again. My mother used to have a Super Shooter, a fabulous cookie press thing from the 80's, that made those things nice and skinny bundles of chocolate and sprinkles. They don't make those things anymore and hers has since died a slow, agonizing death, so our Swizzle sticks were made using a cookie press and came out more like Swizzle Churros.
I gave them a choice.
Now, don't get me wrong. I am all about choices. I'll totally give choices all fucking day long. Do you want to stay up for five more minutes or three more minutes? Would you like peas or carrots for vegetable tonight? Do you want to take a bath or a shower? Do you want me to go bat shit crazy if you keep tossing your clothes directly in front of the hamper instead of into the hamper, or just slightly psycho?
In all of those instances, I am perfectly OK with either choice. That is what you are supposed to do. You never give a goddamned choice if you aren't OK with one of them them. They will sense your weakness and swoop down upon it like a vulture does to that little dead fox in the middle of the road. And they won't let up on it just as those fucking scavengers won't let up on that carcass, even though there's a semi barreling towards them at 60 MPH.
The choice was, "Do you want to use graham crackers or do you want actual gingerbread?"
The minute those words were out of my mouth I wanted to reach into the cosmos and pull them back and then box my own ears with them. The.Fuck.Was.I.Thinking. I don't work 7 days a week or anything. I don't already have to make a bunch of cookies for my family get together. I don't have three baskets of laundry downstairs and am rapidly running out of undies. Oh wait...
I held my breath, hoping that they did not hear me. That for once, that selective hearing they are so good at wielding would pay off for my benefit. That I was using up that bit of positive energy in the cosmos that was sure to be coming my way and they totally missed me asking.
Nope. Their faces lit up like Cheech and Chong on a day ending in "Y". They were going for the fucking actual gingerbread. And sucker that I am for those children, I'm making it happen.
So now I have to find a recipe for gingerbread because I have never made it before. It didn't occur to me to grab a mix from the store until I was on the second fucking batch. Because you know, I might have slipped and gave a choice that I did not want to, but I was not going to borrow trouble and make them decorate the same house. There is only so much alcohol one can consume in an evening and I did not particularly want to be hung over the next day, after all...
Let's not forget too, the whole making the cookies for the family thing. Now I actually enjoy baking, so this was not a big deal really. However, I also got struck with a streak of nostalgia for past Christmases and decided that I was going to make Mexican Swizzle sticks again. My mother used to have a Super Shooter, a fabulous cookie press thing from the 80's, that made those things nice and skinny bundles of chocolate and sprinkles. They don't make those things anymore and hers has since died a slow, agonizing death, so our Swizzle sticks were made using a cookie press and came out more like Swizzle Churros.
I also only had green and yellow sprinkles, so we are representing the Fighting Irish, I suppose. Or my nephew's high school. Either/or.
Then I decided to also make these cute little Olaf pretzels I had found on Pinterest. And ended up with Angry Olafs.
It's the eyebrows, I think. Move over Elf on the Shelf. Disney's got a new creepy character to stalk your children and frighten them into good behavior.
So we haven't decorated the houses yet, but based upon my roaring successes with the cookies this year, I imagine that they will be as awesome, if not more, than the hysterectomy cake. I will be sure to keep you all posted in what is sure to be a fabulous combination of train wreck and memory making with the children.
If I haven't gone completely crazy by then, that is. Which might make a good story in and of itself. Either way there will be hilarity ensuing.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Reggie
So apparently my daughter turning 18 is not just a huge ass deal to me, but her friends. And also apparently, there must be like gifts that you are supposed to give like for anniversaries...like the gold anniversary, silver anniversary, paper anniversary, wood anniversary. (Side note...I'd be pretty fucking pissed if my husband got me paper for our anniversary, and we don't even celebrate our anniversary usually. Just sayin', whoever thought of that shit obviously was hittin' the Absinthe a bit hard...)
The 18th birthday must be the pet birthday, because not only did her best friend ask me if she could buy her a goat for her birthday (answer: no place to keep it outside as Wakeman bans goats and marsupials outdoors, apparently, and I'll be goddamned if I'm having a goat in my house...), Elizabeth got not one, but TWO hamsters for her birthday.
One hamster she is keeping in her room. This hamster is all sugar and spice and everything nice and is named Bean. She enjoys long walks on her hamster wheel and looks a bit like the devil when she has her pictures taken due to the red eye, but over all...well, she's a fucking hamster-y hamster. Not much going on here.
Reggie, however...totally different story.
That little fucker has taken crazy and elevated it to a whole new level the way that Donald Trump has elevated a bad hair day to a whole new level. She (yes, Reggie is a she...apparently she was already named when Elizabeth received her. And had been almost killed by a cat. More on that later...but point is, don't be so goddamned judgemental. Jesus.) is bat shit, certifiably, and undisputedly crazy.
She's a dwarf hamster, which means that she looks more like a mouse than a hamster and is seriously like three inches long. And before you go all, "Oh, that sounds adorable! Stop exaggerating the Satan that is present in this adorbs little rodent" let me tell you...possessed by the devil doesn't even cover it. That little shit runs around her cage and evades capture like the best of terrorists. She seriously makes Forrest Gump look like he's taking a leisurely Sunday stroll. She makes this God-awful squeak too when you try to pick her up, like the hounds of Beelzebub are escaping from her larynx. She climbs up the side of the cage like a character from the Matrix, and I honestly think that she may be plotting my death in a way that makes that sucker fish look like he just wants to give me a hug vs strangling me.
Charlie convinced me, against my better judgment, to take her out of her cage and put her in that hamster ball and let her run around her bedroom. I am now firmly convinced that Reggie is holding that humiliation against me and is going to slowly disembowel me because of it. I went to go and put her back in her cage (and mind you, it took us a solid half hour to get her in the fucking ball to begin with...I apparently cannot take a hint...) and she leaps from the ball to the top of her cage, and then down to the floor. Again, the cage is on top of a nice tall dresser. She possesses Satan ninja skills.
In her defense, she has had a near death experience with a cat when she had escaped from her cage at her previous owner's houe. That being said...while I am not one to judge people on their mental health symptoms, she is beyond what one would see from a traumatized hamster. She is just pure evil and likes to mind fuck you while darting around like a meth-addicted gnat.
That fucking hamster then proceeded to hide for about 45 minutes in their room. She kept running away and hiding and then stopped running and just kept hiding behind the bookshelf and I couldn't move it so I had to wait. And fear that she was going to come at me like some kind of tiny spider-monkey like killer and gnaw my nose off.
We finally did capture that little shit. She's currently in her cage and she just GLARES at me when I walk past.
Fuck. I think we found Charlie the perfect pet.
The 18th birthday must be the pet birthday, because not only did her best friend ask me if she could buy her a goat for her birthday (answer: no place to keep it outside as Wakeman bans goats and marsupials outdoors, apparently, and I'll be goddamned if I'm having a goat in my house...), Elizabeth got not one, but TWO hamsters for her birthday.
One hamster she is keeping in her room. This hamster is all sugar and spice and everything nice and is named Bean. She enjoys long walks on her hamster wheel and looks a bit like the devil when she has her pictures taken due to the red eye, but over all...well, she's a fucking hamster-y hamster. Not much going on here.
Reggie, however...totally different story.
That little fucker has taken crazy and elevated it to a whole new level the way that Donald Trump has elevated a bad hair day to a whole new level. She (yes, Reggie is a she...apparently she was already named when Elizabeth received her. And had been almost killed by a cat. More on that later...but point is, don't be so goddamned judgemental. Jesus.) is bat shit, certifiably, and undisputedly crazy.
She's a dwarf hamster, which means that she looks more like a mouse than a hamster and is seriously like three inches long. And before you go all, "Oh, that sounds adorable! Stop exaggerating the Satan that is present in this adorbs little rodent" let me tell you...possessed by the devil doesn't even cover it. That little shit runs around her cage and evades capture like the best of terrorists. She seriously makes Forrest Gump look like he's taking a leisurely Sunday stroll. She makes this God-awful squeak too when you try to pick her up, like the hounds of Beelzebub are escaping from her larynx. She climbs up the side of the cage like a character from the Matrix, and I honestly think that she may be plotting my death in a way that makes that sucker fish look like he just wants to give me a hug vs strangling me.
Charlie convinced me, against my better judgment, to take her out of her cage and put her in that hamster ball and let her run around her bedroom. I am now firmly convinced that Reggie is holding that humiliation against me and is going to slowly disembowel me because of it. I went to go and put her back in her cage (and mind you, it took us a solid half hour to get her in the fucking ball to begin with...I apparently cannot take a hint...) and she leaps from the ball to the top of her cage, and then down to the floor. Again, the cage is on top of a nice tall dresser. She possesses Satan ninja skills.
Satan in an orange ball. Look at her glaring...
In her defense, she has had a near death experience with a cat when she had escaped from her cage at her previous owner's houe. That being said...while I am not one to judge people on their mental health symptoms, she is beyond what one would see from a traumatized hamster. She is just pure evil and likes to mind fuck you while darting around like a meth-addicted gnat.
That fucking hamster then proceeded to hide for about 45 minutes in their room. She kept running away and hiding and then stopped running and just kept hiding behind the bookshelf and I couldn't move it so I had to wait. And fear that she was going to come at me like some kind of tiny spider-monkey like killer and gnaw my nose off.
We finally did capture that little shit. She's currently in her cage and she just GLARES at me when I walk past.
Fuck. I think we found Charlie the perfect pet.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Mindfulness
It was a Tuesday evening like any other.
Got off of work, went to dance. Ran in to check Lexi's homework and managed to find her missing jazz shoes that another child had accidentally grabbed last week. Picked up Charlie to bring back home from her dance class in the preschool room and loaded her up in the car. Gave the hubby a quick kiss after he helped her get buckled in, then headed home with all I had to do on my mind.
Find some dinner for myself. Not really hungry though.
Pack lunches for tomorrow.
Figure out my outfit for tomorrow.
Unload the dishwasher.
Sweep the floors.
Put a load of laundry in. I should probably fold the two baskets that are down there too.
Eh, let's be honest. That ain't happening. The folding at least.
Clean up kitchen.
Get Charlie in the bath.
As all of this was running through my head, Charlie was keeping up a steady chatter despite claiming not five minutes earlier that she was not talking to me because I would not let her play a game on my phone because I am an asshole parent like that. She started to talk about what we were going to do when we got home, and I teasingly told her we were going to poop our pants. She started to laugh and said, "Mama, I'm not a baby!"
"Aren't you my baby, Charlie?"
"Well, yes, but I'm still big, Mama."
She then got quiet for a few minutes after this, obviously thinking. She then asked:
"Mama, are you done growing?"
"Yes, I am."
"Well, then, why are you getting older still? You aren't growing but you keep getting older and older..."
"You get older even after you stop growing, Charlie."
"So, are you going to die?"
(Now we need some background here. Dorothy passed away a few days ago. Charlie was pretty devastated and of course we had the whole death conversation and how it is pretty much a permanent thing and the opposite of sleeping and being awake, if you could have a third option for opposites that is. So death was fresh on her mind; its not like she is going through some kind of emo/goth stage here. Though Elizabeth did go through a period at just slightly older than Charlie where all she would wear was this black witch's dress from an old Halloween costume, so who knows. Anyways...)
"Not for a long time, I hope baby."
"Will you live to be a thousand, Mama?"
"I'm certainly not planning on dying any time soon, Charlie."
This seemed to satisfy her, but it got my mind going. All of a sudden, all of those things that I was planning on doing seemed unimportant. I had no desire to plan for the next day until Charlie went to bed. I did not want to do the housework that would still be waiting for me until the day I'm finally crazy and/or senile enough to be locked away for my own good (and let's be honest, for society's good as well).
So...I did none of that.
We decided to have some ice cream and read through a dancewear catalog. I let her have a scoop of both mint chocolate chip and mint Oreo ice cream. We chose the best outfits on each page and debated the merits of a flowy skirt vs. a plain leotard. We rolled out the yoga mat and practiced her cartwheel. I told her I would learn to do one along with her and we practiced mine. We gave each other pointers. Then we put on music and danced our asses off until it was time for her to get in the shower.
In typical Charlie fashion, of course, she managed to slip in the shower and bust her eye on the faucet and is now likely going to have a black eye. As I was drying her off and comforting her, she asked me if people were going to make fun of her because she had the black eye. We snuggled on the couch and held ice on it and she wondered if people would just think that she did a really bad job of putting some "eyelash" on (which is what she calls eye shadow). She asked if I thought people would make fun of her (talk about another shot to the heart...) She then wondered why she always is the one who gets hurt.
"First stitches in my head, Mama, then my chin. Now I have a black eye!"
I wonder, had she not asked me about dying earlier, if I would have been as likely to let the comforting linger like I had. Would I have taken the time to snuggle as much, or would I have felt antsy thinking about what I had to do? When did I stop trying to be mindful and start being a stressed out, over exhausted, and burned out parent/wife/coworker? Why did it take a question about my mortality to make me stop and start living?
I feel horrible about all of the potential moments I have missed out on because of lacking mindfulness. Will my children remember it? Is it too late? Will my kids, when I do (hopefully decades in the future) die, remember me actually living, or will they only remember the stress, frustration, anxiety, depression, and illness?
What a wake up call. What a re-birth. Time to start living again.
Got off of work, went to dance. Ran in to check Lexi's homework and managed to find her missing jazz shoes that another child had accidentally grabbed last week. Picked up Charlie to bring back home from her dance class in the preschool room and loaded her up in the car. Gave the hubby a quick kiss after he helped her get buckled in, then headed home with all I had to do on my mind.
Find some dinner for myself. Not really hungry though.
Pack lunches for tomorrow.
Figure out my outfit for tomorrow.
Unload the dishwasher.
Sweep the floors.
Put a load of laundry in. I should probably fold the two baskets that are down there too.
Eh, let's be honest. That ain't happening. The folding at least.
Clean up kitchen.
Get Charlie in the bath.
As all of this was running through my head, Charlie was keeping up a steady chatter despite claiming not five minutes earlier that she was not talking to me because I would not let her play a game on my phone because I am an asshole parent like that. She started to talk about what we were going to do when we got home, and I teasingly told her we were going to poop our pants. She started to laugh and said, "Mama, I'm not a baby!"
"Aren't you my baby, Charlie?"
"Well, yes, but I'm still big, Mama."
She then got quiet for a few minutes after this, obviously thinking. She then asked:
"Mama, are you done growing?"
"Yes, I am."
"Well, then, why are you getting older still? You aren't growing but you keep getting older and older..."
"You get older even after you stop growing, Charlie."
"So, are you going to die?"
(Now we need some background here. Dorothy passed away a few days ago. Charlie was pretty devastated and of course we had the whole death conversation and how it is pretty much a permanent thing and the opposite of sleeping and being awake, if you could have a third option for opposites that is. So death was fresh on her mind; its not like she is going through some kind of emo/goth stage here. Though Elizabeth did go through a period at just slightly older than Charlie where all she would wear was this black witch's dress from an old Halloween costume, so who knows. Anyways...)
"Not for a long time, I hope baby."
"Will you live to be a thousand, Mama?"
"I'm certainly not planning on dying any time soon, Charlie."
This seemed to satisfy her, but it got my mind going. All of a sudden, all of those things that I was planning on doing seemed unimportant. I had no desire to plan for the next day until Charlie went to bed. I did not want to do the housework that would still be waiting for me until the day I'm finally crazy and/or senile enough to be locked away for my own good (and let's be honest, for society's good as well).
So...I did none of that.
We decided to have some ice cream and read through a dancewear catalog. I let her have a scoop of both mint chocolate chip and mint Oreo ice cream. We chose the best outfits on each page and debated the merits of a flowy skirt vs. a plain leotard. We rolled out the yoga mat and practiced her cartwheel. I told her I would learn to do one along with her and we practiced mine. We gave each other pointers. Then we put on music and danced our asses off until it was time for her to get in the shower.
In typical Charlie fashion, of course, she managed to slip in the shower and bust her eye on the faucet and is now likely going to have a black eye. As I was drying her off and comforting her, she asked me if people were going to make fun of her because she had the black eye. We snuggled on the couch and held ice on it and she wondered if people would just think that she did a really bad job of putting some "eyelash" on (which is what she calls eye shadow). She asked if I thought people would make fun of her (talk about another shot to the heart...) She then wondered why she always is the one who gets hurt.
"First stitches in my head, Mama, then my chin. Now I have a black eye!"
I wonder, had she not asked me about dying earlier, if I would have been as likely to let the comforting linger like I had. Would I have taken the time to snuggle as much, or would I have felt antsy thinking about what I had to do? When did I stop trying to be mindful and start being a stressed out, over exhausted, and burned out parent/wife/coworker? Why did it take a question about my mortality to make me stop and start living?
I feel horrible about all of the potential moments I have missed out on because of lacking mindfulness. Will my children remember it? Is it too late? Will my kids, when I do (hopefully decades in the future) die, remember me actually living, or will they only remember the stress, frustration, anxiety, depression, and illness?
What a wake up call. What a re-birth. Time to start living again.
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