Monday, February 28, 2011

I Cripple Old People

Today I had a q-tip stuck in a new place, and most likely crippled an old Asian woman.

It was a really productive day.

My day started off by being bombarded by the neighbor lady two doors down from me while I was trying to roll my trashcan in. She clearly drinks 3-4 pots of coffee a day. I wanted Popeye's rice and beans and that lady kept me from getting them and I had to settle for Bojangles dirty rice and red beans. She did say I was very tiny for 9 months so, I will let it slide. But just let it be known, Bojangles has nothing on Popeye's beans and rice.

I had my 36 week visit today. At this visit they discuss the standard operating procedure for delivery and what to do if your water breaks, or you are having contractions every five minutes. They answer questions that you may have and then they tell you to take off your pants. Which, in all honesty is fine by me because I don't really like to wear pants anyways. What they fail to mention when they tell you to scoot to the end of the table is...."Hey, I'm gunna take this Q-tip and swab not only your lady bits, but stick it in your bunghole." Why would ANYONE want to become and OBGYN? Like, when do you decide you know I really want to help people. I want to be a doctor, and I want deal with women in their worst state ever. Oh, and I want to peer INSIDE of them. What logical reason could you really have for ever wanting to become an OBGYN?!? You like babies? Welllllll clearly you like lady bits more, because if I were to get out a pie chart the amount of time you spend working with babies would not even come close to the amount of time you spend working with vaginas. Other jobs that I think would be terrible include proctologist, and the guy that sucks the poop out of port-o-potties. At least the guy that sucks up poop didn't spend 8 years in school most likely creating massive school loans to do his job. In essence poop sucker probably has a better debt to income ratio.

After waiting for my meds for 2 hours, I ventured off to the Commissary to get groceries...On a payday. I ALWAYS forget. Let me explain a few things to those who are not military. The commissary provides military personnel and their families with everything that off base stores have and it's more often than not cheaper. It is also tax free. They get you with their weird penny rounding thing, and surcharges of randomness that are just miraculously added to your bill upon paying. They also have baggers. The baggers only work off of tips. There are three types of commissary baggers. The first is the teenager. Looking to make some extra cash. I get it. The second type is the spouse that is some sort of social misfit that can't or won't find a regular job. They probably don't like the idea of random drug testing if you catch my drift. The third type is the worst and hardest to wrap my brain around. The old person. The bagger I had today was probably in her 80's. Call me old fashioned, but I don't like it when old people do work for me. I might be pregnant, but I don't have two fake hips and medic alert button on my chest either.

The baggers guilt you into letting them take your stuff to your car for you. I am too nice to say I will bag my own and push my own cart. It's irritating though. Pretty sure I can put my own toilet paper in my trunk but by all means go ahead. So, I get finished paying and the little old Asian lady starts pushing the cart out behind me. Except, when I look back she's still by the register. She can't actually lift her feet up so she's shuffle stepping it and using the cart as a wheeled walker. I would slow down more and more...A guy actually walked beside me and looked back and said "uhhhh I think your bagger is broken." I look back and see her stopped and not able to get enough momentum to keep pushing the cart. I walk back to her and tell her I will push. She tries to say in some form of English that I am pregnant and shouldn't do such things. So, I tell her which car is mine and I start walking behind her in case she tips backward when her heart gives out. We get to my car after 2 hours and I begin to help her unload my cart. Some guy shows up and pushes me out of the way and helps her to put things in the trunk. They then stand there and are trying to make small talk after I give her her tip. I want to leave. I don't want to chat. So I try to say goodbye and begin to close my trunk. She leans back a bit and the full force of the trunk lands on the top of her shoulder. She winces in pain and says, "Ohhhhhh! My shudder!"

I beat up old people.

This was probably her way of paying for her husband's hospice care, and I essentially put her in the bed next to him.

In conclusion, I am an ass hole.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Sound the Trumpets!

I'm having a little freak out.

Mostly because tomorrow I go for a pelvic and after my last experience with the Hannibal Lecter of  OBGYN doctors I don't want to go. The other reason is that Chad comes home in 4 days. I am way excited....but here's the thing. We have been apart for 7 weeks. I am not sure how other people work, but after 7 weeks there's a getting to know you period all over again.

For instance....when I was younger and had a new boyfriend I would hold my pee. Why? Because clearly logic doesn't really play a HUGE part in my life. Peeing is something you don't talk about or do. Duh. I most certainly never pooped or passed gas either. When going thru the getting to know you phase all over again, a certain amount of this illogical thought processing goes on. Except now, I can't do ANYTHING about it. I might as well just get out a kiddie pool, and just roll around in my own mess. "Hi honey! Glad you are home! Check out my pee pee pool!"

Getting to know you again should NOT happen with 3-6 weeks until I push a human out of my loins. There are things going on in there that I should have been able to ease Chad into. Like excruciating gas and a terrible case of back acne. I am a mess. You picture homecomings from military events like in the movies and that poster of the WWII navy dude and the pretty chick with her foot up kissing. My picture would look more like Roseanne Bar, cream cheese on my pant leg, and some sort of semi-grimace of pain as Chad tries to embrace me and can't because of the awkward size of my belly. He will just switch it up to a High Five mid embrace.

As for the romance....welllllll let's just say that it's weird. You dream your whole life of settling down and having kids. I dreamed of being pregnant and how special and wonderful it is. You never really think about the logistics of it. What got us to this point is now unbearably awkward. I feel like a musical instrument (a Tuba to be exact). Tubas are not sexy. Nor do you look at one and think, "I'd like to have sex with that." Tubas also make very unsexy noises. I have been doing a lot of that lately too. You try carrying around 25 lbs human stuffs and not getting a little gassy. I don't do that sort of thing in front of Chad. If we had spent the last 7 weeks together maybe I would have eased him into it. Now, I have to get used to leaving the room every time I have to break wind. It's safe to say I will be spending most of my time in another room.

There's usually a honeymoon phase after a long time apart. I love that period. Everything is new again. The butterflies are back more than ever, and you just never want to be apart. Instead I will be spending my time in a separate room, farting. Then, my body will expel water, placenta, baby, and quite possibly poop. Thanks army. This honeymoon phase sounds amazing already.

I am a mess.

I personally will provide the trumpet sounds upon Chad's arrival.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

A Whole New Meaning to Vodka Straight Up

Normally I don't talk about current events.

I feel the need because I am beyond disturbed over this. 

Young adults are soaking TAMPONS in VODKA and inserting them into their bodies to get drunk faster and keep from smelling like booze.


Seriously? I was bored as a teen. Sometimes REALLY bored. NEVER in my LIFE did it even cross my mind to take a tampon and use it in such a manner. Boys are doing it, girls are doing it. How freaking terrifying. Like, how does that come up as a logical conclusion....Hmmmmm.....I really like getting fall down drunk, but the 3 hours it's been taking me to get there seems too long. Clearly, I need to be making poor decisions, with lowered inhibitions, faster. 

Let's see... How can I cut out all that meaningless talking and laughing in between getting tipsy and schmasted falling down drunk? Who wants to BLACK OUT faster? Dude. I thought when I was in college and we were binge drinking that was the worst it could get. You know, bonging beers and keg stands. (which I could never do...but have no fear I just drank hard liquor instead I still made poor decisions)  Noooooooo I was sooooooo wrong. Obviously the logical conclusion is to stick the booze in your hoo haaa. 

That CAN'T feel good. That HAS to burn. I guess it hits your blood stream faster. 

If you are even considering this....there's a bigger problem than how long it is taking you to get drunk. 

Like your clear inability to make good choices in life. 

Or the fact that somehow you haven't died yet.

I am all for teaching my kids to drink responsibly. 

I am NOT going to teach my child how to insert a vodka tampon. 

This really has me buggin. I just said BUGGIN I am so freaked out by this information. 

When you go to the Doctor's office and they ask if you drink you can say socially, but usually I stick to inserting it vaginally. All that swallowing is just so passe.

So, I had to edit this....because PEOPLE HAVE KNOWN ABOUT THIS AND NOT TOLD ME. How was I not notified?!? I am actually kind of glad I didn't know about this sooner. I am obviously making good friend choices...You know friend choices that don't involve ASS SHOTS and helping people stick cotton soaked in booze up each other's asses.

But still. This is the kind of thing I should be kept in the loop about.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

My Love Letter to Chad

I went to Wal-Mart of Doom today. I had to. They have the largest selection of ice cream. The only thing that could come close to Shamrock Shake would be Smith's Mint Chocolate Chip. Apparently I only like things that are distinctly Northern. I settled for Edy's slow churned mint chocolate chip. It will hold me until Chad comes home with all the item's on the list I have been making for him since he left. This is the letter I composed to him and just sent to his email account.

Dear Chad,
    This is the last trimester of our first pregnancy. I am a bit angry that I have had to go on missions to cure my own cravings. In all the movies, the husband does this stuff. You just up and leave for 7 weeks. Since that happened I have been compiling a list of items I have been craving/need that I expect you to have when I pick you up from the airport. The list is as follows.

Fruit By the Foot (strawberry flavor)
The New Kids On the Block posters that were distributed by McDonald's in the 80's.
1 Easy Bake Oven Cake
Freeze Dried Ice Cream (Vanilla)
Shamrock Shake
Crystal Pepsi
Shrinki Dinks (pound puppies edition)
Orbits (the drink)
Bubble Tape
Season 1 of Small Wonder (on beta)
Black Walnut Cookies
Hickory Nuts
1 Pair Zips Silver High Tops
A Skip-It (with the counter)
The game "Rattle Me Bones"
1 A-track player and 1 A-track of "Can't Hurry Love"
Slap Bracelets
Pound Puppy I left at the Peds of Akron when I was 6 and I never got back because I have a sneaking suspicion that my Mom thought it was too germ filled to give back.
The book Island Of the Blue Dolphins
Cassette tape of Boys II Men's single Motown Philly

You come back in 1 week. You better get crackin' on it. I don't want you to greet me with flowers. I want you to greet me with a large basket with all these items. Otherwise, you can walk home.


Shamrock Update

This is now my second post about Shamrock Shakes.

I called a McDonald's an hour from here to see if they had them like the site below said.

There is an actual website devoted to sightings of this shake.

The people on that sight are mean, sadistic, liars.

Apparently only people in the Northeast get down on the Shamrock Shakes.

Is it because there's a larger population of Irish people there?

Since when did Irish people call dibs on mint flavor?

That seems selfish.

This craving has morphed.

It now involves a filet o fish.

or 3.

The closest place to get a shamrock shake is over 2 hours away. I feel bad making my friend Annette travel with me to distant McDonald's in search of the magestic leprechaun that makes green mint shakes at McDonald's. I will totally be making Cha Cha come with me thru the hills of NC. Sure, he's lactose intolerant, but that makes it even better.

This shamrock shake is making me have an emotional crisis. I had pictured it in my head....Me sitting down in a booth I could barely fit in. The shake in my right hand and the plastic fish sandwich in my left. It was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be real. It was supposed to perfect.

I hate you McDonald's.

I hate you South.

I had no trouble locating the McRib.

That hopefully didn't come across as racist.

People in the south like their BBQ.

Someone on Sunday was selling collard sandwiches.

That makes me want to throw up in my mouth.

I want thin mints now too. The Keebler knock off version is terrible.




the all caps indicates I am crying and screaming like a 2 year old. 

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

McDonald's Ruins Lives

I haven't had too many cravings.

Pickles for like a week.

For like 2 months it was "the perfect donut." Been there, done that.

Then it was purple popsicles and garlic bread....mixed together.

Now, all I want is a fucking Shamrock shake and the douches at McDonald's act like they have never heard of them. Ever since someone on FB posted they had their first one of the year it has been implanted in my brain as a MUST HAVE. I have been to 4 freakin McDonald's today. When I ask if they have this shake, they ask me 2-3 times to repeat it like I am speaking some other language. Lady, you work at McDonald's...Shamrock Shakes have been around since like 1982. I am not saying, "I have a potato chip in my butt crack."

Pregnancy cravings aren't like normal..."Ohhhh I could go for some Indian food!" They are life ending. Life.   Ending.    All I can think about is the minty deliciousness that is the Shamrock Shake. I will not rest until I have it. Unfortunately between being in the south, and it still being February I think I have to wait another week. Sure, I could eat an altoid and sip on a vanilla shake, BUT IT'S NOT THE SAME.

On a semi-related note...I took Chem 2 my senior year of high school as I have already mentioned. In that class I learned why McDonald's milkshakes never melt. You know the stuff in baby diapers that absorbs the pee? It makes a gel. It is actually a form of silicone. It's the same thing in the milkshakes. Mmmmmmm plastic milkshake.

I don't even care. But McDonald's sure knows how to piss off a pregnant lady.

4 McDonald's in one day.

1 McDonald's had the mix, but their milkshake machine was broken.

I thought about asking for the mix to transport to another McDonald's but felt they would just stare at me even more blankly than before.

I want to punch people in the ears.

I had flashbacks to the mini beanie baby craze at McDonald's that monopolized my Saturday mornings in the '90s because my Mom was obsessed with both cheeseburger happy meals and beanie babies. Seriously, I ate cheeseburgers for like 8 months. We would go to 4 or 5 different McDonald's looking for those stupid things. Then, 8 years later go home for a visit and find 30 of them stuffed in a drawer.

McDonald's is a life ruiner.

All I want is a fucking Shamrock Shake.

Sorry about the potty mouth, but it's really hard to think straight when all I can think of is that stupid life ruining minty shake.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

80 Degrees...The Perfect Temp For Fleece PJ's

Ok. I know everyone was expecting lots of quotes from this weekend. Sorry that I didn't have more of them. The truth is that I recently had a talk with her. It's something that hits me close to home myself. I have a tendency to get anxiety over little things. Things that aren't worth worrying about. When I was young that was never the case. That was a learned behavior. Just like it probably was for my Mom as well. What I am grateful for is the new acknowledgement that perhaps it's not normal, and that she may need some assistance. Perhaps it's a quality of life issue. It makes me really happy. This weekend we laughed. In fact, we laughed so hard we cried. 


Because she was complaining that it was hot in my house. The temp had gone up to 78 degrees that day, and it was a bit slow to cool off inside the house. (it was about 73) I was reluctant to put on the air because the low for the night was supposed to be in the 30's. Why bother? Right? She was super hot though. Then, I realized she was sitting on my couch with fleece pj's on. I pointed that out and we had a good laugh. The best part was...that for "modesty" she had them on, and underneath the fleece pj's she had on a SECOND set of pj's! We really laughed for a long time. Then I put on the air conditioning anyways. The fact is, I want to make her happy even if she IS wearing fleece pj's in 80 degree weather.

I want my Mom to be happy. I want her to not make these drastic leaps to the sky is falling. Up until recently I just didn't say anything. I thought that was a kindness. Now, I know that by pointing out when things are a bit over the top, she's starting to see it too. I want the best for her, and fearing everything isn't going to help anyone. 

It's not to say that I don't find some of my Mom's quirks to be a bit outlandish. It's ludicrously funny. The beauty is that now, instead of getting irritated by it, I just think it's funny. The weird things we do in my family, like peel back the foil inside of a sour cream container and leave it attached for the duration of use. Our complete inability to properly load a dishwasher. (I totally know why I can't now) Those are the kinds of things that make us a family. When Charlie gets here, I have to know how to let go. People will say and do. I have decided that the laid back seat to it all is where I am going to copilot this course. This is a journey for everyone not just me. 

As I get closer to Motherhood I think some things are becoming a bit more apparent. When you daydream about pregnancy it's wonderful...I think back to when I would push my stomach out or put a pillow under my shirt to see what it would be like. I romanticized it...the beauty of the whole "make believe" was when I could take the pillow out of my shirt and still "bend over to the front an touch ya toez." (that was an excerpt from the wildly popular song "Yeah" by Usher) Now, I know that pregnancy is hard work. This last month I have found myself on the verge of tears because my hips hurt so bad. I want to grocery shop, and take walks, and I hold back tears when I try to sit down or stand up. 

The reality of pregnancy and of child rearing is starting to set in. There is a certain point that happened somewhere between finding out I was pregnant and crossing the threshold into stretchmark town where you just have to let go. There is a point at which I begin to hurt myself by placing expectations on pregnancy, motherhood, and what the entire journey entails. Sometimes you have to realize that the ride is way more fun when you just let go, close your eyes, and jump. Stumbling thru life has gotten me in some messes, but it's also gotten me to here. What I do know is that no matter what, Chad and I can do this. The details aren't important. 

At this point, I guess that I am going to focus on just being me and enjoying the ride. It's time to let go of it all. There's no reason to control any situation. 

My house isn't going to always be clean. 

The windex is under the kitchen sink. 

I'll be in the other room laughing with my kids. 

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Man vs. Food Used To Look Good, But Now I Am So Pregnant It Makes Me Sick. This Title Has Nothing To Do With This Post.

This is a reminder to you about your last month or so of pregnancy.


I don't care about anything anymore. I want to sleep, and eat, and get this baby OUT OF ME. I have the mouth of a sailor right now. I am calling my dogs names that even I don't care to repeat. Why? Because it's getting nicer out and they go outside to bark their faces off. In turn, I have to put on shoes, and something to hide my stained t-shirt and lack of bra. Then, brave the poop landmines everywhere.

I think it's pretty awesome when people preface they are coming over by telling me to put some pants on. Pregnancy pants are made for other people. They are clearly not made for me. Yea, I got a pregnancy belly but the spandex topper is about as useful as a snazzy napper. This is why I decided that pants were not a necessary part of my day unless going out in public. When I am wearing these pants they just slide down my thighs. Before I know it there's a huge panel of pregnancy spandex exposed under my shirt (and it's usually the flesh colored spandex) so at a glance I appear to be flashing everyone my pregnant lady bits.

I'm starting to feel like the lady from What's Eating Gilbert Grape. When I hit 40 weeks instead of taking me in a car, there will be some sort of large farm equipment that will be needed to remove me from my home. I forget my belly is there and misjudge just about everything I do. I can't get into my car with my purse in front of my belly anymore or the steering wheel attacks me. Sigh.

I got "lodged" in the check out lane at the Commissary a few days ago. My belly snuck up on me. I went to try to slide around the cart...and couldn't. Then in an attempt to pull things out of the back of the cart I had to try to get INTO the actual cart. People were staring. Bag boys were laughing. I was blushing and it was a mess. It was like the Austin Powers golf cart scene but with me, in pregnancy pants, trying to push myself up so i could just stick my butt inside the cart to reach the items in the back. I can't reach the items in my cart anymore. Pretty soon I will just use the motorized carts provided at the store, and only be able to buy what fits in that cart....sooooo basically a can of tuna and a bag of bread.

I don't have a snazzy ending for this.

I am too pregnant to care.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Food, Bed, And So and So's Vagina

Food I've eaten today:
A wal-mart donut

Ok I totally just lied....I had 2 donuts. The WHOLE TIME I was eating the second one I felt sick.

Macaroni and Cheese made from scratch...I am pretty sure it's what they give you when someone dies to cushion the blow. It is amazingly good. I wish I didn't know what was in it.

I also had a salad for dinner. Mostly because I thought consuming 125% of my daily intake of saturated fat at lunch might have been a bit of overkill.

Now, I am sitting here eating applesauce right out of the jar. Why? Because I can. Past the 8 month mark I have decided everyone can suck it. I will say what I want, and sleep on my death bed.

That bed....It's like being hugged all night by George Michaels and Ryan Gosling, and we were all eating donuts. I may have been high for 11 hours or, that's just how long I slept on that bed naturally. I contemplated writing this entire post with misspelled words and terrible grammatical errors (worse than normal).

At 8 months, you get huge. The only thing left to do is succumb to the reality that can't really do much. So, food becomes a little bit more awesome. It's all I've got.

I was talking to a friend today and remembered breaking the news to my Mom I didn't want her in the room while I was giving birth. She took it kind of hard.

Truth is...I don't really like being in the same room with her for too long with clothing covering my vagina. It's safe to say that when it's uncovered I doubly don't want her in the same room. Especially after she told me this story about how the Grandma was watching the kid and the kid was in the bathroom with the Grandma while she was going, and said why do you have hair there Grandma? Then, she says to me, that means So and So doesn't have hair down there! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?!? HOW WEIRD AND GROSS!


Why is this shareable information?

Now not only do I know that So and So doesn't have hair "down there." I also know the Grandma freely pees in front of her Grandson.

What if I didn't live up to her expectations of what it should be?


I'm going to bed. Yea it's 7:40. George and Ryan have been calling me since 2.

Monday, February 7, 2011

I Get High With a Little Help From My Bed

I ordered a bed online.

Yea, it was pretty risky.

What's more risky than buying a non-returnable bed online?

Sleeping on it...according to my mother.

My bed is trying to kill me.

Look, we aren't well off. Chad is in the military. I don't work. We get by with very careful spending habits and liking what we've got. We have a baby on the way. Our last mattress? We bought them off of a very lovely woman in England. They were her kid's beds. We bought them for $100 and made them into a king size bed. We just "surprise!" moved back from England. We were supposed to have another year there, and they just randomly said hey! you are going back in a month. Get your crap together. We were spending what little we do have on travel.

Our beds were......well.......they were GREAT for the time being. They got us thru a good 7 months of being able to spread out and not have one bit of body touch the other body. The riff raff pillow was actually a bit unnecessary. Chad and I use soup cans on strings to communicate while we are both in bed now. There was NO WAY we were going back to a queen. Not with a kid on the way, and two dogs that love to sleep with us. For $100 we TOTALLY got a bargain. However, after 7 months they were clearly meant for kids. That weighed less than 150 lbs. I don't weigh less than 150 lbs. Chad certainly doesn't. They have broken down, and I actually have to climb OUT of my mattress at this point.

For Chad's 30th, our anniversary, and our Christmas (winter solstice) gift we bought this bed. It arrived today. I made the ups guy carry it in because it took extra days to get here. He had to pull the other mattresses off the box springs and put the mattress box on the bed for me. I threatened to cry if he didn't do it.

I seriously feel all bougie because I now own a memory foam bed. Yeah. I am that person. I don't brag about much that I own. I have ALWAYS wanted a memory foam bed. When you get one, you have to let it air out and decompress. In the mean time I spoke with my Mom. I am now in the middle of a small mental melt down. The bed has a bit of a "smell." It smells like latex paint. I like it. Apparently, she thinks it's toxic.

I googled the crap out of this subject. I have only found Joe Schmoe information. It seems to be a bit out there. I mean I could type in "cat microwave shoes" and things will come up. Someone actually asked if you can microwave shoes... maybe they have been sleeping on a memory foam bed and have brain damage.

Her friend has a lung condition and she said she can't own a memory foam bed due to the fumes. WTF? Now what do I do? Try to fall asleep every night on my bougie bed that is slowly killing me? Let alone the fact that I am pregnant and everything I do baby does. I guess huffing bed fumes may not be just killing me now either.

So, let's clarify. Chad is out of town right now. The bed is "airing" out for a few more hours before I go to sleep. Not only am I scared that someone is going to break in and kill me, now I have to try to fall asleep thinking that the murderer outside is actually IN my bed. Great.

Truth is, I like the way it smells. You may not see me for a few days. I will be huffing my bed until I pass out. Lucky for me I am huffing fumes on a bed made of dreams. It's magical. Seriously it's magical. Or, I am just high.

Sunday, February 6, 2011


Playboy is now making perfume? When did that happen? I thought Paris Hilton was bad enough (and I hate that I actually don't mind the way that hooker smells) Not just one type either, but 4? Wonder what they smell like. The four scents of Playboy: Daddy Issues, One Night Stand, Implants, and I'm Easy. Each scent comes complete with enough birth control pills to last 4 months. Available at Planned Parenthood, truck stops, and other places where bad choices are made.

People often say they live their life by a certain motto. When I was 4 I used to say, "You're not the boss of me." I would say that kinda stuck.

When I was in Kindergarten a kid named Bart (no joke) tried to sharpen a crayon in my ear. I spent the rest of the year teaching that kid how to write his name, and the letters of the alphabet. I was also involved in the pilot program that involved putting us in front of computers to learn to write and read. It comes as no surprise to me that as an adult I am more comfortable in front of a computer. If you had to choose between a crayon in the ear, or a computer the choice is pretty obvious.

Have I ever told you why I hate birds? I hate birds. Birds are gross. I hate birds.

When I was really young my Mom took me to the Akron Zoo. It was really cold when we went. Like, I had on a white winter parka. I looked like a little Eskimo. With blond hair. And pale skin. And in Ohio.  So I guess not on the Eskimo thing. But, it had the fuzzy circle around the face and was pure white. I loved that jacket. I felt like a little Zsa Zsa Gabore in that coat. So my Mom decided to invite along one of her old friends to come with us. We will call her Annie. Annie was a hoarder with a pituitary disorder.  I am NOT joking. She was like 6'4 and built like a linebacker. She scared me. She was a school teacher. I felt bad for her kids. She had a serious case of man hands and halitosis too. She used to laugh at me. She would say she was laughing with me, but I didn't like it one bit. I am four lady, quit mocking me. So, we get some little snack from the food stand and we sit at this wooden picnic bench in the middle of the zoo. There are no leaves on the trees and it's all eerie and spooky. There are crows everywhere. I think there was a murder in the trees around there. Anything that calls their "neighborhood" a MURDER is creepy. So, I am eating my snack and when I eat, I get into my food. I ended up falling thru the picnic table. Annie started laughing. That made my Mom laugh. Then, ALL THE CROWS started cawing. The crows were laughing at me. My coat got mud on it. It ruined the coat and animals and people were laughing at me.

Annie is still a hoarder.

I still hate birds.

Saturday, February 5, 2011


I feel the need to come clean about something. It's kind of embarrassing after all these years. The fact of the matter is, I am almost 30 and I think it's time I just admit it. There's no easy way to say it either. No way to soften this crushing blow to my self-esteem and change your world view.

I don't understand football.

I don't care.

That's why I don't understand it. I was in the band in high school. I cheered when everyone else did, and took the field at halftime. The game itself was irrelevant. I had flirting to do in the most sexy band uniform you can think of. Royal purple with a big old polar bear on it. Can't forget the white nursing shoes that I had to special order because my feet are abnormally small. (seriously, they are like elf feet)

There you have it. I am ashamed. Wait, no I'm not. It's a sport that consists of 4-5 minutes of ACTUAL movement, and a whole hell of a lot of standing around looking like douches. It's a sport where you can be a rapist and the ring leader of a dog fighting ring and still be successful. It's a sport that wears a TON of padding. I understand you run at each other. You also do that in soccer and rugby and you don't see those people with layer upon layer of weird sweaty pads and shiny spandex.

I am renaming spandex "spandew" because that's the reaction I have every time I see someone in it. It is a common decency rule that you cover your crotch if you are wearing leggings or spandex. I think those dudes need some sort of tassels that dangle...maybe like the Scottish that have that little lambskin pouch. Football players can put their "performance enhancing drugs" and their brass knuckles in there.

Back to more reasons I hate football. It's beyond boring. When it is on, it lulls me to sleep. The monotonous tone of the announcer that is going on and on about where some special flag of doom was thrown. The drawing on the screen with magic yellow pen scribbles that consists of circles, x's, lines, and arrows. Jazz it up or use your damn finger like a weather forecaster. I mean really. Have we not come up with a better way to explain something other than scribbles? Football is tedious. I have a short attention span. There is way too much standing around scratching stuff and not nearly enough running around chasing stuff. It's basically like chewing your food and spitting it out. Never getting the satisfaction of swallowing it or being full. (I could have gone the sex route here, but decided to keep it clean for once)

There is a dude that has one job. ONE. He doesn't do anything else for the rest of the time but sit there on the bench with a stupid look on his face. The kicker. His job never changes. He KICKS the ball over the post. THE END. If that's your ONE job, dude seriously you shouldn't miss. If I go to Starbucks I expect them to be able to make me coffee. It's their job.

I hate how "into it" men get. They scream at the TV and the world doesn't exist. I don't do that during the "Bad Girls Club" and there's a hell of a lot more action going on there than in a football match. Yea, I called it a match. I'm going balls to the wall. Let's talk about the time/space continuum that goes on in a football meet. They start a clock, and then STOP it every time they stand around to scratch. It's beyond frustrating to me. It's basically the longest running game of "Simon Says" ever.

I suggest some changes to the "sport." Start the clock, and then DON'T stop it. Let it go. That's how clocks work. Then, don't stop moving until the clock runs out. If said "professional" gets tired, send someone else in for him. Take off the pads. Let's see how tough you are then. They can keep the helmets on. Let's face it, most of them should keep their faces covered. The cops are probably looking for them.

There you have it. I hate football.

Happy Superbowl!

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Condensed Soup Love Story

It's hard to believe that I have known my husband since Sophomore year biology. He had Harry Potter glasses, and I had man shoulders and a glitter addiction. That makes it 15 years that I have known my husband. More than half my life. He was quiet, and I was an angry 15 year old. We didn't talk much at that point. Probably because of my complete hatred of all things at that school.

Senior year rolls around, and I decided Chem II sounded like a good idea. If it weren't for that illogical decision I don't know if Chad and I would be together. He had a girlfriend, and I had boyfriends, but he always walked me to second period. ALWAYS. I had such a big crush on him, but it seemed unobtainable.

We made out at "The Boot" in front of his girlfriend the summer after we graduated from high school.

He came to see me at Kent. Once. I kicked him out at 9 AM because my Dad was coming to take me to our monthly father daughter breakfast, and that would have been awkward.

I went to see him at OSU. I stared at him while he slept. I couldn't sleep due to the BLARING Radiohead music playing on his computer all night that he swore he wouldn't be able to sleep without it being on.

We talked online all the time.

He was still just out of my reach. Never fully able to commit.

I was driving on 43 when I got the phone call that he had joined the military. I didn't have the response he expected. I thought it wasn't a bad idea.

Then came the years in between. He wrote to me from boot camp. I still have those handwritten letters. How could I have been so blind? I didn't realize he was trying to tell me he had feelings for me.

He left for Iraq.

I got engaged.

I told him off a few times in between. I believe my words to him were "shit or get off the pot." When it came to us. I kept it classy.

He would call. I would blow him off. He would write, I would ignore it.

I was mad at him.

All those years.

My life had started to spiral out of control. I was in a horrible situation. I was worthless. I was useless. I was beat up. I was destroyed, and had succumbed to infinite chaos and turmoil.

His "last contact ever" email came around that time. He wanted me in his life. I couldn't understand why.  I tried to block out the letter and thought to myself he was too late.

I wrote him back a week later. I left my fiance. I took my dog, and packed my Honda as full as I could and left. That cliche "I never looked back" fits here.

February 11th will make 4 years clean. Chad helped to pull me from those depths.

A week before Chad came home on leave from Iraq, "to see where things went with us" he got shot. Sort of. He was caught in a fire fight, and a bullet went right thru the ear piece of his helmet.

When he came back for leave it was like a fairy tale. I never knew what love was until Chad. We've loved each other longer than either of us realized.

Our love doesn't give up. We are kind, and honest. We stop at nothing to be together, and we show compassion, understanding, and support in our everyday together. We watched each other grow up. I love spending our weekends grocery shopping, and laughing at little things. I love how we sit and watch Bones together at 7 PM.

Chad has taught me how to love myself.

Chad, today is our day. No one else can interfere. That was why we did it the way we did. This is a day to celebrate each other and the remarkable story we have together. Thank you for being you. Just the way you are. I love you.

Happy Anniversary.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

A Purging

So, I don't like to complain about pregnancy too much. It took us 2 very long years of heartache and trying to get pregnant. It's not all puppies and rainbows when you are "trying" for that long. We wanted a child so much. We still do. I know about how hard it can be to try to conceive, and what it's like to have all the ups and downs. So, I guess that I try not to talk too much about the crap part of pregnancy.

Let's be honest though. This has NOT been an easy pregnancy. I've had thyroid issues, the beeties scare, throwing up on people, depression, and a problem in my back that has left me bed bound for a few days. I am in the last trimester. It's where things become more real. More "Oh SHIT this is ONLY going to get WORSE."

I just want my body back. Not like How Stella Got Her Groove Back kind of "body." I just want to be able to bend over. I hate that I haven't cleaned my floors the way I would like to in over a month or so. Truth be told, I don't own a mop because that's not how I was taught to clean a floor. I do it on my hands and knees. At 7 months and beyond, that's a laughable task.

I have enough estrogen in my body right now that I legitimately could probably rip a New York city phone book in half. When I am in public and people don't move out of my way, I tell them to. Not because I am bitchy but because, of the amount of effort it would take for me to maneuver around them. I'm miserable. I am at the brink of tears indefinitely, and a side station meltdown seems like nothing in comparison to this.

I am always hot now. My thermostat is now set at 63. I am wearing shorts and t-shirts. I would just wear a bikini, but in all honesty, I hate the way I look. My skin looks like hell. It's all weird and dry and I have break outs that rival most teens. I LOOK very pregnant. I know it's "beautiful." It's "beautiful" when it's someone elses body. My hips have widened, and my belly is really big. I don't feel like ME anymore. Just this oompa loompa of pregnancy misery.

For those that have never been pregnant, you are pregnant for about 10 months not 9. I still have a solid 2 months left in this state. I can't take criticism, I am uber critical, I can't calm down, and I just want to bend over and dance to my "jams" in the living room. I feel trapped in this body. I can't exercise the way I want to because it could harm baby. It hurts to do a lot of exercise stuff too. He's getting big in there too. He's starting to really move and push, and kinda hurt me a little bit. What scares me the most is that it's only going to get worse.

Keep in mind, if you provoke me during this stage in the game, I am keeping tabs. I have given more than fair warning. It's not fair, and it's not nice. I want to thank a few people for something though.

Annette: I don't know how you do what you do. You have been there for me from the start. I know I am a lot to take. I don't know how you are so easy going and non-judgemental. You are really a true friend. I don't know how I deserve you. Thank you for your patience with me in my particular state. I don't know where you find all that patience and kindness, but it's about the only thing that's getting me through this stage of my pregnancy. Thank you for being the soft place to land, and letting me say whatever horrible shit comes to mind. People like you are once in a lifetime. Just know that I DO recognize that, and can't wait to continue growing OLD going on vacations to destinations with huge roosters and cab rides of death....and $10 limo rides where I insult the driver the entire ride.

Aron: You've been my comic relief. I have been able to find you always on when I just needed a good laugh. You've helped to keep me from really losing it. Thanks for making fun of stupid people with me to help me forget about what a horrible hot mess I am right now. There will always be a dead cat for prosperity at the top of my winter solstice tree just for you.