Monday, December 6, 2010

Guinness Book Nails and Target

Tis the season.

I've decided I hate everyone I know, and they are all getting Snuggies. I'm just kidding. I don't hate my friends and family. I just know if I head out to the stores that have merchandise of worth in them again, I am going to punch an old lady in the face. Soooo, everyone is getting things I can buy at Walgreens.

Chad and I tried to do our shopping this weekend. He got out early on Friday and we decided to head to the local mall. Let me explain our town. There are 4 things to do in this military town. You can go out to eat, go to the mall, get drunk, or go to a strip club. Living here is like being 15 again. When my friend Ally came to visit, we went to JC Pennys. Why you ask? Because I wanted her to sniff it. Yes. SNIFF IT.  It smells like my grandparents basement growing up, mixed with Shepard's Pie. That was actually on the tour of Fayetteville. This town blows. You would expect the mall here to be nice and big,  since there isn't much else to do. WRONG. YOU ARE WRONG.

The mall does have a Macy's. It's the Macy's where all other Macy's products come to retire or die. They also predominantly carry brands where there  is an unspoken rule about about me wearing them. So, while trying to find gifts I decided that buying my sister a pair of velour Baby Phat track pants might not be what she really wanted, we ventured over to the jewelry counter. There are two women standing behind the counter looking at us while we look at them. It was a stare down y'all. Finally, I spoke. I said I wanted to look at a few items in one of the cases. The one lady makes her way down to the area of jewelry I am interested in keys a jangling. She starts fumbling with her keys.....and then.......I noticed it........... She had Guinness Book nails. Each finger nail was approximately the length of two sticks of chewing gum. They were all curled up and bedazzled. I had to fight back vomit and judgmental disgust. Yeah, I judged her. But for a good reason. It's called hygiene. HOW DOES ONE WIPE WITH garden rakes for hands?

Being the a-hole that I am, I was like OK. I gotta see how this lady does things. I knew I wasn't going to buy a damn thing from Claw, but I NEEDED to see how she functions with rudimentary tasks. I ask to see a pair of pearl earrings. She proceeds to pull out a microscopic item from the case. But it wasn't an easy task. For you or me it would be a matter of place hand in case, pick up item, remove item in grasp from case, hand to customer. Not for curly nails. For Curly Nails, this was an elaborate process that took as much fine motor skill as cross stitching. ( I totally just gave a shout out to cross stitching) She had lost all mobility in her fingers, and was using her palms to try to grab the earrings. It was painful and gross to be involved with. I looked over at Chad who WOULD NOT make eye contact with me. I knew he was deriving some sick pleasure from the idea of me trying to take the earrings out of her hand to inspect them. When that time finally came after about 5 minutes of her fumbling, I had to maneuver around the germ catchers. My hand felt like one of those prize claws trying to get at the prize.

I would like to know why this lady chose the jewelry counter at Macy's as her profession. Did she give up a career as a dental hygienist or a surgeon in pursuit of her dreams to have disgustingly long Guinness Book nails?

Ohhhh Macy's lady. You are gross. Seriously. Gross. I don't want any item of jewelry in those cases because I know your sick germ and poop filled fingernails have scraped up everything inside those cases. Then you lock up the cases again, sealing IN all those wonderful little particles from your nasty nails.

Ok, my rant on Target has to begin now. I like Target. Usually they have cool products that seem to be geared towards a younger generation with youthful tastes and aesthetics. The people that work at Target all seem to be relatively happy unlike employees at Wal-Mart. What I am trying to say is, I like Target. Until lately. I am registered there for my baby shower. Right now, there are 9 items on my registry that are "temporarily unavailable." My shower is in 6 days ass holes. Which in itself is another story. I am super excited for my shower, but you can be SURE I will come back with some epic tales. I've got one hell of a family dynamic. It's awesome if you aren't related to me. But, it's in 6 days! People allllllll procrastinate. How's about you have all the things in stock you should. It's not like the items I want are even Christmas gift related. I would be pissed if someone bought me Huggies Sensitive skin butt wipes for Christmas, but sure enough that's an item that is unavailable at the moment. Step back everyone. Mel Gibson is about to emerge. I am going to go take a bath and try to stop him from getting in.

Sooooo Target. Get yourself together. I already wrote you a scathing on-line letter. I will be waiting with bated breath for the form letter I get as a response.

Jerks.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Mel Gibson

I've been slacking.

Deal with it.

I would like to know why the doctors I speak with won't tell me if I am on target for weight gain. It's like they don't want to tell me I am way bigger than I should be. It angers me. I think I am on target and they won't just say yes or no.

I have a confession: Chad and I watch the show "The Bad Girls Club" and we LOVE it. They make me feel so much better about myself. Where do they find these girls? Instead of auditions they just peruse the bars around town looking for the naked chick on the bar stool? Why are they never wearing pants? Why do they get so bent out of shape over being called a bitch? Being called a bitch is like being called cotton candy.

At Thanksgiving my words of wisdom were, "If you poop in it, it's pretty much yours." I was speaking about my home and dogs and their yards, but my friends (mostly Chad) found fault with this logic. I still think it's a good rule of thumb.

I have a hard time understanding the group 3 oh! 3. I like them don't get me wrong, but the one guy looks like Dexter and the other one looks like every manager at The Buckle. It bothers me because my brain can't compute how these two work.

I am sorry I haven't written more lately. Truth is, I am trying to get my Mel Gibson under control. You know that scene in Ghost when Swayze leaves Whoopi Goldberg's body? She's like out of breath and like WTF just happened? Lately, that's been me, but with Mel Gibson coming and going as he pleases. Not so much the drunken racist part, more the fits of incredible rage part.

I've gone full on nesting. I can't find enough things to organize and decorate. I fear I will become like the lady at Joanne Fabrics. I HAVE to tell you about this lady....

Chad and I went in there to get ribbon and the see thru stuff that you find under poofy skirts. We had to wait on this lady buying tacky fabric. Then I got a look at her poor child. She was like 6, and had a perma-picking finger in her nose. She looked at us like she wanted a new set of parents. Her Mom had decided normal clothes for children were for losers. She dressed her daughter in a brown long sleeved shirt, and brown cotton pants. Attached to the ankles and wrists of her outfit were bellbottoms and cuffs made of ruffles with little cowboys all over them. Howdy lil' partner! What on EARTH was this mom thinking? How to ensure my daughter doesn't have a date to the prom? Or, does she have one of those uber tacky houses with a bagillion figurines in the front yard and she ran out of stuff to decorate so she decided her daughter was decorate-able.

That's enough for this post. My next post will be about how pissed I am at 1. Target and 2. toy makers. This sentence was more for me than you. It's to remind me later what I am supposed to be writing about.

I will try to wait until I am full blown Mel Gibson.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

A Thank You

I'm seriously at a loss for words.

Which let's face it, for me, is not very often.

Life keeps on teaching me new things, and with that being said, it grows sweeter by the day.

I haven't been surprised since my 15th birthday. No one gets anything past me. This weekend, not only did I get a wonderful surprise, I had a friendship concreted in stone. I could sit down and write a thank you note to the two of you, but this seems like a much more appropriate way to tell you how grateful I am to have you in our lives.

We met Ally and Aaron while we were still living in England. We went to a Halloween party where I was dressed up as a "rock of love" girl and Chad was Brett Michaels. I got a little "rock of love" with my drinking, but in the process I told Ally my name was Tabitha. I seem to do that quite a bit. Weird. Anyways, back to the story. Chad, Ally, and Aaron all came together to surprise me with a visit from Ally! On a random Thursday, she just walked into my kitchen. She flew all the way from Kansas to come see me.

Sometimes it's not about how long you've known someone, it's about how they make you feel. They are such open-minded, free spirited, giving, grounded and centered people. I always feel like I can say the exact words that are in my head and mouth, without fear of offending them. They in turn, make me feel like a semi-rockstar. I am so happy to be around them. We have had awesome dinners together, and I feel like we have enriched each other's lives.

Ally and Aaron bought us our crib. THEY BOUGHT OUR CRIB. It brings tears to my eyes just typing it. I feel so close to them, and by her coming to visit and by Aaron letting us stay with him while we transitioned out of England, I know they feel the same. I honestly feel like they are family. When I say this, I mean it. I am HONORED to know both of them. Not only are they spending their hard earned military money on us, it's on something that has so much meaning.

I am grateful for the many blessings in my life. You two have brought such happiness to my life, and I know that in the years to come we will only grow closer. I look forward to the long haul, knowing that we will watch our children grow up together. We will provide each other with laughter, and  be there through the tears. My only regret is not having known you sooner. More people should be as lucky as we are to have you both in our lives.

Thank you both for the wonderful gift. Charlie will sleep in it every night and I will tell him all about the laughs we have had along the way. When you come to visit, he will know who you are because he sleeps in the gift that you gave him.

I can't wait for Charlie to meet his Aunt Ally and Uncle Aaron.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Prego Hormo

I'm friggin serious about sheets. Not even a little joking. I could easily become a hoarder on sheets alone. The truth of the matter is that you spend a little under half of your life doing one thing. Sleeping. I believe that it should be done in style and with no less than 600 thread count of pure cotton.

I spent like 4 days being pissed off over a set of sheets Chad and I bought. I asked the lady at Macy's if they would get little pills on them. She firmly said no they wouldn't. She told me to keep the reciept and if they got pilly to bring them back. Well, we moved. That receipt is in the void of nothingness. Those sheets are now pilly. $160 sheets. I am so angry. Now, I have to go over the whole stinkin bed with a razor and shave my sheets. Shaving my legs is a chore because of the amount of surface area I must cover. We have a king size bed. I will be done sometime next week, and I will still be angry.

Chad and I stopped in at Marshalls and decided to look at pillow cases while we were there. Pillow cases are something you can never have enough of. If you don't know what to get me sometime....pillow cases and expensive shampoo. That's pretty much an awesome gift. That and maybe some of those Chinese throwing stars.

So, ok. Chad and I were in the aisle with the sheets and there were seriously like 10 choices for pillow cases. This lady comes walking down the aisle and instead of doing the normal thing people do in stores when they want something near where two people are standing, she seriously just slid in front of me. Like something out of the cartoons. Like extended shoe and leg, rest of body glide to meet. Who shoves a pregnant lady out of the way? My hormones are off the chiz-ain lately. I am like the Incredible Hulk of pregnant women. Needless to say I was green. I walked off in a huff... and said "Way to push a helpless pregnant lady out of the way to look at pillow cases. RUDE!"

We went to look at baby clothes next. Lady ends up a row over and I was trying to get back to where Chad was. So, I walked passed her, and totally knocked her giganto purse off her shoulder and watched as it attacked her wrist. She said, "Excuse ME!" I turned around and said, "Yea, whatever." Then did a little bitchy laugh of taunting. If this went down with a fight, who would win when the cops showed up? Pretty sure the pregnant crying lady is a trump card.

Looking back at it, I am totally sitting here like WTF?!? Holy prego hormo!

I'm a little ashamed, and a little proud. The little balls I am carrying around inside of me apparently made their first appearance at Marshalls.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Pap

I lived with my grandfather for 14 years. He came to live with us at my parent's house when I was 2. I called him Pap. He used to totally piss me off. That used to make him laugh. I used to roll around on a pink tricycle motorcycle, and he would say "Lizzie Lizzie thumper, cow poops dumper." I would get sooooooooo angry over that. Seriously, who says that? My Pap, that's who. Looking back, I totally got my sense of humor thru him. He used to come home from the grocery store with scratch off tickets and pastries for me. I would never act thrilled. But, deep down, it was AWESOME.

As I got older, our relationship seemingly fizzled. I think it was just the inevitable growing up process. I saw him get sicker, and saw the strain that it had on my mother and on us. I watched him recover from open heart surgery, and return to eating bacon cooked in bacon fat, with eggs every day. He enjoyed his drink too. Maybe a little too much, but by the time he got to live at my house it was seemingly under control. In the evenings he would stay in his part of the house. I think that's because he would be tipping back some Scotch. When you are 75 do what you want I say.

He raised 3 beautiful girls. He worked. He worked. He worked. He was a prison guard during a time when being one was a scary terrible job. He was exposed to Tuberculosis. He worked in the coal mines of Pennsylvania, and had black lung to prove it. He went to war during the second World War. He was stationed in England, where he met my Grandma. During his time in the Army he was a cook. My Pap could really cook. He needed to make more money to support 3 growing girls, and so he took a job as a gardener for a local well to do family as an extra source of income. When he lived at our house he grew Gardenias, and to this day when I smell Gardenias I think of Pap.

When I got to my teen years, I became embarrassed by having Pap living with us. I didn't want to have friends over, and felt like I was different because my grandfather lived with us. Looking back I realize that my Mom was just a very kind, trend setter. It's become more and more prevalent these days.

I turned 16 on July 22, 1997. I saw my Pap alive on that very same day. The next day he took his final breath. I believe he held on for one last day, for me. So, that I wouldn't forever be torn with his death and my birth. I found out I was pregnant on the 23rd of July this year.

I am no longer embarrassed to have had you in my life Pap. To that, I named my son Charles, for you. May he be just as strong willed, hard working, and full of life as you were.

I never cried after he passed. I never knew why. I thought for the longest time, I must not have loved him. Now, I realize, that I loved him more than I was able to comprehend at that time. I wasn't able to process thru it all. It hurt to much to let go, and now I never have to. I sit here writing this balling my eyes out. I am proud to have a son named Charlie.

Miss you Pap.

Charles Atticus

We are having a boy.

We really wanted a boy.

You aren't supposed to say that.


I was a TERRIBLE kid thru the teenage angst years. Finding out I wouldn't be having a girl to repay me trifold was like cake wrapped in cookies. When the ultrasound tech wrote the name "Charles" on our ultrasound this is the exact feeling I had:
1. super happy!
2. You know when a cop speeds up behind you with lights flashing and you have that panic feeling of OMG he's catching me ridin' dirrrty! (even though the closest thing to something illegal you have in your car is a candy wrapper) Then, just as your heart begins to really feel like you will have to pull over for the impending heart attack, he just pulls around you and speeds off for some other unlucky bastard. That is how I felt when we were told it's a boy.

Chad and I rushed to the store to buy Charlie some outfits. Deep down I thought we had a boy in there, but with the 12 other pregnant people I know having boys, I assumed luck was running out.

I KNEW it had to be a boy though because penises weird me out. That's why I have girl dogs.

I apparently like baby's in robot clothing. Both outfits we bought have robots on them.

Which is actually quite fitting, because his mom does a MEAN robot dance.

So, I suppose I should familiarize myself with some things.
1. farts
2. bugs
3. dirt
4. boogers
5. broken bones

O
M
G

Speaking of farts....... pregnancy does some wicked things to your body beyond make your belly feel like a piece of stretched out silly putty. Charlie has been kicking around in there and for all intents and purposes I think he is using my intestines like monkey bars. He's put a few kinks in my hose. Last weekend......it.....happened....... I broke wind in bed with Chad still awake. He looked over and assumed one of the dogs made a weird noise. He asked which one did it, and my face wouldn't let me pick a dog. I would have pulled the covers up over my head, but dutch oven-ing yourself is just stupid. So, I fessed up. He didn't shame me. He was like, "Oh, so what! We all fart!" ehem, break wind. I shamed myself enough for both of us. I think I slept all of 3 hours that night out of sheer embarrassment. This happened before we found out we were having a boy. I think it was an omen. Because as we all know, boys=farts.

I have so much more to tell you...but it will have to wait. I don't want this post to be SUPER LONG. So, in the future you will find out about the name Charles Atticus, having children is not a happy time in my extended family, and me getting all prego hormo (that's pregnant hormonal) on some lady in Marshalls.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Letter to Future Me

This is a post to future me.

When I am dealing with teen angst, hormones, drinking, and sex.

I tend to forget things as I get older. I seem to magically no longer remember bits from my past, like knocking a friend's rearview mirror off the windshield with my head. My memory is horrible. I am glad I have friends that remind me of my life. (we will find out years from now I have some weird memory disorder and they will make movies about me)

So, future Liz. There will come a time when you are faced with the dreaded sex talk. I want to give future Liz a few pointers on how to deal with this from a more youthful perspective. Realistically speaking, I will be around 45 when T starts down that road. Future me isn't as cool as present me. Present me doesn't get puked on.

Note to self. Remind T of your first heavy drinking experience. You know, the time when you went to your Mom's friends house, downed 1/4 of a bottle of Absolute, and walked around your Mom's friends house topless.  Yea. I did that. Can't forget the end of the story....where I peed the bed. I don't want to have to find a waterproof mattress cover for my 17 year old. If I do have to, I will be telling allllllll of your friends T.

Dear Future Liz,
   Remember when you were 17? You drank, made bad decisions, and lost your virginity. Teach your kid to drink responsibly. Show them that you do in fact drink, and that when you do, you have a DD. At least one time while being an "example" pretend to become super drunk and totally embarrass the ever living crap out said child. Not by telling embarrassing child related stories, but by dancing on table tops, talking on your shoe phone, and telling everyone your college exploits. Pop out an old lady boob for extra points. It will show your kid that they never want to be that person. 


  Try to think back to when you were 17. Britney Spears was all the rage, you got your belly button pierced at a place that was probably condemned for hepatitis. Even Jenna Jameson was like, "Ugh! That place is dirty!" (in my thoughts Jenna Jameson narrates) Most of all you wanted to be sexy. You wanted boys to want you. Don't make sex something uncomfortable. If you want your child to NEVER talk to you about sex, reference your own sex life with Chad. That will pretty much make said child NEVER talk to you about it. Instead, focus on the reality. In this day and age, a lot of people don't have the luxury of meeting 1 person and it's happily ever after. Think of sex like Halloween candy. When you get all those choices, you pick the good candy. You don't eat all of it at once, or you get sick, and the Tootsie rolls go uneaten because they just aren't that great. Just because sex is being offered by tons, don't accept because you will get sick, or you will end up having sex with a lot of Tootsie rolls. Also, tell kid that saran wrap is not an acceptable alternative to a condom.

  Remind your kid that they have YEARS to go before they will likely settle down into a long term relationship with the person they will marry. So, don't start racking up the numbers too young or by the time you get to the "right" age they will feel like a New York subway car.

  Your kid is gunna get their heart broken too. Remember what it feels like, and don't act like everything is sunshine and butterflies. It's tough. It's THE WORST when you are going thru it for the first time. Sit down with kid and eat a bag of Oreos and a carton of ice cream. Talk about all the stuff you hated about the jerk that did it. (note to self, you are never allowed to have an opinion about other person incase they get back together)

  When my kid starts dating, don't be an ass hole to the person they are dating. Remember what it was like when your high school boyfriend's Mom decided she wanted him to date another girl because her parents owned a carpet store and she was remodeling her basement? Yeah, be the nice Mom that invites people to stay for dinner.

  If I think of more, I will write to future me again. For now, keep being cool Liz.

Love Always,
Yourself

Monday, November 8, 2010

How Not to Buy Jeggings.

So I am carrying high.

It probably means T-Money is a girl.

If you believe propaganda.

I live above the influence.

Most of the time.

Since I am carrying high, I decided I could use a couple more pairs of jeans. Jeggings (BLASPHEMY!) seemed like a logical way to stay in style while not cutting off circulation to my netherlands. American Eagle makes me feel like a pedophile. You know, you walk in, there is a girl there that is 17 with legs like a giraffe. The employee's are all ex-cheerleaders that lurk throughout the store talking on their Britney Spears headsets about the creepy 30 something in the store. They start tweeting Amber alerts as a precaution when Chad and I walk in. Sooooo, I decided Express was where my generation is shopping now. I usually like going there. Except that I like to do things like eat food, so I can't really afford to spend $70 on jeans right now. But, I thought if I find the PERFECT pair of jeggings and I would.

*side note: there is no such thing as a perfect pair of jeggings, I now know this.

I find a pile of jeans/jeggings that I hope will fit me. I head towards the opening to the fitting rooms. I stand in the void of nothingness as the dressing room attendant ignores me. I then have this conversation with faux hawk jerry curl.
Me: Are the the dressing rooms in use?
(there's a long pause and blank stare, probably the robot booting up)
Faux Hawk: Ummm yea, and the line is at the other end of the store.
Me: Sorry, I feel so silly for assuming that the opening to the dressing rooms was a way IN.
Faux Hawk: Right, well most people don't make that mistake.
....................this is where I start losing my temper and I blacked out in a fit of pregnancy rage, what I remember probably didn't really happen because I am not in jail..............
Me: Well, perhaps a sign or two might distinguish entrance from exit. Didn't realize that your job was that important dude.
Faux Hawk: I save lives. One pair of jeans at a time.
Me: You do realize that your job consists of folding clothes that have been directly next to people's crotches right?
Faux Hawk: Yes, but I do it exclusively in Express clothing.

I waiting for 20 minutes for a dressing room. Just to realize that Express missed the memo on Jeggings. They are supposed to be stretch pants disguised as jeans. Not jeans with some stretch in them. Those are just normal jeans. I left 6 pairs of jeans on the floor inside the dressing room. I went so far as to turn every pair inside out.

I showed him.

Suck it Express. I would rather wear Mom jeans than apparel made out of the hopes and dreams of everyone that tries on clothes at your store. I am pretty sure I am going to start telling people that's what my clothes are made out of. That and lima beans. They don't have nearly enough to do. Except make people fart.

Where did you get those jeans?

The store that makes apparel out of hopes and dreams of everyone else that tried this on and failed. I got to  keep the jeans because I figured out how to put them on.

My Hormones Made Me Say It

I thought about trying to make this into a funny post.

I am having one of those panicky days where I am just a ball of nerves for no real reason.

Today isn't any sort of holiday.

There is no birthday.

There's just me an my thoughts.

It's not me bragging. It's me stating facts.

Before I get into this, I better start with a little warning. I am going to be telling you how amazing Chad is. I don't like to do this publicly too much for a couple of reasons. First of all, people are dicks, and when they know you are happy they get all weird and crap on your front door step...but figuratively. Second of all, I don't talk Chad up because I am not trying to sell him. I don't want other women getting ideas. There is regular, step off he's my husband crazy, and there's preggo all up on you blood bath style crazy. I would be in the second category right now. I am not afraid to pee a circle around my husband, and may or may not carry a tire iron in my purse. Just sayin. My boobs are way to big right now to carry around a pocket knife in my bra.

Ok to the reason I am writing today. Chad is pretty much the most amazing dude ever. I am grateful for so many reasons to him. Just last night, he just got up and let the dogs out. I didn't have to ask him, I didn't have to prompt him. He just got up, and did it. It's a small thing. I know. However, he does TONS of things like this. I don't have to hound him to take out the trash. Or to mow the lawn. He leaves his socks in weird places, but it's annoyingly cute. I just can't help but think about all the private parts out there that won't even get up to let out the dogs. Their response would be, "it's your dog." I've lived that life. It was terrible.

Chad makes me feel comfortable in my own skin. I can pop a zit in the mirror while he's brushing his teeth and it doesn't matter. He calms me down. He is my centralizing force. He tells me when people around me are completely insane. Which seems to be quite often. He comes to my rescue. He is ornery. Cheeky some might say. He is easy to please. He has a good appetite. He isn't thrown off by small changes. He is super excited for the baby to come. He rubs my belly every day to say hello. He gets up and goes to work every day without coaxing or complaints. He doesn't complain about his job. He tells me when things are bothering him. He takes help when he needs it. He laughs at my jokes. He reads my blog. He tells me when I am being a bitch. He lets me be me. He is amused by the very stupidity of me. He has a heart of gold. He kisses me hello. He is my best friend. I couldn't ask for more in a friend.

I love you Cha Cha.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

24 Ways to Insult Someone Properly

Ok. So here's the deal. Today I am not holding back. I am telling it how it is.

The other day you may have noticed my profile pic on FB change. To that of a sexy man. It's a friend of mine. A few other friends of mine have also put his pic as their profile pic. People's response? "Fag."

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. Really? That's what you come up with? It's a DUDE STANDING IN FRONT OF A WATERFALL. THAT'S WHAT YOU COME UP WITH?!? Somehow, this is more acceptable than using an actual cuss word. No dice people. No dice.

I am about to punch puppies, kittens, and McDonald's employees in the throat over this. STOP USING THE WORD FAG TO MAKE FUN OF SOMEONE. STOP USING THE WORD RETARD TO DESCRIBE SOMEONE. It's not just that it's hurtful. We have been saying that for a long time. We all know that. It's more at this point angering because of the lack of thought people are willing to put into their insults. I get that these are social norms. Let's stop. Not only because they are hurtful and completely lacking creativity, but because words like "rad" and "not" died out and so should these words. These words have a lot more meaning to them than "sike" and it's time we just stopped. I urge everyone to stop being an ass hat. Don't put someone down at another group's expense.

This is a tired topic, so instead of focusing on the why you should nots, I am going to focus on alternatives. They will be divided into two categories. The non cussing terms and the cussing terms.


Cussing alternatives:
We will start with a basic sentence.
That girl is a complete:
1. ass turkey
2. fucking ball bag
3. shit fest
4. ass-tacular disaster
5. fucking STD
6. dick bag
7. prick scratcher
8. damn douchebag
9. fuck ball
10. ass hat
11. shit sniffer
12. dick biter



Non cussing alternatives:
We will start with a basic sentence.
That guy is a total:
1. private part
2. poop nugget
3. shop teacher with 1 finger
4. wedgie
5. piece of butt lint
6. urinal cake
7. leaking nipple
8. anal gland
9. tampon
10. penis drip
11. vagina puncher
12. tea pot

I have given 24 AWESOME alternatives that do not offend anything but actual butts, balls, and a tea pot. Show your creativity by leaving comments with your own creative insults.

Also, you all are welcome to share this blog with your friends. I kind of want to be a big deal. :)

Friday, November 5, 2010

Hangovers and Babies

I am keeping it realz. Fo' realz.

I am one of the first in my circle of friends and family to have a baby. You can read lots and lots of books about pregnancy, but most of them sugar coat the truth. This is in no way meant to deter you from having a baby AT ALL. I am just giving my lady friends a bit of a heads up on what to expect in the first portion of pregnancy.

Being pregnant is sort of like having a hangover while in college. You know, when you were still young enough to binge drink, feel like crap the next day for like 6 hours, and then rally to do it again. Except those 6 hours aren't all in a row....they are spread out throughout the day. Mostly at the worst times ever. Like during deep and meaningful conversations, or sex. Your mind starts to wander off thinking about puking in decanters and decorative vases.

The hormones will make you have some wicked headaches too. You will be allowed to take Tylenol only. For me, Tylenol is like eating tic tacs for hemorrhoids. In time, I have accepted Tylenol for what it is and use it regularly hoping my liver doesn't stop working.

You will seek out people that have already had kids to ask if some of your symptoms are normal. Things such as not pooping for days, severe stabbing pains, and bleeding gums. Yes, I said bleeding gums. Your gums change while you are preggo too.

You will have a friend or relative that you confide in that had "the perfect pregnancy." My mom was one of them. What you have to remember about a lot of these women is that it happened 29 years ago and they have idealized something that IS special but in no way a cake walk. You tell them things like, "My insides are sore" or "I feel like I just got off a horse." They then tell you that's not normal. You will not like these people. Apparently they remember pregnancy like something out of The Sound of Music.

I feel like I just got off a horse. (College really did prepare me for pregnancy) It is from the ligaments and joints in your lower body stretching out to prepare for birth. Every time the word "birth" is mentioned you will feel everything in your body sort of seize up in a sort of panic.

The other thing that I would like to talk about is comparing pregnancy to a day at the amusement park. You will talk about the rides on your way there, you will stand in line excited to get on the ride, you will get on the ride....and as the coaster clicks its way to the top you start to think about it. You start to think, shit I don't know if this was such a good idea. Will they just hurry up and GOOOOOOOOOOOO.

That's sort of how the first time your pregnant you feel. I personally wanted kids for a bagillion years. Now, it's in there. T-Money is chillin' in the front seat, and I am clicking up the coaster. It's the anticipation of birth (insides seize), life changing, and all the unknowns. It's sort of like every week that goes by is one more agonizing click on that coaster.

Then, you see the ultrasound. You see the small little legs, and the tail (yea babies have tails at first), and you realize that you made that. You hear the heart beat, and you cry. You can't help it.  When you feel the baby kick for the first time, EVERYTHING melts away. It's like your first kiss, and first everything all wrapped into one.

Countdown to gender: 11 days.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Jumpin' Out of Planes

Today is a cussing kind of day.

It's pouring down rain, and I had to turn the heat on. 

I don't know what happened to me but I am sleeping in until 10-11 every day. For like 4 days straight. 

Apparently I am 20 again. Sweet. 

Oh good. Lil Wayne is out of prison. I have spent so many sleepless nights worrying about that guy. You know, because he has face tattoos. Not just one or two either, like 20...and they all look to be done with some form of Bic pen and a knife. 

So, I spent most of last night tossing and turning. Why? Because of Cha Cha's fucked up job. When I talk about his job, I cuss. Especially when it's this job. So, Chad jumps out of airplanes. That sounds AWESOME right? Wrong. It was cute when we were both like 26. When landing didn't mean hours on a frozen bag of peas and me inspecting his groin for signs of a hernia. It was cute when I didn't have his child chillin' in my front seat. (that's what I am calling my uterus these days) Now, when I think about him jumping, I think about things like pushing a stroller and a wheelchair at the same time. Then I think, well that would just be stupid. I could just get a double stroller and Chad could just squeeze in and shut the fuck up. But, STILL way not cool. 

It would be different if it was an every day occurrence. No, it really wouldn't. But, they have them do this every 3 months or so. That's a lot of time to forget how to do something. After 2 months I forget my own  Meatloaf recipe and that doesn't entail me jumping out of a plane at 500 ft careening towards the Earth. How awesome would it be if there were a new reality show where they made you memorize a recipe and remember it for 3 months, and if you couldn't remember it they would just push you out of a plane? 

When I am trying to sleep on the nights when he has to jump, it makes me think about all the injuries that Cha Cha has sustained while in his current job. When we are both like 92, I am going to be dragging my dirty diaper behind me and changing out Chad's drool cup. He will be on all fours on the floor because he is too stubborn to have gotten help, or a wheel chair. Now, I just change out his drool cup and use him as a foot stool. I make him crawl out on the back patio and spray him down with a hose like people do with dogs.

Just so everyone knows. He got up at 4 to go do his "daredeviling" as I like to call it. He got there, stood around for about 3 hours and then was told to go home because it wasn't safe. Ummmmmm. I am pretty sure it is NEVER safe to jump out of a plane. Just sayin. 

Now, that I have written this, I will try to locate the smell that had me up in the middle of the night. I went to pee and eat an apple at 2 AM. That's what pregnant women do, I lurk around my kitchen wearing panties and a tank top eating things right out of the fridge thinking about peeping toms. All of the sudden BAM! I smelled dirty locker room. I spent 5 minutes trying to locate what on earth near our kitchen would smell like sweaty balls and gym socks. I am going to take another crack at it. 

After I shower. 

To ensure I wasn't just somehow smelling myself. 

Monday, November 1, 2010

Trick Or Treat!

      Ok. I went to a college that was BONKERS over Halloween. It is my favorite holiday. It is always filled with memories every year. This year was a little less eventful because I had to be an adult and not drink. Boo.

      Why is Halloween my favorite holiday? It's simple. It doesn't involve family members fighting, and stressed thoughts of what to purchase for someone. It is purely about debauchery and fun. Kids can dress up as dragons and ghosts and adults can dress up as all the things that they never became. Such as ninjas, pirates, and prostitutes. Or, cop/nurse/witch/pirate/cat prostitutes. I actually think it's a bummer that girls don't allow themselves to be "naughty" more nights out of the year. I guess it's because all that pleather is bound to cause yeast infections, and one night a year is plenty for causing that kind of a stir.

      So last night Chad and I sat out on the front porch to hand out candy. 1,000 doorbell rings is a good way to make my high maintenance dog have an epic proportion panic attack. Plus, being a stranger and handing out candy to children, is always better when done out in the open.

      There are a few things about trick or treat that I would like to discuss.

1.  First of all, free candy is awesome. We tell our kids not to take candy from strangers, and then on Halloween we tell them not only to take a piece or two, but go ahead and go from door to door asking for candy from strangers. I'm totally going to take part in taking my kids Trick or Treating, but still it's sort of like my thoughts on the Easter Bunny. Rabbits don't lay eggs! Most people don't even know why we go around trick or treating either, or that Halloween is actually a morphed Christian holiday. "Soul cakes" have been replaced by candy.

2.  I also would like to congratulate the parents that would take their kids trick or treating 5-6 houses at a time IN THEIR CAR. Really? Is this for safety? Get out and walk your ass along with your kids. OR don't let your kids go in the first place because we all know these are the same people with the magnifying glasses and metal detectors to check the candy for razor blades. They probably do what birds do, only with the halloween candy. Chew it up to check for poison and blades and then spit it into their kids mouths. Mmmmm regurgitated Reese's cups.

3. We live in a weird area. We butt up against some houses that are on farm land, and in the woods. We also live in an allotment with some REALLY nice houses. I have to tell you about these people. They drove into out allotment on super revved up go carts, and drove their kids around to grab candy from all of us. They would stop every so often while the kids caught up. We had the pleasure of them stopping near our house. When I say this, don't judge me. I thought the parents were WEARING COSTUMES. Nope, turns out there are some people around here that look like they are from the movie "The Hills Have Eyes." I wanted to take pictures, but I thought it would be mean. Instead I will just talk about them on here. Seriously, it was amazing. I will start taking more pictures. It would be worth you all thinking I am mean if you got to see some of the things I see.

4.  When the only costume choices left for your kids are adult costumes, designed to be worn to adult parties, STOP LETTING YOUR KIDS GO TRICK OR TREATING. I watched as some guy walked his daughter around in some sort of French Maid costume. She had to be around 14. I am assuming it was his daughter. He could have been her pimp. They got confused over the word "trick." It was uncomfortable seeing a 14 year old dressed that way, and I wanted to shield my husbands eyes.

      There were also TONS of cute little kids. I can't wait to take T-Money trick or treating. I think we will start next year when he/she can't even eat it. He/she will be dressed up as "baby that can eat candy." I will be dressed up as "lady that wants free candy." Hold the razor blades.

Friday, October 29, 2010

Who I Am

      Ok. This is going to be one of those girly posts. Just an FYI to my male readers.

      Part of why I write this blog is to discuss the issues that weigh on my mind. I talk about these things so that anyone who wants to can read about normal issues that plague a 29 year old woman. They may be your issues, or they may not. The actual issue sometimes isn't relevant. It's that I am willing to talk about it and openly heal for my own benefit and yours too. I believe that sometimes my own hang-ups are what make me sick.

      Like bagillions of other women out there, I struggle with my weight. I don't usually talk about it because I know there are women out there who have a much harder time than I do. Part of me knows that genetically, it could be way worse. However, that doesn't stop this never ending battle that I have with my own body image. It doesn't stop with my body either. I have severe issues with my skin too. I am telling you this because I am struggling a little more than I normally do with body image because I am pregnant. Things are growing as they naturally should, and it is wonderful and upsetting all at once.

      I've gotten caught up in the idea of sex appeal. For years I had jobs that revolved around being attractive and sexy. I look back at those years, and think about how great I looked. The thing is, that at the time, I hated myself. I hated the way I looked. I was constantly self conscious, and my skin was always a wreck.

      As I've gotten older some of the body issues have subsided because I am now married. I don't feel a constant need to be perfect. We got it like that. We want the other to be healthy AND happy. I have always had major insecurities that if my sexy was gone, so would the man I was with. Now, I battle the beginning of aging and pregnancy. I know it will only get worse. Or does it? We are all obsessed with the wrong things. I know a lot of this has been tiredly discussed, but it doesn't make it any less relevant.

      I am not saying we all need to go out and start volunteering, and go all crazy. What I am saying is that we need to start seeing ourselves for who we are. Loving others around us for what we admire about them. I have spent the last few years getting in touch with people from my past to let them know things that have stuck with me for the long haul of my life. That they touched me. They are special. I encourage  you all to do the same. Let those around you know the things you think are pretty awesome about them. I know it's a little uncomfortable to give gushing comments at first, but think about the impact that it can have on someone else.

      What plagues me with my skin, plagues me with my life. I go nose to nose with my mirror, and dissect every pore on my face. I focus on every minuet flaw, and don't focus on the bigger stuff. I hope that by helping myself I am helping others. I need to focus more on what it is that makes me so special, and less on the clogged pores of my life.

      So today, I say screw it. I am taking a new stance.

My baby belly is sexy. I have a life inside of me, and I feel like I am glowing as a result.

My skin isn't perfect. I grow hair on my legs too. So what?

I get depressed. I go on meds to help even things out. I'm glad I did it.

I love my sense of humor.

      Today, I change. Today I allow myself to be comfortable with the age I am and the belly I grow. I will never wear the jeans I did in college. Those jeans signify self loathing. I won't do that. I am going to embrace who I am with all I have. My imperfections are beautiful, and part of what makes me a whole person. Today I show everyone that I am who I am, and I will get older. I will be a different sexy. I will be a sexy filled with wisdom, generosity, kindness, and some over indulgence in candy and cake.

      We are all here together. Let's let each other know that we aren't alone.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

The Great Outdoors

      I do not like the outdoors. I don't like the smells, and I don't like the allergies they give me. I am sick of people thinking it's weird or abnormal. It's not. I have justifications for why I hate being outside. One of which is I don't like the way I smell after I've been outside for a while. I smell like am mix of sweat and ozone. It's gross. If the outside could work on not smelling gross, I might think about joining it more often.

      Another reason I don't like the outdoors is, that's where bugs live. Things that bite and sting. Things that would try to murder me in my sleep if left to their own devices. I don't even like the idea that bugs could be NEAR me.

      Birds are outside. I don't know if you know this, but I hate birds. Birds are gross. I hate birds.

      If it's 60's-70's and windy so the bugs can't get at me, I will entertain the idea of outside. Otherwise. Quit judging me. I am not telling you that I kill puppies. I don't judge you for being an outdoors kind of person. I am telling you that inside is where it's at for me. Indoors and I get along much better. Instead of 3,000 biting things it's 1 because I left the door open too long because my dogs like to dilly dally outside at the fence line to piss the neighbor dogs off.

      You see what I like to do, is take things from outside to make the inside more outside-y. The inside has things like couches, love seats, fridges that make ice, bug killer, temperature control, toilets, and carpeting. We have evolved. We don't live in caves anymore. We have houses. They are awesome. I will never understand the concept of sleeping outside to "commune with nature." That to me sounds a whole lot like, "I forgot to pay my rent."

      In closing, my future child, I will begrudgingly take you places outside. Places like pumpkin patches, zoos, hiking trails, orchards, and play grounds. That way, you can come to your own conclusions. You can get stung in the face when you are 10 by a bee inside of a rose at a vineyard in California, and simultaneously have ants under your seat in the rental car you are riding in that are biting your butt. You can get bit on the face by mosquitos in Florida when you are 11 and on Christmas day have 6 huge red marks on your face.

      Ok, so I am not really wishing this on you, my child. I am just saying, I really love you to brave the outdoors. I dislike snow, ice, rain, and sometimes sunshine if it's too hot. I grew up inside of a house, so call me crazy, but I like the feeling of being INSIDE of a house. Screened in porches are ok too. If it's not too cold, and there's some sort of scented candle around.

      I'm allergic to bonfires too.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Wal-Mart Beef

I must start out the post with a preface. I in no way judge anyone who shops at Wal-Mart. With the economy the way it is, I understand the need to find deals wherever they are located. I myself have shopped at the Mart. In the following paragraphs I am simply stating my experience that has left me scarred.

      There is a 5-10 mile radius around my house that includes 2 Wal-Mart super centers, and a couple of Food Lions. If I go to Food Lion, I still have to go to Wal-Mart to get the stuff that Food Lion didn't have. So, to save a step Chad and I decided to just do all of our shopping at Wal-Mart.

      Big. Mistake.

    Here's my crazy suggestion of the day. Don't buy beef from Wal-Mart. I'm pretty sure it's made out of the same substance that they use to make their fake uggs. I cook a lot. I am pretty good at it and I am also fairly knowledgeable about meats and foods in general. I have been craving an eye roast for a while now, and so I made one yesterday. The whole house smelled amazing. I made Yorkshire pudding, wilted savoy cabbage with onions and bacon, and mashed potatoes to go with this. I cut into the roast and from the get-go I am a little concerned. Eye roast is a tough cut of meat. It is also super dense. When I started slicing it the meat actually had little holes in it like swiss cheese. That was weird enough. Then I tried to eat it.

      It tasted good. That wasn't the problem. The biggest issue I had with it was that it sort of had the same texture as dried out Jello. Eye roast should have the same texture as a really well done steak. It sort of reminded me of silly putty texture. What on earth happened to that cow? I felt bad that things had to end this way for that cow. I know that it ain't a pretty industry and that it's actually quite terrible. But, what exactly did that cow do wrong along the way to be disgraced by Wal-Mart like that? I honestly thought for a moment that it was a meat grown in a lab. I'm still not sure it wasn't.

      It's letter writing time. I won't actually send it because, let's face it, no one at Wal-Mart has a soul.

Dear Wal-Mart,
  I hate even typing your name because the dash throws me off every time. Congrats on your sketchy business tactics that screw your employees out of life necessities. Like health care. I have worked at a Wal-Mart establishment. I am allowed to trash talk you. It was the first job I ever had, and management sucked back in the 90's too. I am fairly certain that "Sam" is code for Satan. What the hell did you do to my beef? It was swiss beef!! If I had to guess you pumped it full of saline to make it appear larger. The holes were the syringe marks. When it comes to things like food, size doesn't matter. Eating something that doesn't feel like chewing gum does. I also bought some "Sam's Choice" chicken breasts that cooked down to the size of a chicken wing. What exactly is Sam choosing? The worst of any product he can find?

  I am back to hating your store. You are pretty much the most evil establishment I can think of.

Sincerely,
Liz and the Eye Roast Cow

Monday, October 25, 2010

Dry Shampoo

      I am one of those people that envies the jerks out there that don't have to wash their hair every day. If I don't wash my hair daily I look homeless. It's terrible. Somewhere in my genetic makeup is some sort of mutant with constantly shiny skin. I hate waking up looking like I just ran some sort of marathon, thru an olive oil factory.

       I have SUPER thick hair. Like normal pony tail holders are not enough for the amount of hair I have. It takes me 30 minutes to blow dry my hair. I take a break at 15 to give my blow dryer a rest. I was super excited when I saw that Treseme came out with dry shampoo. I immediately needed to try it. Here's what I found out.

1. It's just Treseme scented baby powder that is pressurized.
2. You still feel gross everywhere else because you didn't wash your hair.
3. Your hair just looks less greasy and more dull.
4. It might work if I was actually homeless.
5. What happens if I go out in the rain? Do I drip talcum powder?
6. Just take a damn shower Liz.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Welcome to the World Baby!

      I think that I have avoided this long enough. I have been secretly thinking about it almost daily. Now that I am pregnant the day will come where I actually have to push the baby out. Na├»vely, that isn't what scares me. I know that's going to be insane. That's why I am getting pumped full of any drug they want to give me. Except sulfa drugs. Those will kill me.

      I have written a post or two about my problems with poo. You could go so far as to say that I have a legitimate disorder of some sort. I remember growing up and family members going into the bathroom after I was in there, and saying "Pewey!" Thanks a lot for starting the process young for me at like 4. Anyways, back to poo. When you give birth, word on the street is, you poop too. That is pretty much a culmination of all my fears. Put the doctor in a clown suit and have a party on my behalf in the waiting room (that no one shows up for) and I would probably just push the baby back in and hide. Seriously. I am going to POOP. ON MY BABY.

      I really hope that Chad is one of those dudes that when he gets in there for the actual process of holding my hand thru the worst, he gets all green when he takes a sneak peak at the live action. I don't want him from row and center for poop and scoop that the doctor will have to give me.

      I remember when I was in college, a roommate of mine and I went out with a group of my guy friends.  She and I ate at Burger King before we went out. Needless to say, we went out and she had a lot too much fun and we had to physically carry her out of the bar. We went by to my buddies house and proceeded to watch her puke up Burger King for a while. She then told me she needed to use the bathroom. Let me tell you about this house my buddy rented. It seriously was one of the scariest houses I've ever been in. Picture gun shots, and piles of trash by the curb. It was a two story with a finished basement. Logically the steps to each level would be in a different spot. Not in this house. Not only did it go straight from the 3rd floor to the basement, there were no hand rails. You would take your life in your own hands every time you went to go upstairs. I peed outside at their house. My roommate made it clear that was not an option. She then proceeded to pass out on the toilet...pants down after she had taken care of some lovely business. I wanted to go home. I did the only thing I could think to do. I wiped her butt...and pulled up her vomit pants. My friend carried her to our car. We drove home with the smell of vomity Burger King. I still hate Burger King.

      Is that what this will be like for me? Like a night of binge drinking at the Harry Buffalo?

      Instead of waking up with a hangover, I wake up with a baby and 12 stitches where there should never be stitches? People telling me how they wiped poop out of my butt?

      My sister-in-law said, they won't tell you about it. They will just wipe it away and you will never even know.

      Trust me. I will know.

      Where there is poop. I know. I may not feel it. But I sense it.

      You know how when you go to Hawaii when you get off the plane they put a beautiful flower lei over your head as a welcome?

      We welcome babies into the world by pooping on them.

      I'm so scared.

Friday, October 22, 2010

Designing This Woman

    Most people dreaded middle school. I, on the other hand, spent 1 year of my entire school career being popular. I recovered nicely from the pocket knife/witch ordeal in 6th grade, and ended up getting myself a boyfriend. He was adorable. My sister had moved to her college, and still came back every weekend to do laundry and whatnot. So I got to see what cool college kids did, dressed like, and listened to.  It really helped me advance socially. I still have the Doc Martens to prove it. (Because my feet have not grown since the 4th grade)

      Do you remember who your role model was when you were 12? I do. It was anything from your ordinary role model. While my friends were emulating rock stars, and the Full House cast, I was trying to hone my skills at being Julia Sugarbaker. That's right. Julia Sugarbaker. Don't know who that is? Consider yourself lucky.

      A loooooong time ago there was a show on tv about 4 single women living in the south. It was called Designing Women. The whole show revolved around Julia and her interior design firm based out of her southern home. She had the demure soft spoken nature of a southern women, wrapped up into this fireball that could explode at any given time. She would get up on her high horse and rip people's heads off. Mostly men's heads. Her co-workers would always smile and nod when she would rant. They would silently cheer her on. In real life if this lady was constantly telling people off, her co-workers and friends would be rolling their eyes and running at the first sign she was about to have another blowout.

      At 12 I was a feminist. I thought I had it all figured out. I thought women were physically as strong as men, and it turns out I was right..sometimes. Not all the time. Anyways, I had a history teacher that I could not stand. He had a daughter about my age that went to a school 2 towns away, and I think I reminded him of his own daughter. I remember doing a Julia Sugarbaker rant, on Mr. B. I remember seeing the entire class turn and look as their mouths dropped open and stared at me. He would argue with me for what seemed like hours on women being weaker. I didn't take kindly to this sexist pig. People in my class surely hated me, or they loved me for not talking about history. I was grateful we spent less time talking about history. Either way, why were we talking about women being weaker at all? This was the same year that a male classmate that was already experimenting with acid wore a dress to school. I was not so bad.

      If you know me, you know I like a good argument. Coming from a family with an attorney for a Mom, I had to learn quickly how to argue my case very well. As I have grown up I have liked to argue less and less. I suppose that Julia Sugarbaker had to leave me sometime. That show has been off the air for like 15 years now. I think it's time I found a new role model. One that doesn't feather her hair, or lose her cool on people.

      Taking suggestions.

    

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Baby Baskets

      It seems as though I woke up this morning with a much deeper understanding of what it is to be pregnant and cranky. It's like a switch flipped inside of me. I no longer have patience for adults. I see or hear kids crying when I am out and I now don't think "shut that kid up!" I think, awwww let me go save that kid!

      I am typically a pretty tolerant person, but it seems as of late that I have lost that function. I need a sign. One that says, "SHUT UP." Seriously, what happened to me? I don't like the music that's been coming out lately, I don't like the clothing styles, and I don't like Miley "gums" Cyrus. Am I pregnant and cranky? Or, is this part of being a real grown up? Will I soon be resorting to listening to Pearl Jam indefinitely? I remember growing up, listening to NOTHING but the Beach Boys because my Dad had apparently hit his "trying to stay cool quota." I guess that's where I am at now. I am no longer "trying to stay cool." It's a never ending battle, and my quota has been met. I have the tattoos and piercing marks to prove it.

      T-Money has decided that the right side of my stomach is pretty much the only place he wants to hang out. It's starting to ache, and sleeping is starting to be a task in itself. I am not showing that much, but I can definitely feel the changes. I feel T-Money shift, and that is totally cool. Could he shift to the left to give me a break?!?

      Ok, so I've been working on the registry. I decided that Target was the best place to register. Babies R Us is horrifically overpriced. Seriously. I try to avoid Wal-Mart and their sketchy business tactics at all costs as well. So, I was left with the lesser of the evils. Target. I also wanted somewhere that people wouldn't be like WTF is she nuts asking for this stuff???

      Dude, it's ridiculous. NO ONE will spend $150 on a baby gift. The things I really need are things like, a crib, stroller, bassinet, high chair, pack and play....All things that run OVER $150. Holy crap. No one loves me that much. I struggle to love me that much. I don't buy jeans that are more than $30. Maybe, I can make my own crib out of all the jeans that will never fit me again. I still have tops left from college that are probably more appropriately sized for an infant too...So, T-Money can wear my slut tops until it turns 2.

      They make baby baskets. BABY BASKETS. Incase, you want your child to look like you are going to drop it on someone's doorstep, buy this. Or, baby's not good enough for a crib, let's put it in a basket on the floor. You know, somewhere you could step on it. You know what I do with baskets? I put crap in them that I don't want to think about. You know, magazines, dog toys, and paperwork that needs to get filed. Why not a baby? Oh, did I mention they go for around $85? Yea, I am going to spend $85 to make it look like I am neglecting my child. While I'm at it, I will throw some baby netting on top of the basket to keep baby from getting away. Baby netting and baskets. What next? Razor blade binkies?

      I got thru all the tough stuff for T-Money. Then, I started to look at the clothes and bath towels. Awwwwwwwwww. It's hard not to be a big old pile of hormones when you see the little booties I found. I have an ultrasound scheduled for November 16th, we will find out the gender then. Until then, I will continue holding my "SHUT UP" sign, and being cranky.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Random Thoughts 2

Gigi is quite possibly the most high maintenance dog to ever live.

We tried getting her a new food, supposed to be better for her. She ate so much last night that she could barely walk and today, she has been making a whistling noise thru her nose. It also gave her quack attacks. I think she's allergic to it. 

My other dog sleeps with her eyes open and does this half chewing thing at the same time. It scares me. 

I love fall weather and I want apple cider, but with my recent bloople issues, cider would be a bad idea.

We have been having a problem with ants since we moved in. When I find them inside, I have a small panic attack. I don't like using poison around my high maintenance dog, so I vacuum for 30 minutes and then sprinkle cinnamon around where I think they are coming in from. I sort of want to punch the people that lived here before us in the face, because I found about a half pound of Chex Mix inside the air vent in the family room.

I hate the show "Cops." It feels good to say that.

I keep putting off my baby registry like a college assignment. It's terrible.

Did you know they make baby netting? That's where I stopped last time.

I don't like the peanuts on the drumsticks ice cream cones, but the ones that don't have peanuts don't taste right. What are they trying to prove at that company?

Chicken is my nemesis lately.

The people in this town are horrible. I can't wait for the holidays when people will be even more awesome.

We got stuck in a parking lot behind a car waiting on a car to pull out FOR 10 MINUTES.

The antidepressants have started to really help. The only complaint I have is that they leave me feeling a little "numb" in the emotion department. I am not comfortable with that. I like full access. It's weird when I am legitimately sad about something valid and find it impossible to cry.

I think T-Money is lactose intolerant, and therefor so am I now.

Why can I never find throw pillows I actually like?

Why does my afghan smell like doritos after 3 days?

When I wrote the comment about the "afghan" I didn't want to use that word for fear that people would think I was insensitive to the people or maybe it was similar to using the word "French" for freedom fries  a while back.

We do not own nearly enough furniture, but I don't like most furniture I see. The stuff I do like is as expensive as a new car.

I seriously feel my loins expanding.

I saw someone get botox on tv today. I will never be getting it.

We finally hung up things on our walls and got the downstairs looking like people live here.

Neighborhood animals keep using our front yard as a toilet. I want to make a little sign that says, "Pick up your dogs poop, or it will find its way to your front stoop."

Hope you enjoyed a little dip in my brain.





A-Holes

      Certain people attract certain types of people. You know, that friend you have that tells you on a regular basis about the guy in front of them in line that proceeded to tell all about his colonoscopy. I wish I was that person. Instead, I have the uncanny ability to locate and attract a-holes. Really, I have had more than my fair share of scarring experiences. In my life, I have only ever had 2 bosses that have not made me cry. Either I am a terrible employee, or they were pretty much horrible. This got me to thinking about the year I spent working at a wing joint near Cleveland. I worked for a female Skeletor. I am going to tell you all about her.

      Ok, so I started working. Everything there was awesome. The people were nice, the money was good, and the food was fried. What more could you ask for? People started to warn me about the GM. She had interviewed me in the first place, and she told me I was pretty so I was like hmmmmm. I think she's nice. Then, I started watching as Skeletor would "go off the clock" and sit at the bar and drink a bottle of Pinot Grigio. After she would finish, she would get up and start coming around to the servers telling us either extremely inappropriate things (and for me, there isn't much I deem inappropriate) about her personal life, or yelling at us for not cleaning something properly. I am not exaggerating when I say that I was actually at a table, taking and order, and she came over to tell me that I needed to clean ash trays. Really? That couldn't wait?

      Time marched on, and one of my best friends that I met there, and I would pass the time any way we could. If you have never served, you don't realize just how BORING a serving job can be at times. Typically, you go out to eat when everyone else does. You don't think about the times when those servers sit lonely, in a booth, waiting for nice people to come in.

      I was a server in a bar. For some reason, this joint thought it was a good idea to put kid friendly things in the store. There was a bouncy ball machine, and big claw machine, and tons of other kid stuff. Whatever. I hated when kids came in, except for when....they would leave things behind. Magical things. Things that could turn a $35 shift into a bit of magic. My friend and I would make a game of finding the most awesome things left behind and giving them to each other. She still has a domino with the remnants of a hippo on it that we passed back and forth. Awesome.

      A kid left behind Dora the Explorer memory cards. My friend and I had 3 tables between us, and decided to sit down on a Sunday afternoon for a rousing game. Skeletor woke from her drunken slumber, because she SLEPT AT THE STORE. She came walking out to the dining room. My friend had gotten up to check her table, mine was just sitting and had already cashed out. She saw me with the memory cards. She proceeded to rip me a new one like I have never thought possible. I had seen her do it to other people (including minors) and I guess it was my turn. I felt my face turn red. I felt like I was back in Mrs. W's 4th grade class. Then, I felt it. The tears....the choking feeling. Terrible.

      Skeletor, used to get drunk and hang out with us. She would wait for us to close up and then chorale us over to a local bar for more fun. Sometimes, she would get sick of waiting. In fact, there was once a girl sitting at the bar that asked what time it was, and Skeletor looked over with her uniform still on, and said "Time for you to leave!" Then, she started putting up stools and acting like we were closing. The problem with Skeletor, was that there would be a good 2-3 months where she was awesome. She would be soooo nice. It was an abusive boss relationship.

      I got my revenge. I forgot how big of a set of balls I really have. She was sleeping with the owner of the place, but it was a franchise. Did you know that they have a place you can go online as a customer, and write comments and suggestions? I wrote to corporate. Yea, it was awesome. About a week or two later, there was a mandatory staff meeting that somehow, I had the day off for. I didn't have to go. Crazy right? She knew it was me, and I didn't care. People would quit there on a regular basis because they couldn't handle her anymore. She had  3 faithful employees, 1 had special needs and would have liked Satan himself, the other 2 had drug addictions. I quit working there shortly thereafter. She was fired about a year later. I would like to think that I got that ball rolling.

      I was eating a cheeseburger in my mom's car when I was 10. We were sitting at a light when a guy drove up beside us. The windows were down, and the guy proceeded to say, "You are a fucking bitch you little shit head!" To me. Eating a cheeseburger. It was just a sign of things to come.

      I wish people would just tell me about their colonoscopies instead.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Taco Bell and God

      Secretly, women love watching pregnant women expand. They love to watch as the woman gets huge and secretly think "HAHA! SHE'S HUGE!" To a pregnant woman's face they say how cute the belly is. But, in reality, they think you look like a dinosaur.

      Chad took me out for a date night last night. We even put on cologne and perfume for the occasion. I wore heels, and I put a belt on. That's special occasion material right there. We left early to get to a decent place to eat with time left to still make the movie on time. Where did we eat? Taco Bell. Yep, that's right. Taco Bell and Jackass. Pretty sure we had the date that I went on when I was 16. When I was 16 my body could digest Taco Bell. Now, well....it sort of reminisces about the good times of youth and college bingeing, and then it brings forth the wrath of a blooples so intense you actually think that if you look down you will see part of yourself left behind.

Taco Bell reminds me of high school. I told my parents they were going to hell because they didn't believe in God the way I did. Yea, I did that. Needless to say, looking back, I went to these teen religious meetings to meet boys. It was twice a week, and the boys were ummmm confused or there for the same reasons I was. We would meet at different people's houses and discuss bible versus, and then sing Joan Baez's "What If God Was One of Us." I used to go outside and smoke cigarettes, you know, to get in touch with my religious self. I remember trying to buy weed at one of these gatherings. I asked for it one week, and hoped it arrived the next. What did arrive was a bag of oregano, and being asked to leave. Apparently, I couldn't smoke pot, and love God. It didn't really matter anyways. I started going bizerk towards the end of my freshman year of high school. No amount of God was going to save me. There are some family pictures of me floating around from that time that are pretty classic. I looked like feral cat. I bought Fimo clay, (you can bake it in the oven) and I made a mushroom to wear around my neck. It looked more like a penis than a mushroom. I didn't even know what shrooms were back then, but I did know that people wore them around their neck.

     Anyways, after Bible discussions on Tuesdays, we would all go to the local Taco Bell. 20 to 30 high school kids would skitter in to the store. How they didn't kill us all I will never know. We would all order one 69 cent taco and a water, and sit inside the Taco Bell until right around 10 pm. When Chad and I sat down to feast on our Taco Bell, I bit into that crunchy taco, and remembered telling my Mom she was going to hell. This coming from the girl that puked on the side of her friend's parents mini-van because she ended up being allergic to "oregano."

      It turns out, crunchy tacos do not get you closer to God.

      I was a terrible kid.

      I'm not sure why my parents still love me.

      T-Money, please don't be like me.

      That was not a good youth group.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Judgements

      Do these pants make me look too judge-y? 

      The fact is, we all judge. It's fun. You don't need any one specific set of criteria to do it. Just a high and mighty feeling that you are somehow either above said action, or better than said action. I am an outspoken gal, and I live life the way I choose to. It's pretty awesome. I don't for one minute expect others to do things the way I do. I do however have an undying need for people to like me and accept me. It's part of my very core. I NEED to be liked. It's why I developed my awesome sense of humor. I have worked extra hard over the years to cultivate my cooking skills and my humor to allow for more likeability. The weird thing is, I want you to like me, but only for about 5-6 hours. Then, you go home. I'm off duty. 

      Creating this blog has helped me to grasp one major area that I will struggle with unless I tackle it at this very moment. People judging me. I must take a firm stand on not giving a crap. I think it's fairly clear that I have been doing pretty well with that idea so far. We are all in this huge place together. We are here to learn from each other. We are not here to tear each other down, yet somehow if I am different than someone else, I am judged. I am so used to being different. I don't think like other people, and I am proud of it. I don't act like other people, and at times it can be a bit much, most people think it's pretty awesome. When we start acting out of our own needs and wants and less out of a self righteous "selfless" place , we are more in touch with reality. Our own reality, and our own happiness. The less I try to please everyone else's perceptions of what I should be, the happier I become. 

      The closer I get to motherhood, I realize that one thing will only get worse. Judgement. The advice will pour out of people. It will always be the people that either don't have kids yet, or have kids that well, let's be honest, suck. People will judge me for the way I let my kids dress. They will judge me for yelling at them when they are bad. They will judge me for allowing my children to breast feed until they are 8. (that's totally a joke) Judgements will come from all angles. It is my responsibility to shut it down. 

      So, I say go ahead. Judge me. 

Judge me for having kids in the first place.
Judge me for not being as financially stable as we could be.
Judge me for not being a conventional mother.
Judge me for taking antidepressants.
Judge me for being so open.
Judge me for over sharing.
Judge me for staying at home. 
Judge me for being who I am.
Judge me for loving with my eyes closed.
Judge me for believing we should all help each other.
Judge me for not believing the way that you do.
Judge me for having tolerance.
Judge me for having a voice.

      In this life, you can choose to help people, by making them smile. Helping them to realize they aren't alone. That their struggles are similar, and you can find ways to make it thru. Or, you can choose to sit in an ivory tower and judge. 

Which are you?



Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Pretty Words

Liz: Shot thru the heart, and your to blame! Darlin' you give diarrhea, a bad name!

Chad: Ummm I'm pretty sure diarrhea, gives diarrhea a bad name. 

Liz: If you didn't know what diarrhea was, you might think it's a pretty word. 

      No one warned me about what would happen to my intestines during pregnancy. No one told me that I would go back and forth between constipated and HOLY CRAP I'M GOING TO EXPLODE! I've been sick before. I don't remember crying during an attack of diarrhea before. Doctor's diarrhea cure? Applesauce. Applesauce will not make this better lady. The only thing that might is some sort of plug, and I am not into that kind of thing. I have to eat, because I have a human inside of me. But, if this were any other time in my life, I would just stop for a few days. On the bright side, I am getting a lot of reading done. I know the ingredients to every shampoo I own...by heart. 

     People like to give their kids special names. Names with meaning. Original names that no one else has. With all this spare time I have while "reading" I have come up with some other pretty words that until you really know what they are, could potentially be beautiful. Chlamydia, is a beautiful name for a girl. It evokes the sounds of the Greek Gods. It sounds pretty until you find out it's associated with leaking body parts, and genitalia. There's another pretty word. Genitalia. "This is my son, Genitalia. We call him Gent."

      Diarrhea, in all actuality, is a pretty word. Why give such a pretty name to something so horrible? I think we need a new name for it. Something more raw. Something that signals what it really is. The worst day ever. I was thinking of something along the lines of "assplosion" but that isn't classy enough. The word needs to signify the quivering, gurgling, pain and angst that we all know, while simultaneously seeming harmless. A little old lady needs to be able to use this word as well. Perhaps it should just be called "the uh-ohs" because that's exactly what you think when you feel the first bits of stomach pain to signal what's to come. I think that's a much more apt title, although I really wanted to make up some sweet word that might eventually catch on. Something like, "I've got a bad case of the blooples." Blooples= sound diarrhea makes. Nobody ever said I was classy.


      I am sorry but this word is also pretty...Labia. The word is beautiful. Until you know what it is as well. It looks like chewed up roast beef, and is no longer pretty. Yea, I said it. Cringe and judge. Go ahead. It's true. I talk about wedgies for 5 paragraphs, let's not kid ourselves on where I draw the line on things. Plus, you know I'm about to have a kid. If I can't talk about labias now, when can I? It bothers me that lots of people are going to see mine in ohhhh 5 months. Perhaps I could invent some sort of device like a very small shower curtain to shield the area for everyone except the doctor. It could make the swoosh! noise (from the shower rings) every time the doctor comes back to look at my progress. Awesome. I am going to work on that.


Sunday, October 10, 2010

Heavy Metal Liz

     I was the lead singer in a band.

     I took myself FAR too seriously.

     I'm pretty sure the guitarist was 50.

     Did I mention it was semi-death metal?

      I've only been broken up with twice in my life. It was sort of a hobby to do the breaking. I got really good at it. The second time I was broken up with, it wrecked me. He may only have been 5'4 and had a dragon ball-z tattoo, but I loved him. He was also the lead singer in a metal band. Not a good one. He left me for a chick that had the same birthday as me. We exchanged Christmas gifts and then went our separate ways. I got him a camera. He used it to take pictures of him with the new girl. I went into a deep depression over that little munchkin. I wish I could tell you all his first name. It wouldn't be right if I did, but it is an EPIC first name. So, my logical decision on how to get over him was to start a heavy metal band and start doing shows around town at the same spots he was. The only problem was, my band. Seriously, our guitarist could have been my grandfather. He was uber religious, but smoked a ton of pot. He also kept telling me that I was "more than welcome to move in with him, and he would love me for the rest of his life." Thanks, but no thanks, Grandpa.

      Those of you that know me, know that while I am not conventional, I am no where near heavy metal looking. I used to make these outfits to be more "edgy" and all I seemed to do was end up looking like goth barbie. I shopped at Hot Topic, and when I would go into the store people made sure to let me know, I was not one of their kind. We did some shows. It was fun. We had two groupies. They wore these creepy masks with zippers over the mouths. Probably so they wouldn't actually be associated with Grandpa incorporated. I am sure I made a fool of myself looking back at it.

      This doesn't even graze the surface on poor decisions I have made in the past. I just remember how painful that time in my life was. I didn't eat for weeks. I couldn't sleep and when I did, I would wake up crying. In time, life revealed itself. Time does heal all wounds. If it weren't for that, my life would be completely different. I have always lived life with a "no what ifs attitude." I do whatever it is that speaks to me, and I don't regret it after I do it. I am so happy to be at this point in my life. If it didn't happen that way, I wouldn't be sitting on my couch on a Sunday, watching my husband mow the grass. I wouldn't be here with a smile on my face and a baby in my belly. I am so excited for T-Money to get here. I can't wait to see Chad be the amazing father I have dreamt of him being.

      T-Money, I wrote this to let you know that in life. Things will seem unbearable at times. You just have to bite down and get thru it. Better times are around the corner. Out of sadness comes great things. That's how you got here, but more on that later.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Dr. Dick

     This is sort of a catch all for this week. It is just a recap of some things I may have forgotten to mention.

      I wanted to thank all the people that reached out to comfort me, and reassure me that I am not alone in my struggles with depression. It means the world to me to know that we are all in the world together and that we can share the same struggles openly without shame. Thank you. Beyond words.


      Gigi's vet goes by the name of Dr. John. I assumed it was to be cool and hip like high school teachers that say "Just call me Miss Stephanie." Then, we got two prescriptions after Gigi's surgery. The name on the bottle, "Dr. Dick DVM" Shut. Up. Dr. Dick? Really? You stuck with that? Then I started to think about the fact that he is a vet. He works on cats. Think about the slang term for cats. "Paging Dr. Dick to the _____ room." He's a great vet. We are beyond grateful that he helped Gigi. Many thanks to Dr. Dick.

      Speaking of dicks. I got my Olive Garden fix today. It was bittersweet as always. While we were waiting to be seated in the purgatory of the waiting area. A family walked in. There was a husband and wife and two kids. The daughter appeared to be around 13-14. We watched as he smacked his daughter's butt hard, and playfully. Like, foreplay kind of smack. He then looked over at Chad and me like we would think it was funny. No, dude, I don't think that's funny. In fact, I am going to judge you AND give you the dirtiest look I can muster you creepy, incestuous, pedophile. Seriously, what made that d-bag think that was acceptable? EVER.

      Speaking of creepy, I forgot to tell you about the one guy I dated...It's kind of important that I tell you this one because of how amazing it is. So, he was like 26 at the time and I was 18. I didn't see anything wrong with that. At. All. There was my first mistake. I met him at community college. Mistake number two. We started dating. Mistake number three. He was a theater major. Mistake number 4. So, this 26 year old winner still lived at home with his mom and dad. He invited me over to meet them. I was fairly excited to do so because clearly there was something very wrong with me at 18. So, I show up at his house. His parents have 4 labrador sized dogs. They all greet me and his mother is sitting in a lazyboy with her feet propped up. She proceeds to say it's nice to meet me and starts rubbing lotion on her feet. That was weird enough. Then she puts her feet out on the end of the foot rest and calls the dogs over. The dogs start licking her feet clean. She starts making moaning noises and telling me how good it feels and offers me the lotion. Ummmmm. Pass.

      It bothers me that my one friend thinks the way I say "onion" is weird. I apparently put a "g" in there. I'll put a G in your face Aaron.


That is all.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

What Am I Gunna Do With Diapers?!?

      I was all out of funny when I wrote that last post. Could be the bomb explosions rocking my house throwing off my concentration. Hard to think when it sounds like a dump truck was dropped into your front yard.

      What exactly is it that women say they miss about pregnancy? The debilitating need to pee ALL OF THE TIME? The mood swings? The nausea? The thought of a human head coming thru a very tiny opening? I watched "I didn't even know I was pregnant." Those women are screaming and calling 911 telling the operator they are dying.

      I am 15 weeks along now, and so far, I have LOST close to 11 lbs. It's why I haven't posted belly pics. I feel like it would be more like Jenny Craig pictures. But, then I think, this could be the last time I look like this. So, this weekend Chad will be taking belly pics. Suck it. I am eating, turns out T-Money is eating more.

      I know next to nothing about small children. I know they are small, they like canned foods, and chicken nuggets. I know I start to hyperventilate when left alone with a toddler for over 7 hours, because I have no idea how to entertain a small child for that long. Kid's take naps too. I don't do naps. I suppose I will now. Because I will be a different person. A person with gummed animal crackers lodged in the bottom of her purse next to her tampons, and a very iffy idea of what clean and dirty clothes are. I already see it coming. I keep used tissues in my purse, because re-using a dirty tissue is better than no tissue at all. With kids, I can only imagine what I will do with diapers.

      I have never changed a diaper in my life. I wiped a 2 and a half year old's butt crack once, but that's about the most I have done. I have held 2 babies. They didn't like me. I am not really sure how to hold a new baby. The neck thing makes me have a small panic attack. I am also not sure how to relate to a toddler. It's not like they care what color my hair is, or where to find the most flattering jeans. I won't be able to watch my morning episodes of Saved By the Bell anymore either. I am not looking forward to constantly cleaning up messes. No one talks about this stuff. Being a mom is a thankless job. I like attention. I doubt I will get much once T is born. Everyone will be like ohhhhh! baby!!!! and I will be like "what about me? I just slid that sucker out of me. How's about a little 'you look great.'" But I won't. I will look like fat Elvis. You know, the years with the mutton chops, and the white jumpsuit? I have PCOS, so I have facial hair. I don't deny that. By the time I have T I won't care what I look like, and my sideburns will be epic. If you want to get me something, I suggest you make it a white jumpsuit.

      Chad's going to be gone for a good portion of my third trimester. I am totally paranoid that I am going to be at T.J. Max and go into labor. I will be giving birth to T-Money next to the clearance rack of chipped plates and non-matching towels. Or I will just think I really have to poo, and look down and boom! baby in the toilet. I will leave you with my third and final visualization of how I will accidentally have my first child. At home, in my tub, by myself. It will be a water birth, not because I want one of those, but because I just assume that's how you have babies at home now a days. I will be forced to cut the cord with the scissors I use to cut my bangs. If that happens, I have decided I will name the baby Willow. No real reason. It just came to mind. Seems appropriate for a bathtub birth, and bang scissors.

    

Olive Garden Student of the Month

      I haven't felt T-Money kick yet. That scares me. I pee constantly, like as an afterthought to every process I make. Make a sandwich? Go pee. I called the nurse hotline because I was beginning to worry that I had a UTI. Not only did they say "you are just pregnant" they also told me to increase my water intake. I am already drinking like 10 glasses of water a day. For some reason when I think of drinking more water, my brain flashes to memories of some kid that pledged a frat, and they hazed him by making him drink gallons and gallons of water. Then, he died of water poisoning. That's what I picture happening to me if I drink more liquids. I'm really beginning to wonder if any of the "professionals" I have spoken with have ever had children.

      Every time I hear a new person refer to my baby as "T-Money" I am a little more glad I chose that in utero name. Hearing my Mom refer to baby as T-Money was awesome. I may have to pee all the time but I get a good amount giggles from hearing everyone talk about T-Money.

      I have a few confessions to make. Babies terrify me. I'd prefer we start out our relationship at like 3 years of age, and go from there, but I realize that's not how this works. I am terrified of vaginal birth. I'm scared that I will overreact over everything. I am worried I will become complacent with my dogs, or become superwoman and my marriage will suffer. I am scared of stretch marks. I am scared that I will end up on wife swap because my children look like they are homeless.

      I am also worried about all the terrible things I will inevitably subject my kids to. School bullies, and teachers that should be on antidepressants. I remember how terribly painful my elementary school experience was, and I hate to think that T-Money will have to suffer thru that. In the 4th grade I had the single worst teacher I have ever encountered. Mrs. W stepped out into the hallway to speak with someone, and the class went bonkers. I picked up a book and started reading. She came back in and I put the book down (open with the words on the desk side) as she yelled at the class. I told her I was reading, and picked up the book, and she said she wouldn't punish me. Melanie L. the class suck up then said "why is your book upside down?" Mrs. W then made me stand against the wall for a month at recess, and the rest of the class didn't get in trouble. I missed a lot of school that year. Sometimes because I was sick, and sometimes because I couldn't face going in there.
  
      I was awarded an "Olive Garden Student of the Month Award." I was so proud. I didn't open the envelope so my mom could share in the joy of the whole experience. 2 hours after I received the award the principal called me to his office. He told me there was a mix up, and I was actually the child with the most absences, and the award was meant for another student. I cried for weeks over that. Olive Garden has always been bittersweet for me. As a parent, what do you do in those situations? I remember what my mom did, and I can't say it was right or wrong. In fact, in my mind, she gets mad props for calling the principal at home, to tell him off and inform him she's an attorney and that if she wanted to this could go places. Then, she took me to Olive Garden. I have NO IDEA what I would do. Probably try to poop on the principals car, but with my poo issues I wouldn't be able to follow thru.

      I am sure that all my feelings are completely normal. That life as I know it will completely change, and I just don't know how ready I really am. I have wanted this for so long. I know it's what I really want. It just scares the crap out of me to have such a huge responsibility looming. I suppose once in action, it just happens. In the mean time, I am left to process how I will deal with all the trials and tribulations of childhood, craving Olive Garden.

      Ugh.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Shhh! Listen to Me Blink!

      I don't know if you know this, but I dated the president of the band when I was a freshman. It's on my resume. He took me to homecoming. It was a terrible night. I got a migraine. I sat on the floor of the "fancy" cafeteria, while he danced with lots of other girls and acted like I didn't exist. It was pretty awesome. After the dance, he took me back to his parents creepy Mormon house. We sat on a couch in the dark in the huge family room. He stood up, and just shoved the front of his pants in my face. I had never even kissed a boy until I was 14. I had no idea why he put his pants in my face. I just spoke directly to his crotch, "I would like your Mom to drive me home now."

      I have had made some terrible boyfriend choices. It's amazing that somehow I found Chad, or maybe he in actuality found me. We did meet in high school, but he was busy dating his blonde perfect girlfriend, and I was busy dating duds. I wore Tommy Hilfiger button down shirts, and khaki pants from the limited. I got my hair super highlighted, and I drove a red Acura. Looking back, I even hate me. What a douche. 

     The summer of my senior year, I had a super huge crush on a dude named "Pete." I originally met Pete as a freshman. He was a bass drummer. He was dreamy. Until I actually started dating him. He had already graduated from high school, and was attending a semi local college. I am not joking when I tell you that our dates consisted of him convincing me that his eyes made a sound when he blinked. I would have to stay quite and listen. He told me his dad was connected with the Mafia. I found it hard to believe. He used to wear FAR too much Joop! cologne, and he thought that getting the top of his head permed and them doing a white jerry curl was somehow attractive. No wonder he was dating a high school girl. College girls were too busy hating the smell of Joop. I let him take me to senior homecoming. He picked me up in his pastel blue 1980's Caddilac. I begged to drive. He refused. My friend and her date were in the back seat. On our way to dinner she tapped me on the shoulder to let me know that Pete apparently had a stockpile of condoms...not 1 or 2 but like 50 in the back pocket of his Caddilac. We broke up that night. Actually, I think I just stopped answering his calls. 

      When I was a freshman in college, I dated a guy that was 2 years older than me. He also went to high school with me. He was uber popular. I couldn't believe that he would ask me out on a date when I was out to breakfast with my father. We dated for 3 months. He told me he was a virgin. I thought sweet, that keeps me from having to tell him I wasn't going to be putting out. He took me to a wedding. His parents were there. Before we got to the wedding he told me he had something to tell me. He stalled for a while, and then right as we pulled into a parking space he told me he had a 3 month old kid. But still stood firm with, he hadn't gone all the way with this girl that was the mother. Right. Immaculate conception. We broke up not much after that because the other guy I was dating at the time was spying on us from across the street and didn't like what he saw. That dude was a creepy hot mess too.

      I dated a guy in college that couldn't poop with clothes on. 

Somehow, I made it to where I am now. I have a normal husband. I'm glad he doesn't make me listen to him blink.