Thursday, December 29, 2011

Now and Later

So, today is December 14, 2011. I found out on Monday. I'm about to poop my pants every time I think about it. I can't think straight. I made chilli today, and wiped the knife off with my sweat shirt sleeve, and then put my contacts in and wiped my eye off with that same shirt sleeve. I've been a mess ever since.

I went in for a blood test yesterday. They called me last evening to confirm. They told me that I need to go in for another blood test on Thursday to make sure the numbers are doubling up like they should be. I will also schedule my first appointment at this point.

I'm pregnant.

I'm scared.

Yes, it's what I wanted.

But it's sort of like when you really really wanted that Skip It! when you were 7. Sure you practiced your saxophone everyday for 5 months to get one, but once you had it you realized it was sort of a short lived love affair since the almost albino kid down the street decided to play with it. Then he broke it and his family all wouldn't admit he did and so I was left with NO skip it!, and one excellent set of skills on the smooth sounds of Kenny G. Am I really comparing my unborn child to a skip it!? Yes. Because at this point it's more like 10 months of saxophone lessons, while playing the drums at the same time. (Charlie is the drums, which I am now realizing is a horrible thing to use as an analogy due to the fact that you hit them. I don't hit Charlie for the record.) Then, I finally DO get the "skip it!," but I can't stop playing the drums!

I worry there won't be enough of me. I fear the end of pregnancy with Charlie active and running around. I don't know where I will find the energy. Hell, I don't even know where I will be. My first pregnancy was how I imagine snails to feel when they are sliming around leaving their booger trail. BTW I am still scarred by the amount of snails in England. I have NEVER encountered as many slugs and snails. They were also the size of an adult male finger.

There's just so much uncertainty in these next few months. Chad will be divorcing the Army, with lots of dramatic flare, like throwing their clothes on the proverbial lawn, and going out to bars talking about how bad they treated him. We will be on the hunt for a job, and scrambling to pay our bills in the mean time. Then, I am adding in baby number 2. We are going to need an SUV. It's already like a sardine can traveling with 2 dogs and a baby.

My insides feel like Danny Devito looks. If you don't know what that means, it's sort of like a college hangover from keg beer. It could come out either end, and the bad feelings come on unexpectedly and leave just as fast. Then you are left with some strange soreness that you aren't sure why you have, to later find out it was because you were throwing up off a deck railing and the railing was the only thing suspending you from face planting onto a holly bush. The soreness is also due in part to the level of heaving you have accomplished, and the diarrhea you swear you will never have again from friggin Milwaukee's Best keg beer. I'm not even sure they made keg beer. But they did make parties at our house.

The weird cravings are setting in. I want Chipotle, chili, and pepper steak, followed by sour cream and onion Pringles. I crave Pringles once a year, mostly because why would you crave them? You either want chips or tater tots, but somehow Pringles seem to be this weird love child they made together.

I knew I was pregnant before the tests started coming up positive. There was a candle inside a drawer in my bedroom, and I made Chad locate it and move it. We are about to drive up to Ohio. No one in the family knows about bambie 2.


I wrote that last part before we told errbody. I've decided that errbody needs to make a comeback. After all, there were a lot of errbody's in da club gettin tipsy.

Things that happened since this post was written...

Had a conversation with my Mom that went a little bit like this:
Mom: You remember that one boy you dated in high school?
Me: There were a few. Can you be more specific?
Mom: The Anglo one.

We told both of our parents the same way. It was amazing. I had told my mom I wasn't pregnant, so we decided to use dirty pee pee sticks as Christmas gifts. We wrapped them up tightly in a few layers of paper. My mom got to the pregnancy stick and got all pissed off. She said "It's not funny to give this stuff to old ladies." Then she looked at the result window and started crying. Hahaha My Dad asked how old the test was.

Things I learned on this trip home:

I don't HATE the idea of moving to Ohio. I just need a 3 hour barrier between my Mom and myself. That being said, I will probably need her when Lil' Bay comes along. Yes, my friends I have named #2. Due to my recent obsession with Lil' Wayne I felt I would pay homage to him.

Our final destination is the west coast, but if Chad takes a job in Ohio we are still a few hundred miles closer to Cali, and NOT in Crapstown, NC.

To make the best trip time you must: pee in a McDonalds cup, drive at night, make no stops. Don't travel on Christmas. I peed in several gravel lots between Ohio and NC because we couldn't get our McDonalds pee cup because there was not a single McDonalds open.

This year Chad learned about my ghost of Christmas past. Growing up, kids asked me tons of questions about being Jewish. Let's do a brief synopsis as to why everyone thought that we were Jewish. Every year, we would pack up and head to south Florida for the holidays, we never had a Christmas tree, and we never put up lights. The questions started around first grade. At first I would say, "I'm not Jewish!" By the 3rd or 4th grade of dealing with this, I started just making up answers. Kid on bus, "What's a dradle?" Me, "It's a pair of girls underwear."(sing the song, it will make you giggle)

Until this year, Chad didn't really know how bare bones my childhood Christmas experience was. My Mom waited until we got to her house to decorate her newly purchased tree. She made Chad and my brother in law head down to the basement to retrieve the ONE box of decorations we own. Chad and my brother in law sat in disbelief as we unpacked the 12 ornaments, and 2 Christmas candles my grandma made in 1982. Then, Chad shed a singular tear, as my sister and I sniffed the candle and both said, "It smells like Christmas!"

I named this post "Now and Later" due to the fact that it was written 2 weeks apart...I would also like to mention that Now and Laters were the WORST Halloween candy you could get. Don't be those people.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011


I'm writing this while it's still fresh in my mind, and I am recovering from the bloating from tonight's food. Let's start with the basics.

As we were walking into the place we saw her....Chad's boss came walking passed us.. Her jerry curl in full effect (she's not black so no, I'm not being racist) and she was all nicey nice. She said, "Hi! How are you guys doing?!?" To which I replied with, a long blank stare and awkward silence. We continued walking into the facility.

From the outside we were impressed. We walked into the place, and thought, wow for a military hall this is really nice. We saw the nice dining area and were immediately excited to see what we were in for. We were then escorted to where we would be dining. It was in the back of the facility, and it was a small gymnasium with those weird wrestling floor mats, and it smelled like sweat, and balls.

The lady that organized the event walked in....She was wearing HEAD TO TOE DENIM. Like, it was a jean jacket with puffy shoulders, and a bell skirt all made of dark colored denim. She looked like the princess from Super Mario Brother's except made of denim. What's the best part of Super Mario Bros? Denim denim denim. (think of the theme song doo doo, dunn dunn, dunn dunn.)

Chad's boss tried to sit at our table. I kept making awkward long stares until she would look away. THAT'S RIGHT B I'M THE ALPHA! She then got up and walked around aimlessly looking for other people to chime in with. The tone of her voice is also similar to that of a black crow. This lady is that type of conversationalist that just repeats the last 4 words of your sentence and adds a "yeayah yeayah" at the end.  Yeayah yeayah, yeayah yeayah at the end! She kept commenting on how much Charlie looked like Chad. To which I replied at one point, "Well, I had sex with Chad to make this baby, so usually they do look like their parents." To which she replied, "yeayah yeayah look like their parents!" Ca-caaaw!

It came time to find out what treats we would be dining on for the evening. She was sitting in some lurker chairs behind the actual tables, and when they dismissed our table to go eat....she offered to HOLD CHARLIE. I promptly responded to her face, "Heck no!" Chad stayed back, and I used all my server skillz to score us 2 plates of food and 2 drinks. I wish we had only gotten one. It actually smelled like Charlie's baby food. It was like bad church food mixed with a little vomit, and a lot of water. Seriously, there was no need for teeth. The turkey was canned, and was floating around in gravy that looked more like rubber cement. The turkey also came in cubes. There was macaroni and cheese, stuffing that had the same consistency as the gravy, and hush puppies. Yes, my friends, welcome to the south. Hush freakin' puppies. I guess the cornmeal was the veggie.


Back to Chad's boss...she sat in the lurker chair the entire time we ate, staring at Charlie. Smiling at him, and Charlie stared back. When Charlie is unsure of someone, he just open mouth stares at them with this blank stoic glare. That's exactly what he was doing. It was awesome. Even my baby is judging you lady.


It got to be 7:30 with an hour drive ahead of us. So, I started just being a jerk and saying loudly, "If this really is a family event, they will understand if we leave to put our son to bed since it's already past his bedtime." Finally, the crow says, "Yea yea it's past his bed time! Ca-caaaw!" So, I just packed us up and we left.


I can't think of a better way to end this, than by simply stating......


Because Someone Wanted A Story

I can count on one hand the number of people that I have hated with such a passion that I wanted to do bad things...very bad things. The first one pissed me off unknowingly. It really wasn't her fault but I just couldn't help it. In the 5th grade I had to do a diorama of the Island of the Blue Dolphins. I was partnered with a girl in my class that I couldn't stand. She looked like a human gerbil. Her younger brother had glasses and buck teeth, and I am serious he looked like the one chipmunk with glasses and buck teeth. Ugh. Anyways back to me being even more mean. I had to play against her recreational soccer team and stare at her stupid gerbil face as she stood there with one hand on her hip. Her team would get all pissed off when they would lose. Um you just stood there. Her dad was a coach. He walked up and down the sideline like he had a potato chip wedged in his butt crack and he was bound and determined not to break that sucker. So, yeah, I was paired up with her. We start making the diorama, and I start getting really into it. We used coffee grounds as the dirt, and we needed a beach like effect, so I decided we should make homemade play-doh. For those of you that don't know how to make it, it's like one giant thing of Morton's salt and like 2 other super cheap ingredients. She let me play duck hunt while she found all the things we needed, and I started to like her at this point.We made the playdoh, and finished the diorama. I remember my Mom getting super excited at how awesome it looked to have been made by two 5th graders. Even her weird Dad was all like "So-n-so this is so NEATTTTOOOOO BURRITTOOO SKAJEEETO!" Then he went inside while so-n-so stood outside with my Mom and myself looking at our creation some more. Weird Dad comes march-a-prancing outside and comes within one inch of stabbing us. Why? Because we used all the salt! That's insane! My Mom offered to buy more. He said that wasn't the point, and that he was taking this out of her allowance. My Mom leaned over to her and said, "It's 35 cents so-n-so, your Dad is overeacting." Which made him EVEN MORE INSANE. He told her to go inside and no more duck hunt ever for her EVER!
After that day, we barely made eye contact. Until high school. My first true love, we'll call him "douche" (which is ironic since it rhymes with his real name), and I had broken up after a year of pretty awesome times. His Mom made him break up with me (I am not joking about this) for another girl in the class below us because her parents owned a carpet store and Douche's Mom was finishing her basement. This is my life luck. Anyways, before Douche actually started dating carpet girl, I saw him at the fair with so-n-so. In all my life, I have never wanted to punch someone in the face as much.

Until college but that's an entirely different story not even worth discussing. I'm over that shiznit. Not so much over gerbil face. She looked over at me smugly as they walked passed me, her arm in his. She had on red lipstick to draw away from her bottle opener of a mouth. She smiled at me and pulled him a little closer. At first I felt like all the air had been let out of my balloon. Then, I was like "awwww hellllzzzzzz no she didn't!" And this sense of power came over me. I walked up to her and offered to fight her. Not like, "Let's go B*!#% !" But, more like, "If you would care to join me grassy area where our cars are parked, I would be willing to punch you in the face." (remove hat and bow)

That happened in the summer. Then, it got to be football season, and my Mom did one of the coolest things EVER. I had been dreaming of a way to get back a douche. He broke up with me right after I had my wisdom teeth out. Like puffy bruised face, sorry Liz it's over. OH! AND he did it over the phone. I was so hurt. I needed revenge like in all the songs of the late 90's! But all the things I was thinking of were harmful to property and therefor unacceptable.

My Grandma was in town the week she did this. I remember my Mom telling me to go get ready for the football game. So, I ran off to go put on my glitter eyeshadow and purple paw print. I heard the blender running. I came out to the kitchen to smell the most horrible smell of my late teens. My Pap had died 3 years earlier, and there was still a can of sardines left in his refridgerator. She pureed those with some dish soap and put it in the dish soap bottle. She handed me the bottle and a few trash bags and some paper towels. Then she leaned in as my Grandma ran off like "I'm outta here!" She said, "Wait until half time. You will be able to leave, and come back in without a ticket in the 3rd quarter. Find his car, and make sure to get under all the door handles and the windshield." My friend and I did as told, and moved our car to a better location so we could see when douche and friends that were BAKED came out to his car. They touched the door handle, felt it, smelled their fingers, and then started gagging.

Fact: The car wash in town was broken, and he didn't carry napkins in his car. Sardine doesn't come off with windshield wipers. It only comes off with fabric.

Chad's boss the lady (ish) brings out the fury of a thousand gerbil faces and douches. I have to go be in an enclosed space with her tonight, and I am trying to decide the best way to insult her without really insulting her, but the truth is she's really really really stupid. So, I could do passive aggresive awesomeness and her barely there pulse won't even register the insult. I think I am just going to have to wait for her to say hi and just stare blankly at her for a moment and then look away or ask Chad, "Is this her?" She responsible for so many days of heartache for Chad, and my family. Once you become a Mom it's like this weird thing takes over and you unwittingly become the dog curled around her family snapping at anything that comes near. Or the weird goose that charges you when you are feeding the ducks. However due to my fear of birds, I figured I would go with the dog thing.

I want to Sardine her. She drives and electric blue low rider truck, parked at Ft Bragg. Anybody wanna help a sista out?

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Me. In A "Nut"-Shell

This was inevitable. I can try to sweep it under the rug, and pretend it's not really a problem but in truth it is. I've tried to make excuses and pretend that it's really just depression, but it's not. Depression meds work, but all they really do is make the lows more bearable.

I am bi-polar.

There it has been said. I tried to justify these behaviors and issues when I was younger as hormones, and situation based. Now, it's becoming quite clear there are no excuses to be made for what this is.

I swim in a sea in my head. Thoughts fly at me, through me. I can't catch my breath. I go at 95 down a highway of ideas and emotions. I am irrational and explosive. I seek rushes that compare to the rush that is going on inside of me. I feel an actual NEED to spend money. I am erratic, and unfocused. I can't sleep. When I do, I dream of forgetting my high school locker combination, and horse back riding in the desert. I start 1,000 projects to leave them all in 1/2 completion. I feel beautiful, and like a ballerina. I want to talk to everyone and everything all the time, but fear if I do they will realize that something is off or that I will blurt out something completely insensitive. I want constant stimulation, and to never be alone. It's like running in a marathon of thoughts that never quits. This is manic. It makes me decide to start internet cooking shows, and update my FB 7 times a day, and start businesses. Don't even get me started on what it does to my phobias. I become that lady that swabs her fingers clean with alcohol swabs every 10 minutes. It's bad.

Why am I not on a medication for it? Because those meds are dangerous when you are pregnant, or trying to become pregnant. When we left to go to England I weened off of the meds because I knew I wouldn't be able to get the same meds once we were there. Then, the depression became unbearable and so I decided while we were there, that I would treat the depression portion of my illness. It's kind of like putting a bandaid on a cut that needs stitches. It will hold in some of the blood, but it still seeps around the edges.

So here we are again. I have been on Zoloft for 3 years. It is not effective in treating my problems any longer, but the alternatives are not great either. So, for now I am switching to a medication that I know is successful in keeping the lows at bay much better.

It's so difficult to "look out for number one" while trying to get pregnant as well. Some would say I shouldn't try for children. I would say that I have just as much right to have children as anyone else, and I am a DAMN good Mom. I am dedicated to my son, and that's why I take medication, and get treatment when the signs start to appear rather than wait until I am not showering for days, and laying on the couch in a sad pitiful heap.

The lows are another story all together. Everyone knows me for my humor. For my spazzy nature, that is fun and charming. When I am down, it is frightening and terrifying all at once. I cry. All of the time. I am EVERYTHING. I have no patience, empathy, or caring for anything. I want to sleep. I want to lay. I don't want to do anything at all. I don't want to talk. I don't want to listen. I want to not be around anyone. I become a shut in.

So, here we are. I needed to say it. To spill it. To let everyone know in terrible written form my struggle. The struggle between having children, and having sanity. I have just as much of a right to have children because usually I am a very responsible person with my illness. It's the "having kids" portion that makes me seem irresponsible. It's that I am not. I am actually quite good about taking my meds and being put together about it. It's the situation I am in. So, I ask my friends, to understand. I am sorry if I update my facebook status 7 times. I am sorry for selling you things, (although I do need the money). I am sorry for erratic behavior. I am sorry for the weird things I might say.

What I am not sorry for is who I am. I am vibrant and real. I am not afraid to tell the world that I struggle with this. It's not on the extreme level, but it's not the easiest thing to deal with either. I am not sorry that I am what I am. I see the world through two very different sets of glasses. As much as it is difficult, it is also beautiful. I am constantly reminded of the terrible nature of life, and the absolute awe that we live within everyday.

Here's to the new medication that will hopefully keep me from going to the pits of despair.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Tonsil Freak Out

You know what no one ever tells you about child birth? That after you are done pushing the baby out, you aren't done yet. You still have to deliver the afterbirth. By that point you are about to kick someone in the face. They also forget to mention that you will lose like 1/4 of your hair. My sister-in-law mentioned that it happened to her, but that it happened right after she had the baby....My hair decided to wait 6 months before coming out in clumps like some sort of stray dog.

I am getting my tonsils out on Monday. I am beyond a wreck over it. Maybe I don't really need to do this. Sure the doctor said that if I wait, I will just have to have it done in a few years out of necessity, but what if he's wrong? I'm not so worried about the recovery part. That will suck, but after having a baby I am pretty confident I can deal with a tonsil removal. I mean, as long as my throat doesn't swell up like my nether regions did, I think I am good.

I am worried about anesthesia. I hate sleeping as it is. I don't like missing anything, and I really just don't like sleeping. I am freaked out that I won't be awake during all of this. The loss of control, and the complete lack of ability to know what the hell is going on. Wait, am I going to have to get a catheter again? OMG I HOPE NOT. What if the doctor (who looks just like Neil Patrick Harris) decides to sneak a peak at my raisin boobs? What if I go in there and I am out cold, and they read the wrong chart and remove my left arm? I guess part of it is that I don't have that much faith in Army docs.

My Pap had his tonsils out during WWII. They gave him a shot of whiskey and then held him down and just cut them out with what he described as a pair of rusty curved scissors. I remember sitting in his part of the house as a little girl and him telling me about it. My Pap had black lung, and a plethora of other issues. He never mentioned the horribleness of recovering from a triple bypass surgery...he DID mention the horrible nature of his tonsil removal. I guess that kind of leaves me a little worried.

What if they go in there take them out, and I end up sounding like Paris Hilton for the rest of my life. I can't pull off that stupid baby voice. I need a voice that people take seriously when I am telling them I have a peg leg because I went in for a routine tonsil surgery and I ended up missing a leg, and still had to have my tonsils out.

I hope the doctor doesn't judge me for all my cavities. Do you think ear nose and throat doctors look at tonsils like plastic surgeons look at boobs? I will have just ovulated right before surgery. Will that hurt the baby if I am pregnant? Will it ruin my chances of getting pregnant? I got a flu shot yesterday, will that make me die when I get my tonsils out? How many people die from tonsil surgery? How many milkshakes can I have in a day? Will it bring the boys to the yard?

Ovulation is painful. I don't know how bitches do it every month. If this is what if feels like to ovulate, I would like to thank my body for opting out.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Giant Baby

Charlie took it upon himself yesterday to undo his diaper and pee all over himself. I put him down for a nap and the screaming that came from his room would be tat amount to being lit on fire.

I want to talk about weird baby people, and giant baby problems.

Maybe I have a weird thing when it comes to my kid, but I get all weird when people I don't know want to hold my kid. I spent 34 hours pushing that kid out, and 6 months milking myself so he could become gigantic baby. I am invested. I'm just saying it's a little weird when we are at the auto body shop and someone just holds out their arms to hold my kid. What if they are the butterfingers of their family? How would I know? I just think I should at least be on a first name basis, and maybe a firm handshake before I hand over my baby. I could then assess whether or not you have the hand strength and non-limp wrist needed for baby holding. I also want to know the person's first name so that if they suddenly drop my kid, I know what name to scream out when I then murder them.

I've never been a baby holder. I don't seek out other people's children to hold them. Especially people I don't know. I guess it is very person dependent. A few months ago Chad and I went to a wine and beer shop and the owner asked to hold him. I just handed him over like SURE! I mean she sells booze, she has to be cool right? I am sure that is a parent fail. However, she was older, and he smiled like crazy to be with her. When I let the lady at the body shop hold him he looked over at me with this look on his face like, "WTF are you doing to me? STRANGER DANGER!" Then looked back at her as if to say, "I'm totally farting on your right now."

I have a gigantic baby. He's 22 lbs and 6 months old. That puts him the 98% for weight. I don't think you understand how heavy that is. That's 1/5 of my body weight. I kind of want a sled to drag him around behind me. He's in this new phase where if I leave the room for a second he screams his head off. He wants me to carry him around like I'm some sort of pack mule. I have a TON of clothes that he just skipped right over and didn't even get a chance to wear because he went from 6 lbs to 22 in like 2 months. I am sick of the judgy eyes on me. If you look at the size of Charlie, he should be walking and sitting up and doing things that 1-2 year olds do....people don't realize he is a mutant giant baby. They think I am just carrying him around as a super protective Momma Bear. The carrier does make it easier to keep people from trying to hold him though.

Ever since I had Charlie, I am afraid to use junior tampons. I fear it will get lost in the abyss.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Let's Give Him a Hand

I am getting my tonsils removed on October 24th. Truth be told, I am scared....A LOT. I mean at one point in my life I considered getting boobs....but going under the knife and waking up to huge bajungaz seems a lot more awesome to waking up missing your throat boobs. Did you know that uvula piercing is actually a thing? WHO THE HELL IS LOOKING IN THAT PART OF YOUR MOUTH??? WHHHHHY? I mean really. To pierce back there, you would almost need to hire a child or a little person to put their hands in there. Stupid.

I'm off point.

I am scared to go under anesthesia. I am scared to wake up and not be able to talk. I am also worried I will have a bleed, and that I will sound like Kathleen Turner or William Shatner. It needs to be done. I've had repeated infection and the tonsil stones were fun for a while. Now, I am beyond done with them, but I want to keep them. Not in me...but in a jar with formaldehyde in it. In a cabinet that is where I will keep "miscellaneous useless parts of me." I have my baby teeth somewhere in storage at my parents house, so I can pick those up now that I have the perfect place to put them. Where does one go about getting formaldehyde without seeming like a serial killer? I mean, seriously. I want to keep them so that when Charlie gets older and has friends over I can bring them out and put them on our nightstand to deter them from going in our bedroom.

When I was in middle school I got invited to this super annoying girl's Halloween party. There were 20 girls all in her parent's big semifinished basement, bobbing for apples, being blindfolded and sticking our hands in a bowl of peeled grapes that feel like eyeballs, and screaming like 12 year old girls do. Did I forget to mention her dad was missing a hand? So, half way through the party her dad comes down the stairs with a jar....WITH HIS HAND IN IT. To this day I am not sure if it was really his hand or not. I don't want to know. Talk around town was that he lost it working in his deli while making sausage. Maybe that's why I don't really like sausage. Or hands. Or basements.

I want to be able to carry on this tradition. I want my tonsils in a jar. If I have kidney stones, or my appendix out I want that too. I would like to tell kids the story of how I lost my tonsils on Halloween. The only down side of this whole thing, is that on REAL Halloween, I will be laid up. I won't be able to make anybody cry by asking them if they are Michael Jackson for Halloween because they are wearing a leather jacket, a bleeding scream mask, and skinny jeans, and may or may not have been black. I won't be able to make a British kid cry because I laughed when he asked if I was American, and ran off with a fun sized snickers.

I'm thinking of making our next kid Jewish. Not for realsies, but just telling people he is Jewish. When we introduce them places we will say all our kids names and then whisper, "he's Jewish." Like, would that not BLOW people's minds?

I used to carry around a wallet with the pictures that came with the wallet still in it...There were two couples on the beach. One was a young couple just married and the other were seniors. Then there was an old black man and a little girl. I used to pull my wallet out and point to all the pictures, and say that he was my dad and watch people react. I'm not racist, that's just funny watching people work through that.

This is what it's like inside my head when I start to freak out over the possibility of dying from a tonsillectomy. Dramatic? Maybe. But, this is what happens in my head.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Starting to Try

This is an informative post.

It took 2 years to create Charlie.

It was hell.

You're all like, "Yea 2 years of doin' it seems sooooooo tough."

It is ya jerks.

There is an eight year age gap between my sister and myself. We grew up in different decades. Might not seem like much, but it was. It was hard to find common ground, when I am wearing a belly top and listening to Britney Spears, and she's all "Ohhhh I have to go to work and be an amazing pharmacist with all my smarts and math skillz." I was all like, "Does my hair look better with highlights in beige or honey?" She was all, "Based on your body weight you can't take that much blah blah blah I SAVE PEOPLE." You see where I am going with this. While my relationship with my sister is beyond amazing now, growing up was two separate worlds. She was in college when I was in middle school. The closest I got to my sister during those years, was sneaking off to her room to look through her things while she was probably doing organic chemistry homework. I want my children to be close in age. To be able to kick the crap out of bullies together, to torment the same teachers with not so much as a 2 year break before the next one comes to punch them in the face with knowledge.

We needed assistance to conceive Cha Choos. Clomid to be exact. So over the past few weeks there have been some changes....I stopped breast feeding/pumping. It was one of the most painful things ever. All I wanted to do was drain those puppies. Now, that is over. I had to stop so that my "lady times" could resume. Now, they have. I have started back on the Clomid. We are starting to try for our next little one.

I am beyond excited, and a little sad/scared. I don't want to not give Charlie all the attention he deserves. I worry that I will be that lady in the robe at the bus stop with a maxipad stuck to my thigh. I worry I won't have the energy for two toddlers. I fear that if I have 2 we will stop, and the joy to newborns, and babies, and all that goes with the beginning of parenthood will be lost for forever. I don't want to rush, but with my fertility issues, we have to be realistic about our time frame.

Clomid makes me have hot flashes like crazy. It also makes me a little emotional. Suit up everyone. Barracuda Liz is going to make an appearance regularly while on Clomid. The reason I chose to write about this, is because there are a lot of people in the same boat as me. I write to stay sane. I write to tell people that you aren't alone in struggling to create a family. So, here's to doin' it biblical style. Weee!

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Stupid things I did that made perfect sense at the time, to look back and realize I should probably be dead right now.

Growing up was hard for me.

I had "delusions of grandeur."

I felt a need to be liked, and to be famous.

Tragedy of youth ensued.

I was in a pop group.

I was 20.

It had a name...sort of. NFX...then, nothing. Because no one could agree on a name and I said NFX was stupid.

It all started at Tower City mall in Cleveland, Ohio. When there were still stores in there, and no homeless people. I went with a friend of mine for an open casting call for the WB's show Dawson's Creek. We ended up not being able to audition since my friend needed to be at work by a certain time. What did happen, was I saw people there recruiting for a "pop group." This was back at the time when boy bands were super popular, and everyone was looking to cash in. I ended up going to an audition, sand the disco classic "Last Dance" and they immediately asked me to be part of the group. At the time the group consisted of two blond 19 year olds that used way too much hair gel, and were the same guys that would go to clubs, and clear the dance floor so they could "break dance." There was one other kid in the group that has a lisp. Then, began the auditions for the other people. By the end, we had a guy named Geo that was our choreographer, and a little blond girl that had a stage mom, lispy guy, and one other young teenage boy still in high school.

That's the background for the post I would like to entitle "Stupid things I did that made perfect sense at the time, to look back and realize I should probably be dead right now."

Our "manager" lived in a studio apartment in a town close to Cleveland. He was a wedding photographer, about 40, and he devoted himself to having a place where teens could hang out. Our musical director was a 450 lb dude with a casio keyboard, that lived with his mom. We all had busy schedules, so as things progressed some of the members of the band were asked to stay overnight to get more things accomplished. I was never asked, but lisper and teenager were both asked. You see where I am going with this?

As things progressed, I would write the lyrics to songs about love and they were LAME. You know, about first love, and kissing, and going all the way. We got this big audition to perform at Tower City. We practiced, and practiced. We were performing Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas." The young guy still in high school got a little bitchy over my spotlight.

One weekend, we all got in a big argument, and the music director and I decided to take off for Windsor.  Yea, we drove to Windsor. He gambled. I drank. Then, we got a hotel room where oddly enough there was only a queen sized bed. WHY DID I THINK IT WAS PERFECTLY NORMAL? When we got to the boarder, I had no passport. They asked me what city I was born in. I told them. Then they asked what county that was in, and I had no idea. They still let me through. Probably, because they assumed I was not going to come back anyway. Seriously. I went to ANOTHER COUNTRY with a dude I barely knew, and then slept in the same room with him. WHAT THE HELL. 20 year old Liz was about the stupidest person I have ever known.

You're lucky I am here to tell you all about this embarrassing time in my life. I should probably be a skin dress right now.

I will write more about my epic tales as I remember them.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Less Underwear

Wanna know how to piss me off? Spring an unannounced visit on me. You know the kind where everything needs to be neat and tidy? The owner of our house is refinancing. They called me to tell me an appraiser was coming to view the house today. I have a 6 month old, and we just got back from vacation 2 weeks ago. Which in baby math is like 2 days because it takes you 1,000 times longer to accomplish ANY task. I've been running around my house, shoving dirty underwear under beds, and clean clothes in random drawers.

His name is Julio. That's all I know. Julio, I want to stab you. You asked when a good time for me was. I said Friday, or next week. Not TODAY. You will not be offered any sweet tea.

Because of you, I had to wipe out the tub I shaved in yesterday. It looked like an etch-a-sketch exploded in the bottom of the tub. I was going to take care of that next week after using the shower only for the rest of this week because I was too lazy to clean the tub. I have 2 bags of dirty diapers that need to go in the wash, but I forgot about the load that was in there from 2 days ago. So, I have to wash those clothes like 10 times to get the funk out of them. Julio, I hate you.

Because I hate you, I am wearing my Grandma's glasses for the entire viewing. I will also be talking like Harry Carey to make you really doubt my ability to function as a human being. Perhaps I will add a noticeable limp. I haven't showered yet today. I don't plan on it until after Julio leaves. I don't like the idea of someone just coming into my house and looking in my closets. I'm not that good of a house keeper. I also have like 70 pairs of underwear. (I am all sorts of braggy) but not nice underwear. I am talking Mom pants. I also have like this weird thing, where I can scan a room and not see the random pair of folded underwear on my coffee table. Then, company comes and I realize I am having a conversation about their family vacation with a pair of my underwear between us. Sort of like a plate of cookies, but way more weird.

Julio, I hate you.

I think I need to own less underwear. That way I can keep track of them better. A few months ago, my friend found out she was pregnant. She had let me borrow some of her maternity gear, and in all the excitement, I gathered it all up to give back to her. While I was at it, I decided to do a goodwill search through my own stuff, and a throw away even goodwill would be insulted by this pile. So, in the midst of all of that, I packed up a box of her things. She came by, and when she left she took the box with her. 3 hours later I received a text from her husband saying "Uhhhh I just saw your underwear." I was immediately creeped out, and went to the windows to see if he was peeping in. No, he wasn't. I had mistakenly given my friend a pair of my underwear. I AM AWESOME. You are welcome friend. I love you, this is a gift from the bottom of my heart. Which coincidentally coincides with my crotch.

I also just found 2 pairs stuffed in the seam of the couch. You would think that I had some sort of crazy life going on with lots of exotic escapades. Nope. I just clearly can't keep track of all my underwear.

Julio, this is ALL YOUR FAULT.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Vacation Meltdown Continued

Remember when you were in middle school and you wanted to go to the teen dance, but didn't want your parents to drop you off? You didn't want anyone to see you show up in the 1984 maroon Volvo station wagon that didn't have any seals in the windows? No? Just me? Too specific? I guess I still have a little bit of that left in me.

I kind of liked the idea that I was normal. ish. My Mom has been around Chad's family twice. For short periods of time. Nothing like a week. The 7th grader in me is fearful of the un-cool quotient that is about to occur. Except this time, I can't get back at anyone by grinding with a boy in the middle of the school gymnasium. Well, I guess I could, but who would care? It would be Chad. That's old news. I guess I feel like this is all sort of rushing at me too quickly. They've only known me 5 years. I think this is moving to quickly. Maybe we should take a break. (that second part just comes out after the first part out of old habits)

Truth is, I enjoyed riding the wave of normal. Chad's family is just plain normal. That's sort of what scares me. Is that they will have to interact with my family. I mean, I guess it won't be THAT bad after the birth process. There's a lot less vagina involved this time...well, a whole lot less of mine at least. I can't guarantee that the word won't escape certain people's lips. <- haha

Between the 12 times that I have had to tell my Mom that the bedrooms will have to be decided when we get there out of logistics of 2 dogs and a kid, she still continues to ask. Why? Because she wants the king bed with the master bath. She's also convinced our house has an elevator? I guess I am at my grrrr point because for the past week she has been sending me links to my email, to which I am like OHHH! EMAIL FOR ME!!! to see it's a link to look at a freaking front door. To which I respond, "I like that one, I am out. Please stop asking me about this. I do not care." To which she responds, "Imagine what it's like to be me and have to pick out a door you don't really like, and then have to spend money on it." To which I reply, "Imagine not caring, AND it's not your door."

I just hope this vacation isn't filled with quandaries about front doors, and suggestions on the things I shouldn't be doing with Charlie. Chad and I need a vacation. I want her to be there, but I want her to be normal. If I said that to her, she would be like "I AM NORMAL. THIS IS HOW ALL PEOPLE SHOULD BE!"

Freak out level: 9

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Vacation Meltdown

I come from a family of germ a phobes. When I was growing up I was the kid at the Doctor's office looking sad because I wasn't allowed to play with the toys. I remember going to the pool with a friend when I was like 10. My friend brought over all these inflatable toys to take with us, and my Mom made her blow them all up herself. Needless to say, she was not much fun after blowing up the inflatable raft. Mostly because she looked like she was going to pass out. I wasn't allowed to borrow bathing suits, and I was under the impression that if you borrowed some one's chapstick, you would die.

Now that I have a kid, I know how expensive the whole toy thing can be. I am very open to second hand goods. My mom has been AWESOME about doing the whole garage sale thing, because down here in a southern military community the garage sales have things like light bulbs and VHS tapes. Nothing useful like kid toys. So, she has gotten some really awesome stuff. However, it's a double edged sword. She's a complete germaphobe, but somehow she sees nothing wrong with used plush toys. I tried to explain that the only way they are acceptable is if they can be machine washed. She bought something recently that can't fit in her washer, and she told me that she would just wipe it down with wet wipes. My brain is exploding.

Do you want to know what scares me beyond anything else in this world?

Dish rags.

If I had to ask one question to every person to decide if the friendship would work, I would ask them a 2 part question:
1. Do you use a dish rag/sponge to wash dishes?
2. Do you re-use it/ let it dry out on the basin divider or sink faucet?

I know I have to go to other people's houses, so don't worry. I know this is crazy-town talk. Don't feel self conscious. It's just that I need people to know about this, and at least think about it.

If you answer yes to these questions, I have a phobia. It's a terrible one. Unless you're washing your dishes with straight bleach and a splash of soap, I am throwing up in my mouth at the thought of your dish rag. I will politely eat something you offer to me, but inside I am thinking about that dishrag. You might as well be using a pair of dirty panties for all the difference it makes in my brain. Mostly if you re-use it. Sponges are just as bad, unless you microwave it after every use. There is nothing worse then the smell of a dirty sponge. Well, ok there are a lot of things that smell worse, but the freak out level is high when it comes to sponges. 

I don't use them because to me, you wipe off germs and food from that plate, and then you basically ask it to grow some friends and contribute some e-coli to the next plate/pot you wash. It's basically like putting your mouth on the drinking fountain. 

My mom is a dish rag/sponge person. When she comes to visit she has this weird ability to search out the ONE dish rag I own. I have it to to scrub dried terd remnants off the floor. Why is it dried? Because after I step in the terd barefoot, I have a small panic attack and hobble off to the sink to wash my foot with bleach and then forget about the smooshed bit left behind. Dried terd doesn't scrub off with paper towels, and hand towels don't go anywhere terds. She uses it when she's here. I love that she cleans up the kitchen, but she does it with what I consider to be a piece of cloth covered in poop. 

Dish rags in my opinion are the AIDS of the cleaning world. It blows my mind that she uses them. She flys with vaseline around the openings of her nose to somehow deflect the flying germs. She keeps her money in a plastic baggie so as to not contaminate the rest of her purse belongings. Yet, she uses a dish cloth. I have paper towels everywhere in my kitchen, and hand towels, and a scrubber that gets bleached that dries on the window sill until the next use. My dish rag is in the back far corner of my sink cupboard. It's like she KNOWS I have dishragitis. 

Why am I have a freak out over this? We are about to go on an epic adventure my friends. Chad, Charlie, the dogs and I are all going to spend the week with my parents....AND Chad's family.....under ONE roof. The amount of interference I am going to have to run is making me freak out. My own phobias, plus the weird things my family brain is exploding inside. 

I know Chad's family reads this blog, so in advance:

I don't know why she said that, she probably didn't mean it that way. 
I don't know why she doesn't share bathrooms.
I don't know why she gets angry over other people watching tv and she can't watch what she wants.
I don't know why she doesn't go to the beach. 
I don't know why she doesn't swim.
Yes she knows how to swim.

She's an excellent cook.
She's extremely giving.
She cares....a lot.
She wants to make you happy.
She loves children.
She's funny.

Just giggle inside at the weirdness. It's worked wonders for me. 

Ahhhhh! My freak out scale is at a 7. I will write more when it gets to 9. Which will be tomorrow. Because then I will only have 2 days left to prepare, and catch two very small dog's urine to take to the vet because they seem to think that my house is a port-o-pottie and I am very wishfully thinking they have UTI's and aren't just jerks.

The end.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Yea, I'm An ...

Do you know what karma is? Well, I would like to think that karma took place in my house.

Charlie was named after my Pap. He was a kick ass old dude that I lived with for 14 years.

My Grandma was divorced from him.

She still holds animosity.

When they were here dropping off their smelly furniture these were her exact words.

"Hey! What you doin' Charlie? I just love that name! NOT!"

Sorry to break it to you lady, but 14 years kinda makes you bond. I love the name, and your cheap shots are semi-hurtful. Then, you call him fat too? Well, I would like to think that Pap got even with you from beyond the grave through his ass hole grand daughter. I really am grand.

Lodged behind a drawer I found a few items that were left behind. One of which, is something that I will forever picture my Grandmother in. It's like they found their way to me through some bit of magic. I found other things too. She can have her knee highs, ace bandage, and dental receipts back. My grandma isn't getting these puppies back.

I don't think one picture is enough to truly show you the awesome photo shoot I had with these bad boys on.

And this one.
People say I am just like my Grandma.

Wonder if she would have done this too.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

My Fox News Piece

Fox news gets a lot of bad press these days. I for one am tired of it. As Hurricane Irene heads towards where I am currently living, I can't help but have a small panic attack imagining myself cooking small pieces of half thawed steak above a zippo lighter. Since this whole hurricane will somehow be Barack Obama's fault, I figured I would go ahead and take the liberty of writing a piece for Fox.

President Barack Obama and the White House has made some information available to everyone on the eastern seaboard, to help them prepare for the storm. Due to the fact that you are probably a Democrat if you even heard about this information from the President, we strongly urge you to do the following:
1.) Open all your doors and windows. This will make it easier for your neighbors to loot your house.
2.) Give all your canned goods away to the homeless, since you are such "giving" people. Canned goods don't fair well in hurricanes.
3.) When the storm hits, stand near your windows.
4.) Keep in mind that this was all Barack Obama's fault while you are without power.
5.) Place large basins outside to collect rainwater. Wait several days before drinking. DO NOT BOIL. If you boil rainwater you will get hepatitis!
6.) Store your batteries in your oven, when you feel there is impending doom upon you, preheat oven to 350 degrees and bake the batteries for 3 hours. This promotes longer battery life.
7.) Create a panic room filled with knives, guns, and glass, so your kids have something to play with while you wait out the storm.
8.) Don't fill up your car's gas tank. You want your car to be as close to E as possible. This will keep you from going anywhere, and will allow for more quality starvation time for your family if you are stranded for days.
9.) If you are traveling when the storm hits, get out of your car! Stand under trees, and as close to electrical lines as possible. If they happen to come down, you will have something to swing on to get to safety.
10.) Round up all your gay friends, and have a cookout.

You're welcome Fox News. I just did your job for you.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Old People Smell

My bedroom smells like old people. Like a mix of rancid Clinique "Happy,"Aqua Velva, and moth balls. My family is complicated and confusing. I ended up with my Grandma's bedroom furniture. It was a very complicated process to end up with smelly bedroom furniture that Chad refuses to put his clothes in because he doesn't want to be mistaken for an old man.

Let's start out with a little known fact. I have an INSANE sense of smell. Like to the point it creeps people out. I don't use oven timers when I cook. I can be in the other room and can TELL when something is done just by the smell. It's freaking annoying sometimes. Some people's perfumes make me want to vomit. I LOVE my Grandma to pieces, but her perfume permeates EV REEE THING. It's not so much that I dislike Clinique "Happy." It's that when it interacts with her skin it turns into a monster of Jean Nate and and Aqua Net. Seriously, the smell actually makes me ill.

Fast forward to now. My room makes me sick. It all started when my Grandma and her husband decided to move to Florida. They bought new bedroom furniture a couple years back, and the new place they are moving to is fully furnished. So, they offered to sell it to my Mom. My mom said no thanks. Then they asked again, and asked if maybe we would want to buy it. My mom knows that I am not in any position to buy furniture, so she offered to buy it as a Christmas gift.

I'm easy going. I don't want to rock the boat. I said ok. We do need furniture, so it seemed like a good deal. Until it exploded in my face. They backed out on selling it to my Mom, and then my Mom got all like "a deal is a deal." Then, they wanted to stop here on their way down to Florida, and I was all like..."I don't have time for this crap, because my Mom will be like "why you being all nicey nicey to those people that wouldn't even SELL you their used furniture?" To which I would be all like, "Who says NO Grandma you can't stay at my house, and the furniture is all easy come easy go. I have a baby that demands my every minute, and to be honest matching nightstands are not at the top of my priority list. But go ahead and tell them I am busy since clearly hell hath no fury like like a deal is a deal." I do love that my Mom is willing to go to war for me though. Even if this wasn't really a war that I a.) wanted or b.) really cared about. Still, it's nice to know that my Mom is like a feral cat when it comes to her kids.

Then, the Skype rings, and my Mom tells me she told them off. I'm all like whoa whoa whoa! PLEASE don't put me in the middle of this! I am already the hated Grandchild for having this EVIL blog. She tells me she told them off so much that they said they would just GIVE me the furniture, and bring it to me. What the hell did she say to them? It must have been along the lines of "Listen here old people, guess who you named to take care of your DNR?" (DNR is do not resuscitate)

The day came that they would be bringing the furniture to me. They arrived 2 hours early like all old people do, and then proceeded to tell me that my baby is fat. My family makes my head explode. Keep your "fat" comments to yourself when it comes to my 5 month old. I haven't put the baby treadmill together yet, and the diet or pureed Twinkies and soda is what he prefers to eat. Who am I to tell him no? Seriously, he gets breast milk, and like 4 pureed foods including squash, and a little fruit. It's not like I am feeding him gravy.

Now, I have a bedroom filled with a smell that makes me want to run the other direction, and the unsettling feeling that people think my baby is fat. Like, how do you even google a remedy for "wooden furniture old people smell removal?" I thought about using bathroom spray but I fear that might ruin the finish. I just couldn't foresee this in advance. This well fought battle ended in furniture that makes the whole room smell like the perfume counter at Macy's.

The good news, is that the old people smell is bound to cover up the fumes on the bed that is trying to kill me.

Friday, August 12, 2011


I was inspired to write about this.

Based on my last few posts, it's probably quite clear that my depression is back. It never fully goes away, and the medication I am taking is one of the least effective in treating it, but the safest for Charlie's breast milk. I recently went up on the dosage, and I feel...well, I feel numb. Not so much better, but caged. All the things that normally float around in there are still there, but instead of bouncing around they are just kind chilling out in proverbial jello. The meds effect my efforts to be funny, and to communicate what's on my mind.

However, I have the most irrational fear of going off of them. That I would shut down. I would just sit in my own filth and start to look like the Mom in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape." I don't want to have to be removed from my house with a forklift when I die.***I am NOT thinking about my death, PLEASE DON'T WRITE TO ME ASKING ABOUT THAT.  Some of what I am feeling is just circumstances. The adjustments to new life, and the changes that have occurred are not so new anymore. I dreamed of being a Mom since I was a baby myself. I had imaginary "baby boys" I would chase around the house. What 2  year old has imaginary twins? Me. I dreamed of being needed, and wanted, all the time. Now, it is a reality. A wonderful reality, but also a new reality. There's never enough time in a day. Parts of my body hurt that never hurt before (part of turning 30 I suppose) and I don't have the patience for people like I used to. I have new found overwhelming patience for Charlie, but not so much for adults. I guess I feel like if you can drive a car I don't have patience for your crap.

Last time I was at the doctor, they urged me to go see a therapist they have there. Truth is, I've been to a bunch. I am sick of it. With how often I move, it's too painful to rehash all the old stuff to get down to the brass tacks of what's going on now. I don't want to have to retell my life story again. I like avoiding bringing up old things that I have moved past.

This is my therapy. The down side of this therapy, is that you want to know what's going on you read about it. I love being able to open up in written form and spill it, but it also seems that thru this I have lost contact with some people because they just read about me here.

The downfall of over sharing I suppose. That and my family members losing their shit on me for having the balls to spill it on the internet. Whether or not you believe in depression, it is real for me. It's my burden. How I deal with it is my responsibility. I do deal with it. I don't cut people down, or lock myself in a room, I just deal.

We go to the beach in a month. I can't wait. When I am near the ocean, I feel normal. I feel like life all makes sense. It helps me recenter.

Little known fact: Gigi loves the beach too.

Thursday, August 11, 2011


I need to add to my bitchfest.

Now the upstairs AC is out. When I call nothing gets done. When Chad calls they get right on it. Today I had him call first and there was no call back so I called. Anthony answered me right away, and gave me a BS reason as to why he didn't call Chad back. I know bullshit when I hear it dude. We actually have a book in our bathroom entitled "On Bullshit." So, now I will go back to doing what I know works....Calling them back every 15 minutes to check on their progress. You don't keep me in the loop? I WILL DESTROY YOU WITH MY ANNOYING CALLS THAT WILL NEVER END. Anthony came to our house on Saturday for a walk thru unexpectedly, and subtly mentioned my feverish phone calls. What I wanted to say was, "My Mom was here when the AC downstairs went out. You don't know what fury Hell holds when you piss that woman off, and I sure as Hell wasn't going to be listening to the story of "the time she had no air conditioning in the south in August." While she was here she complained my house was too hot. Her thermostat:73 My thermostat: 74 Yeesh that's such a huge adjustment.

OMG MY TEETH ARE KILLING ME. My dentist is a mouth terrorist. I had to go in for "readjustments" because it's been two weeks since I had them filled and they still KILL. So, he looks at them, I bite down on that weird paper of magic, and he says..."What I did is fine. It's that you have to find a new bite." WTF? Really? A new bite? He said my pain was from me clenching and that my teeth had to find a new way to align. Then, he shaved some stuff off the fillings, and said I would have to readjust again. THEN WHY DID HE SHAVE ANYTHING OFF??? Now, I am readjusting to the readjustment that was already an adjustment. That word sounds weird. But, really. I hate that dentist. He's a dick with a drill, and a vendetta against tooth alignment.

My teeth hurt. Not just a little bit. A LOT. My cranky o meter is at a 10 right now. I try very hard to keep myself together. Not to lose my cool. However, if I could remove my own face right now I would. I would place it in a warm bath, and light some candles. Also as Chad has pointed out about me numerous times, I have some sort of weird disorder where I don't sweat. I don't tolerate heat well, because my body decides that it's just going to shut down. Between my teeth and the weird sweat that I do produce I am losing my mind.

I lack the social finesse these days to not be a complete bitch about things like AC in the south when it's 100 degrees outside and I have a 4 month old that doesn't like anything above 75 degrees. Barracuda Liz is making another triumphant return. Don't these people know they are messing with my young AND my ability to live comfortably? I can feel the upstairs heat oozing down off the balcony. Charlie is napping in my room and I will cut a bitch if he has to sleep in our room tonight. He's what I like to call a "squeaky sleeper." When he slept in our room it was like having a pack of field mice next to me, and Momma needs her sleep.

On an unrelated note, I stink. I left some clothes in the washing machine too long...Chad put them in the dryer and didn't realize they smelled. For the past few days I have been trying to think of a nice way to tell Chad that he needs to wash better, or change soaps. Turns out, I am just a horrible housekeeper with laundry funk. Now, every few days I wear something, I think that either Charlie just pooped or Chad stinks...just to realize it's me because I haven't been able to find every last stitch of clothing with the funk on it.

Blow Me Army

Chad didn't get home until 7 PM last night.


Because there's far too much hand holding and butt wiping at his unit. While back in the states (not deployed) these units are supposed to make time for family. Instead this unit is practically passing out coloring books that MUST be colored, in the lines, and handed in to be checked. It's infuriating. Last night I had like an hour with Chad. All because of the Chad's bosses need to micromanage bowel movements.

I need to complain about said things. Like most girls, I complain to my Mom. She's there to listen right? WRONG. She's been defending the 12 hours days as though that's normal. I explained about deployments and how that is hard on a family. She went so far as to say that when my father would travel on business it was practically the same! Really? Dad's trip to Texarkana is the same as going to Iraq and getting shot at? Somehow, I fail to make any real connection between the two. When Dad would drive from the hotel he was staying at to the job site, did he encounter many roadside bombs? What's that? Dad's company would pay for him to come home to see his family once a month? Yes. It's exactly the same Mom.

To this, I want to create my own script of things to say when I complain about the Army, and seeing my husband look like a beat down RSPCA animal with "The Arms of an Angel" playing in the background every time we make eye contact.

Acceptable responses include:
Dude. That sucks. The Army is a shit factory, and we can't wait for you guys to get out.

I hate the Army because of what they are doing to you. You have been through so much with them, and they just keep piling shit tacos on you.

There aren't many acceptable responses OTHER than agreeing with me.

Unacceptable responses include:
I can relate. My husband's desk job is exactly the same. They make him show up at 5:30 to go run, and oh they don't. Seriously. I am not cutting on desk jobs. It's just that Chad has a professional career. There's nothing going on to keep him there. Not only is he there, he's there for 12 freaking hours. It's just plain stupid.

The shit factory he works for is keeping the terrible people, and alienating the one's worth keeping. Does that frighten you? It should. He works with someone that has been in for 17 years, and can't qualify on a shooting range. That's like being a veterinarian for 17 years and not being able to locate a dog's butt hole.  Same same. But different.

I also have a couple of updates.

The shitbag neighbors we had that never mowed their lawn, and had that poor pitbull were evicted. Yesterday I saw lots of their stuff on the curb. So long dickbags! I've been googling the crap out of the house number to see if it's going up for sale or rent again. I want to set up the people that come view the house and either frighten them off with my Harry Caray impression, or bake them cookies depending on if I like them.

There are different types of roaches. The roach that caused my mental breakdown a couple months back was indeed an Woodland Cockroach. They live outside. I had one singular cockroach in my house, and I killed that MF.

Ants hate baking soda.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011


I am feeling so lost. I practically foam at the mouth for social interaction of any type. I went to get my hair cut on Friday, and I just kept having verbal blooples. I just wanted to talk to someone. My social life consists of a 4 month old, and a breast pump. Oh, and the awkward conversations about all things weird with my Mom. I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I am just purging this here. I just feel really trapped. I can't really go anywhere or do anything, because my milk supply suffers as a result. So, here I stay. On the couch. Watching episodes of How I Met Your Mother for the 30th time.

Charlie is sleeping better these days, and I have really had to help him to realize he is tired. Now that he sleeps and takes naps he is such a happy baby. I get excited when I hear him cry that he is waking up. I look forward to our interactions. He's smiling, and cooing, and he laughs....just not for me. That's something he reserves for Chad only.

I guess that right now, I am mourning the loss of my previous life. The life that didn't involve diaper bags, and car seats, and floppy boobs. I miss being able to think about going places and doing things. It doesn't help that I don't have a car which makes me feel like a bigger looser. But, I am not. 1 car is really all we need, and where would I go? Wal-Mart? I don't think so.

Chad's job is ridiculous lately. He works with the biggest idiots on earth right now. (there are some exceptions to this) but it has made him have to be away for about 12 hours each day. It's wearing on him, and me. What's even more frustrating is that it's not for anything important. It's because Joe can't put his pants on right, and Sally decided to just show up everyday at noon. The higher ups are of no help, and the strain can be seen on his face everyday. It hurts me to see him looking so beat down. Chad used to work the watch shift in England that was 12 hours on 12 hours off for 4 days straight. It was so hard on both of us. This seems to be like deja vu(sp?). I could understand this type of situation if there was something important going on, but there isn't. He's basically just running himself silly over nothing. He's tired from the moment he gets home, until we go to bed at 9:30. He isn't getting time to himself, because I need time to make dinner, and take care of things around the house when he gets home from work.

So, here I am. I dream of a little escape. An escape where there is no breast pump waiting for me every 2 hours. There are no douches at Chad's work to deal with. A place where I don't have to get my tonsils out, because of the GROSSEST thing on earth. Wanna throw up this morning? Google search tonsil stones.

I just feel a little claustrophobic lately. I am sure it's all normal, but it doesn't make it any easier.

Friday, August 5, 2011

The Jersey Shore and Me

I can't be the only one that secretly watches the Jersey Shore. I am ashamed because I shouldn't watch. I know it's offensive to Italian Americans and wellll just about every American really, but I love it. Minus the  shitty Sam and Ron drama. Those two are pointless. What is it that I love about that show? The muscles? The tans? The hair? The rampant sexual promiscuity? The famous-ugly ratio? Seriously, I know a lot of Italian Americans. Congrats MTV on scouring the earth for THE UGLIEST people ever. Seriously. Italian Americans are usually really hot. What HAPPENED to these people? The Situation always looks like he just sniffed poop. Snooki looks like a really tan Snoopy. Jwoww looks like a b-team stripper, and that new one you know the Momish looking one? Deena yeah Deena, she HAS to be like 73. Vinny is actually kind of cute and normal. So that makes me wonder about him. Pauly's hair seems to be molded out of semen and cake frosting. But I love them.

I am not alone. This show is a phenomenon. This is how I am choosing to "stay hip." I watch MTV reality shows that I know the youth are watching. What scares me is that all the people on that show are pushing 30 (with the exception of Deena the 73 year old). Just like I am somewhat out of touch with the young kids these days, they in turn are out of touch with me. They think that if I was single, I would be out fist pumping into the wee hours of the morning and dodging grenades.

If you don't know what all these things are in reference to, watch the show.

It's like a car wreck you pass on the highway after being caught in traffic for 3 hours. You don't want to look at it, but you wasted 3 hours of your life trapped in your car and DAMNIT there better be an APOCALYPSE going on up ahead. When you finally drive past the scene, you feel like you HAVE to look due to the fact that all you saw was the back end of a Buick for the past 3 hours. That's the Jersey Shore. We are in rerun season. So that is the 3 hours of traffic. MTV is smart enough to start airing their show before the other shows come back on. I HAVE TO WATCH. By that point, I am hooked.

I like these people. I don't know why. I think they are caricatures of themselves, and at some point it morphed and they thought orange was their actual skin color. They do stupid things. They get into a lot of debacles. I can relate.


I just said I can relate to the cast of Jersey Shore.

I will write a real post in a day or two. For now, go watch the Jersey Shore. I'm sure it's on MTV right now, because that's all they have on. That and that stupid teenwolf shit that is quite possibly the worst show ever created. Don't watch that.

Friday, July 15, 2011

My New Mission

$340 a month.

That is what the Army deems appropriate for food.

We spend closer to $600-700 on food. Are we greedy? Do we buy fillet Mignon for every other meal? Are we wasteful? I am going to find out.

The way the Army works is that you get allotments for housing and food.

$340 is how much they think we should spend on food per month.

That's $85 a week, or approximately $12 a day.

There is an obesity epidemic in our country, and I for one understand why.

Michelle Obama has introduced a new food system called "My Plate." The basic premise is that 50% of each meal should be fruits and vegetables. Which I totally agree with. Fruits and vegetables are filled with nutrients and fiber to help you stay fuller longer. What I am struggling with is how to afford such "luxury items" like fresh vegetables. Canned and frozen items are cheap, but don't hold a candle to the fresh stuff. So, I am embarking on a mission. I will be starting another blog page, with vlogs, that show how to create delicious side dishes/meals using vegetables that are cost efficient, and healthy. I am going to try to stick to the budget of $340 for a one month time period. If I can do it so can you. The cornerstone of all of this, is to lose weight, and eat right. I have a child now, and very soon he will be starting to eat solids. I have to get into the habit of eating flavorful meals that have exciting vegetable options. That's part of our problem as Americans, we don't "showcase" vegetables. It's all about the meat.  So, I will be making daily meal plans, and making sure to have a whole grain, large vegetable portions, and a lean meat.

We are the military. We are supposed to be the leanest and healthiest group of Americans. If we can't do this, how can we expect other people to? While I realize our budget may be a little tighter than most Americans, that should doubly prove that it can be done. I will be working on this project in the coming weeks. If you would like to contribute healthy recipes and meal ideas, I will give you credit!

Here's to a long healthy life, filled with cheap vegetables.



The word makes me cringe.

Never before have I thought so much about penises.

As time ticks by, I know that it's only a matter of time before Charlie discovers his. Then, I will spend the rest of my life telling him to stop touching it. So I am pondering the idea of what to call it. There are so many nicknames and all of them leave me with a weird feeling. Seriously, though how many other things can you think of that have so many other names? Penis is the marijuana of body parts.

Wee-wee, pee-pee, weiner, dong, wang, willy, "it", jr., pee-er, private part, and of course, dick. Not to mention the 900 words used to describe it in a sexual manner. There are two basic thoughts on this matter. Do I call it by the correct name of "penis" and cringe every time, or do I call it something else and just feel like I am dumbing down his body parts? Aren't those names semi-shame based?

If I call it his weiner, it is no better. He's already developing his language skills, and I have been calling it his penis for the most part when we are discussing anything about care, cleaning, or diapering. When he is in ear shot (or not) I use the proper term. I guess I also feel like that is a bit "formal" for everyday use. What will the other boys be calling it when he is in social settings? I don't use baby talk so saying wee-wee makes me want to slap my own mouth.

I am just so torn over it. I don't want him being the "Dad" of the play group by calling it a penis while all other kids call it a weiner, but I also don't want him getting all giggly over it. It is what it is. Maybe I am over thinking this. How much does that come up in play group? From all the men I know, I picture them as children, and I could honestly say it would come up like every other word. I was always uncomfortable in Elementary school when I would see a boy standing in the lunch line with his hands on his crotch.

By giving it a different name that what it really is, are we teaching our kid there is shame involved in having a sexual organ? If you address it as matter-of-fact rather than "shielding" them with dumbed down words are we adding to the shame based culture that hides sex behind closed doors?

My Mom called my vagina my "bum." It got really confusing for me. I didn't know what the difference between the front and the back was at that point, because everyone I knew would fall down on their "bum." Even boys were falling down on their "bums." That just lead to more confusion. Not to mention that hobos are also called bums. It was a really confusing part of my childhood.

It was brought to my attention that we don't call our fingers phalanges, so why would we call a "penis" by it's text book name? However, the other names for a penis are all cringe worthy, and in my honest opinion shame related.

On the other hand, if we don't use those other words, are we creating the 90 year old man of the play group? While all the other boys tee-hee over their "willies" Charlie will be standing there with an odd expression of so what? Is the awkwardness of having a penis a right of passage? Is it part of the developmental process? Should I take that "fun" away from him?

I want to be very open and honest with him. I don't want there to ever be a shame based portion of sex, or his body. I remember growing up and feeling like there was something very wrong with me in that way. I don't want to be the hippie Mom either that is like, "yea! go ahead and use our bed" but I don't want there to be such a stigma attached to sex. With the overwhelming amount of accessibility to pornography, it's become part of our culture. Right or wrong, it's there.

So, here I sit. With the question, "To say penis, or not to say penis?"

That is the question.

Shakespeare just rolled over in his grave.

Except I don't believe Shakespeare is dead, just like Elvis and Tupac.

Due to a recent conversation, I am going to be calling it a "urine evacuation unit." Otherwise known as a UEU, pronounced ewww. Done, and done.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

The Reason Why Saved By the Bell Kicks the Shit Out of Normal News Programs

Saved By the Bell kicks the shit out normal news shows.


SBTB never changes. The show revolves around a young gang of kids that all get into little "uh-ohs," and with the exception of some to be continued shows, it ends. I have seen every episode, but at least it's not surrounding murder or dresses. (With the exception of Lisa starting her own fashion line)

News shows lately have been focused on two things. Casey Anthony, and Princess Kate's outfits. This is what news is about lately? Giving that complete waste of life more media coverage than the disaster in Japan. Talking about Kate's 40 dress changes in her time in the US. I am so over it. We all bitch and moan about not caring anymore about these things, yet morning after morning we tune in. There are still troops deployed in two wars, that are risking their lives on a daily basis, and our media covers.....what Kate wore to the BAFTA's. There are puppies out there that have saved babies, and the media covers Casey Anthony's hair style at her sentencing. Please allow me to be the first to say, "WHO THE F*&^ CARES?"

Saved By the Bell may be all reruns from the 90's, but it is over and done with at the end of a half an hour. The coverage of either of the previous topics seems to go ON and ON. Saved By the Bell isn't current. I get that, but neither is Casey Anthony or Kate. That isn't news. That's shit on a shingle. Local news isn't as bad, but it also has local people spewing it that may or may not have graduated from High School.

So, I am boycotting. I am not watching morning news programs. Sure, I may not know that the Pope has a Twitter account anymore, but I think it's a fair trade off. I won't hear brain sludge. I will instead watch Zach getting into one of his many debacles, and getting off scott free at the end. Sort of like Casey Anthony, but without injustice. I fail to understand why that was covered so widely in the first place. Perhaps everyone likes to hear what lego hair Nacy Grace has to say. I for one, would rather listen to Celine Dion sing for hours than listen to Nacy Grace. Which as you all know, Celion Dion sucks.

On SBTB Jessie takes "pep pills" to study, and burn the candle at the other end for a music video she is in. She ends up having a mental breakdown in her room, throwing her pills all over her comforter. This teaches me that she is "so excited, and so scared." I get it now Jessie. Don't take pep pills, and don't be in a tragic 90's music video. Did the news teach me that? No.

I would have to scour the internet to find information on current events that are important. Find out how Japan is coping, what's going on in Libya (I totally spelled that wrong and spellcheck gave me the suggestion of "labia" thanks spellcheck!), or about people that need help elsewhere. On SBTB they find oil under the football field. They are going to be rich! Until the drilling goes horrible wrong and all the local wildlife gets covered in crude oil. I can't remember how that episode ends, but I think they decide to stop drilling and clean off all the ducks with some Dawn soap...Speaking of oil slicks, what's happening down off the Gulf? You don't know either? That's because Kate wore an Alexander McQueen dress to the BAFTA's. Clearly, that is more important.

I would go with the theory of, "they are trying to keep the news light." Then, they cover things like the tot mom. WTF? As a nation, we care so little about international current events. It's tragic. Kelly gets a chance to go model in Paris. She would have learned about culture, and seen the world. Zach was selfish and didn't want her to go. So, in the end she didn't. See? SBTB is the SAME. Except it is over in a half hour and I am not left thinking about how to make a beet smoothie. (It was totally on GMA a day or two ago.)

So there you have it.

Watch Saved By the Bell. It's more informative than news.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Dr. Asshole - Dentist

Disclaimer: I apologize to all dental hygienists. This does not apply to you. Dental hygienists are probably some of the nicest people I have ever met. Why? Because you scrape dookie out of people's mouths and you are nice about it.

Except for that one time in England. Where she wanted to take her lunch break. Chad went first and came out of the room HOLDING A PAPER TOWEL OVER HIS MOUTH TO CATCH THE SEEPING BLOOD. I went next, and neither one of us brushed our teeth for like a day after that. I still have flashbacks. On to the next subject.


I hate them.

I didn't go to the Dentist for a while after that last pleasant experience. We came back to the states, and I was pregnant. I felt like shit for 9 months. I didn't want to deal with it. Plus, the books I read said that all they can really do is clean your teeth. I decided to just wait until Charlie came out.

That was a bad move.

FIVE cavities. F I V E

I sort of wanted to cry and jump off of a cliff all at once.

The cleaning went well. The hygienist was super nice. She cleaned my teeth and said she didn't see any cavities. All was good with the world.

Then dickbag doctor came in. Do all dentists get their undergrad degree in asshole with a minor in dickhead? Only female dentists are nice. That's my conclusion.

The conversation went like this:
Me: Do you think that this happened because of the pregnancy?
Doctor: I think it happened because you didn't floss.
Me: Really? You couldn't sugar coat that at all?
Doctor: I don't get paid to sugar coat things.
Me: Are you from Ohio?
Doctor: That's where I went to school.
Me: Oh. Cool. That's where I'm from.
Doctor: I didn't ask.

Let me tell you how excited I am to go in to get those bad boys filled on the 19th of Juliz. Just to have the Stalin of dentistry drilling in my mouth. He showed me the xrays and said "to the untrained eye like yours, you wouldn't see them. They are between your teeth." I then freaked out at how they were going to get to them. "Simple manipulations." Really? You couldn't be more specific. How's about you use your words and explain things to me. You just told me you are going to drill 5 holes in my mouth, and you couldn't give more of an explanation than two words?

Now, I fear my insurance won't pay if I decided to go to a different dentist. So, I have to have faith that Dr. Asshole 1. won't screw up and 2. won't be a complete asshat. Look guy, I know you are busy. However, a little nice chat wouldn't kill your practice. My "failure to floss" is money in your pocket to go buy asshole things like knives with boners on them, and $800 shoes that look like duck feet made out of crocodiles.

I don't know where else to go with this, so I am just going to stop writing.

Friday, July 8, 2011

I'm Almost 30, and It Shows

It's getting hella close to my 30th birthday. Remember when you thought 30 was old? Now, I keep trying to convince myself 30 is the new 20, just with less sluttiness, less bad decisions, and no belly tops.

So the 4th has come and gone. I am grateful it's over, and so are my dogs. It's one of my least favorite holidays. It was the worst this year, because our neighbor that is like 2 down from us decided to use his pension to buy fireworks. I am not sure that's true, but it sure seemed like it. Seriously, he had to have spent over $1,000 on fireworks. Just to set them off little by little over the course of 15 hours. You know what's annoying? Trying to sleep through black cats...and it was like he knew people were trying to sleep so he would wait 30 minutes between rounds. Thanks ass hole. I had just rolled back to sleep. I thought of all the things I would say to him. I thought about rolling out of bed, putting on my mom robe filled with baby spit up, and walking down the street to tell him off. I thought about opening the window and just yelling "ASS HOLE!" I thought about calling the cops. Chad had to work the next day, and it was a very early day. I wanted to light his house on fire. It went on and on until 2 AM. I was a complete bitch on Tuesday. Why did every other neighbor do exactly what I did? I was counting on someone else in this allotment to be a bigger bitch than me. Clearly I am the only one that can't stand fireworks past 10 PM. I already tolerate the bombs that go off near the base on a weekly basis. Can we all agree that you don't need to cash in your 401K on fireworks?

On the my next annoyance. I decided that I can complain about things now that I am 10 years away from drinking ensure and playing canasta.

I am so torn over the new style of putting a feather in your hair. It's a little too Yankee Doodle for me (I will call it macaroni), but it does look cute. I also think it's nice that American Indian fashions are finally getting noticed. Did you kill the rooster you have dangling from your hair? Did the primal need to kill take over? You thought after you killed that chicken, "this will signify my kill." It's a little weird. But it's CUTE. I remember the 90's when friendship bracelets went to the next level, and people were putting them in their hair. This is just an extension of that. The 90's fashions are back so why not bad hair decisions? Those freaking feathers cost like $200. $200 for a tail feather that some bird spent it's entire life pooping on. Just to look like your robot parts malfunctioned and you started growing feathers out of your head.

I grow three weird hairs. One on my side that is like white, and like every 5 months I am like "What the hell is that?" Just to see that my body malfunctioned and decided to grow a 4 inch hair on my torso. Is that what these feathers are supposed to be like? I am also sort of against an animal being raised just to be killed it for it's tail feathers. Haven't we thought of enough ways to show our dominance over things without thumbs? Poor chickens, they already taste delicious. Now we are playing with their dead carcasses as well? I have a new rule, unless you personally killed that chicken, you can't have it glued in your hair. Plus, you look ridiculous white girl. Unless your name is "Runswithwind" and you just go by Debbie, STOP IT. It doesn't make you look Bohemian. It makes you look like the Coach bag was too heavy to have glued into your hair. If you want to look Bohemian, try not showering and living out of a shopping cart.

Does your feather require a special shampoo? Where do you buy feather shampoo? Tractor Supply? Did your feather come with a dream catcher and a 65 year old man that smokes way too much pot? Do you like the smell of patcholi? The questions I have. There is now even and infomercial for clip in feathers. They show the ease with which you can "change up your look" by clipping it in, in a different region of your hair. Really? You need to show me a video for that? Pretty sure I can figure out how to look douchey on my own. Incase you were curious here... now you too can look like a jackass! Don't kid yourself into thinking you DON'T look like the people in this video if you have a more expensive one. You do. Trust me. You do. It's just you can see it more clearly on someone other than yourself. Take the feather out. You will thank me. I promise.

Maybe I should start selling my weird hairs as clip in extensions too.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Sumo Poop

My kid got my poop gene. I know he did. Why? Because he goes for days without pooping. He is crabby, and mean, and terrible. Then, all of the sudden it's like a sumo wrestler shit in my kid's diaper. Then, he sleeps for one whole day and night. I would sleep better too if I had just expelled 1/10th of my own body weight. What's worse is that it's not uncommon in breastfed babies to not poop for what happens is their waste starts to ROT INSIDE OF THEM. Yes, you read that right. Rotting poop. His farts have smelled like rotten eggs for days. I have been waiting for the moment to come to fruition. It always happens when you least expect it. Like getting him up from a nap, and talking on the phone to the eye doctor about your upcoming appointment, and trying to open his diaper, and holding the phone with your shoulder to be so shocked by what you have just unearthed that you DROP YOUR PHONE IN PEANUT BUTTER POOP. Except it's not peanut butter. It's something that must be in one of the layers of hell in Dante's Inferno.

Just to look down at your phone and hear a tiny voice saying "Hello?" Then, try to explain that you will call them back because you just dropped your phone in a pile of poop and refuse to pick it up to confirm my sponsor's social security number.

I didn't sign up for this.

I signed up for baby coo's and the occasional spit-up. Not Poopapalooza. Seriously, I am a little traumatized. Speaking of traumatized, Charlie is.

By his car seat. For the first 2 months we called his car seat "the coma maker." Now, I lovingly refer to it as the "Turkey Maker."
We took that long ass trip to WV. It was TERRIBLE. First hour...he was great....then he started crying, which made him sweat, which made him cry. He seriously looked like and felt like a basted turkey every time we would take him out of his seat. He sweat through his clothes and you would think a baby could only scream for like ohhh an hour or two and then would pass out. NOT MY CHILD. No, my child can cry for 7 hours. Straight. We would turn up the radio, he would cry louder. At one point, I thought we were all going to cry.

Now, even short car trips involve dramatic baby butterball crying. It's horrible. He comes out of the car seat coated in sweat. We look like terrible parents that enjoy the air conditioning in the front seat and apparently stick our child in a small portable car oven.

Remember this post. Never ask to borrow my phone.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

My Pantry

This is the post that will either make you love me or hate me. It will be long, and filled with pictures.

When you are out in public and you see a bottle on the ground, do you immediately think, "I bet that is filled with homeless people's urine?" I do. Thanks Mom. As a child, I apparently really wanted to pick up those random bottles. Clearly the logical thing to tell an eight year old is that they are filled with drifter pee. Now, looking back I am left with a lot of questions...
Why would a drifter pee in a bottle? Isn't the entire outside his bathroom/house?
Is he some sort of beautiful mind hobo?
Does he have a urine distillery?

Now, I can't drink Mountain Dew out of a plastic bottle.

I totally have the potential to be a hoarder. That's why I need people to come visit me.

Did you know cockroaches can fly?

I found a cockroach in my kitchen today. I had a mental breakdown.

Seriously, on the floor of my kitchen. Charlie crying in his baby rocking chair, and me crying on the floor. Where did life go so wrong? I threw it in the toilet and peed on top of it for good measure. I am so ashamed. I am calling an exterminator. My Mom said it was probably from the dirtbag neighbor's house. I give his dog away and he gives me cockroaches? That doesn't seem fair.

 So, I got up and decided that Charlie would have to cry. I had to clean my kitchen. I just can't get the mental image of that fucker out of my head. So, I decided to clean out my cabinet.

Perhaps there were roaches in there. I pulled the oven out by myself and the fridge. There were none to be found.

I was torn between letting Charlie cry, and cleaning every inch of the kitchen because I have seen "Billy The Exterminator" and can't handle being the single Mom that lives in a trailer with cockroaches that are eating the glue that is used to construct my home.

Once I finished cleaning the floor on my hands and knees, I decided to go thru my cupboard. Here are a few things that I am going to share with you that I keep in my kitchen closet. I know I have them, and I keep them in there....I am kinda proud of these things, and also sort of terrified of myself at the same time.

This is my sweet closet plant. It's growing on a sweet potato I have had since December when my Dad came to visit.  I named him Bobby. I don't have the heart to throw him away, and he has repaid me by making himself at home. In another year, I will have a little sweet potato family. Judge away people. I can't throw it out. It has memories, you know of when my Dad came to visit for Christmas. I made Christmas ribs. Why? Because we live about 5 miles from a turkey factory, and we had to turn our water on when we first moved in and since then I WILL NEVER EAT TURKEY. It smelled worse than moldy feces. So, I guess between that, and it seemed like something Jesus-y we had ribs. And I had this little gem left over.

What's that bag behind Bobby? That's a bag of 4 year old cookies that my Grandma sent me for Christmas. I can't part with them. I am attached to them because it's from when she was still well enough to make cookies that looked like cookies. So, there they stay. Probably attracting cockroaches.

Yes, that's a lampshade. Yes, that is where I keep it. Do you have a better idea of a place to keep an extra lampshade?
When I was growing up my Mom kept the scissors on hooks inside our pantry...but not near the 5 feet in the air. I keep my scissors in a drawer and every time I pull them out, I think that I should have them hanging up somewhere. I use my parent's organizational system, to an extent. When I go to other people's houses I assume they use the same type of organizational system...
Did I mention that's the side of the pantry she kept our Halloween candy? Yea, right next to the dangling spikes of death.

Now, all I can do is think of how I have strayed. I keep lampshades next to sweet potatoes I have owned so long that I have named them and they are growing NEW potatoes.

Charlie, I apologize in advance for when you go to a friend's house and don't find lampshades in the place you think they should be.