Today is my last day of work. Well, here anyway. Yee ha!
We had a team breakfast this morning, wherein we all ate coffeecake and looked at slides, that I'm sure contained important business information, but nobody paid attention to them. We just directed our eyes towards the board, and thought about how much fat was in the doughnut we were chewing.
Being the good and dedicated employee I am, I stopped at Panera this morning to buy a coffeecake to bring in for everyone. I am so nice. I had Jenna with me, so as I was loading her into the carseat, I set the coffeecake on the roof of my car--I'm sure you already see where this is going. I got Jenna buckled in, hopped in my car, and took off. I went through the parking lot, so as to avoid getting on the freeway, then turned on to the feeder road. As I accelerated, I noticed a white box flying off the back of my car. SHIT! It was the coffeecake. Of course. Once so precariously perched upon the roof of my car, it was now gracing the feeder road of SH249. Looking in my rearview mirror, I assessed the damage: no coffeecake on feeder road, box seems to be intact, hmmmm...So I did what any other crafty girl would have done, I took my first right, drove through a parking lot, and waited to re-enter the feeder road--right by my coffeecake.
As I sat in the right-hand lane, waiting to turn, I chanted, "Please don't run over it! Please don't run over it!" to all the passing cars. And no one did. People, this box made it through morning traffic, without a scratch! When it was my turn, I threw the car in Park, ran out into the street, and grabbed my coffeecake.
As I drove Jenna to the sitter's, I inspected the contents. Everything was fine. That box had made a clean leap off my roof, landed right-side up, and the coffeecake never knew what happened.
Got to work, set the coffeecake on the table, and everybody ate it up.
Moral of the story: Panera makes durable coffeecake.
May 27, 2005
May 26, 2005
Sorting through the trash
Here I sit, in my mostly-empty office, reminiscing about the "good times." Wait, there were no good times, who the hell am I kidding?! Thank God I'm getting outta this shithole while I can still breathe!
Out of everybody here, you know who I'm going to miss the most? My vendors. YES, vendors. Isn't that sad? I mean, I'll miss the usual bullshit-sessions of a few others, but really, it's not a big loss. It's rather depressing when you'll miss your vendors, but not the people that actually work FOR the company you do. Pathetic. The one person I would be sad to leave is married to Angel, so he doesn't count. I will, however, miss my weekly coffee, which Angel sends through him. (Oh, coffee-boy, how I'll miss your deliveries! That's okay, I will just make up for it when i'm at your house terrorizing you.)
And thank GOD I'm getting away from the gross guy aka I-think-I'm-a-playa. He's really creeping me out lately, and I'm totally at the point where looking at him makes me gag. Yuck. Stupid ass. After he's in my office, I feel compelled to let off a roach bomb and Lysol the place. If I never see him again, it'll be too soon. And boob-looker...whew! I totally got away scot-free with that--he stopped by my office yesterday to say goodbye, and I anchored myself to my desk and typed gibberish. He didn't even touch me--I bet $10 on that one, but hey, I'm not collecting. I'm nice like that.
This has been real, it's been fun, but it hasn't been real fun.
Goodbye doc group! Feel free to hold a candlelight vigil at my ex-office door.
Out of everybody here, you know who I'm going to miss the most? My vendors. YES, vendors. Isn't that sad? I mean, I'll miss the usual bullshit-sessions of a few others, but really, it's not a big loss. It's rather depressing when you'll miss your vendors, but not the people that actually work FOR the company you do. Pathetic. The one person I would be sad to leave is married to Angel, so he doesn't count. I will, however, miss my weekly coffee, which Angel sends through him. (Oh, coffee-boy, how I'll miss your deliveries! That's okay, I will just make up for it when i'm at your house terrorizing you.)
And thank GOD I'm getting away from the gross guy aka I-think-I'm-a-playa. He's really creeping me out lately, and I'm totally at the point where looking at him makes me gag. Yuck. Stupid ass. After he's in my office, I feel compelled to let off a roach bomb and Lysol the place. If I never see him again, it'll be too soon. And boob-looker...whew! I totally got away scot-free with that--he stopped by my office yesterday to say goodbye, and I anchored myself to my desk and typed gibberish. He didn't even touch me--I bet $10 on that one, but hey, I'm not collecting. I'm nice like that.
This has been real, it's been fun, but it hasn't been real fun.
Goodbye doc group! Feel free to hold a candlelight vigil at my ex-office door.
I'm an Auntie!
My new niece was born yesterday (5/25). She weighed 9lbs, 4oz! Yay, precious baby!! We're so happy to have you in our family!
May 25, 2005
10:35am Central
Scott just called. He's on his way to Bastrop, to play golf with one of his friends. They saw a wreck. An 18-wheeler and a Yukon. Collision. Rolled down an embankment. Scott and his friend stopped and ran out to help. Yukon-man was dead. 2 carseats in the back, pics of his wife and children strewn about.
I know that a family has been changed even before they know that daddy was in an accident.
Pray for that family.
I know that a family has been changed even before they know that daddy was in an accident.
Pray for that family.
"Mommy" post
There is something so entirely delicious about babies. This morning, I just wanted to hold Claire tightly and smell her babyness. One day, I will bottle that smell and make millions. She's starting to lose that smell, and I find that loss traumatizing. She's it. She's my baby. Once that smell leaves, I will be left with no replacement baby-scent. It's so sad. That sweet, delicious smell will be replaced with her "stinky-toddler aroma" and then go straight to "sweaty kid." It's inevitable.
Her chubby little feet, her dimpled hands, those pudgy cheeks--she's edible. Completely edible. I want to take a big bite outta her--my little sweet potato.
Except for last night. Last night, she had poop on her hand. That was gross. And I certainly didn't want to bite her hand then.
Her chubby little feet, her dimpled hands, those pudgy cheeks--she's edible. Completely edible. I want to take a big bite outta her--my little sweet potato.
Except for last night. Last night, she had poop on her hand. That was gross. And I certainly didn't want to bite her hand then.
Today's lesson
You hear: "Mommeeee! Putt-in eye en bapf! Putt-in en bapftupp! Hewoah! Hewhoa ittle ke-ey! Hewhoa!"
Literal translation: "Mommy! Punkin lay in bath! Punkin in bathtub! Hello! Hello little kitty! Hello!"
Means: "Mother! Our feline domesticus, whom we have dubbed, 'Punkin', is reclining in the garden tub of your master bath! Yes, it's true, Punkin is lying in the bathtub! Greetings! Greetings small feline! Greetings!"
Literal translation: "Mommy! Punkin lay in bath! Punkin in bathtub! Hello! Hello little kitty! Hello!"
Means: "Mother! Our feline domesticus, whom we have dubbed, 'Punkin', is reclining in the garden tub of your master bath! Yes, it's true, Punkin is lying in the bathtub! Greetings! Greetings small feline! Greetings!"
May 24, 2005
So much fun
Last night, was gymnastics night. Oh yes, we're still going--still torturing those poor, helpless, young, 20-somethings with the nightmare that they'll end up pregnant and produce a child that is just like Jenna. It's fun to see raw fear--it's just so rare to see it every week. Call me lucky.
The night started out reasonably well. We met our very close friends (and by "close" I mean that if I were in 6th grade, I'd say they were "our very best friends, ever! Because they're 2 good + 2 be = 4gotten!")at a fun restaurant for dinner. So, we got to eat, chitchat, watch their two children behave, and watch mine terrorize the place. It's always so much fun. Did you know that a 1.5-year old, that has very limited speech, can clearly (and I mean CLEARLY) scream, "NO!" and "I WANT MOM!" so loudly that it a)makes your ears bleed and b)causes everyone to duck under their table, because surely, this is the precursor to the bomb that we've all been warned about--please get under your table, and fold your hands over your head. Regardless, we all were able to eat, unscathed, and return to our vehicles for a pleasant ride home. No casualties=a good night.
I had to hurry up and get Jenna in her leotard for gymnatics. The two very wrong words in that sentence are "had," because with her, if you "have" to do something, it's critical for her to disobey your every whim; and "hurry"--with a child that has to be forewarned that you're having chicken for dinner instead of porkchops, 6 hours before dinner or she'll have a meltdown, it's just no good. But, alas, we were out of the house in 15 minutes, which is a miracle for our household.
I took advantage of the drive to gymnastics to remind Jenna, for the bazillionth time, HOW to be a good girl at gymnastics. I go through the whole schpiel, beginning with "sit on your dot and listen to your teacher," and end with the usual, "blunt trauma, sharp objects in the eyes, and calling on your henchmen are totally not acceptable." You know, the usual. What always gets me, is she listens SO intently, and then, when I ask, "Understand?" She either says, "huh?" or "Can I listen to my music?" This kid can tune me out like an AM radio. It's amazing.
Gymnastics, at first, seems to go well. Then, Jenna realized that HEY! she's at gymnastics; and WHOA! there are several things that I'm not supposed to be doing; and YEAH! the coaches are too slow for me! Those thoughts led to the inexplicable explosion of energy that she gets when she's excited. The only warning signs are her shifty eyes, and her tongue slowly creeping out of her mouth. 2 seconds later, we're in full-blown, Michael Jordan action--with the high-jumping, and the slamming, and the tongue hanging out. For about 5 minutes, I ignored her. I ignored that she had left her class, and was hanging upside down, unattended, on the parellel bars. I ignored her when she ran to the foam pit and jumped in. However, when she got onto the trampoline, she had to be stopped. I mean, she could get hurt, with all the jumping, and the bouncing, and the flailing of her 3-year-old limbs. So, I nonchalantly sauntered over to the trampoline, then, much like a lion, leapt over the small wall, and tackled her. She never saw it coming. I am sly like a fox.
I sat her in front of me, had her put her hands on my shoulders, and look me in the eyes: "You have two choices: 1. You can go sit with your group, and listen to your teacher, or you can 2. Go home. That's it. Stay here and behave, or go home. It's up to you." Thankfully, she chose number 1, because honestly, I pay $60 a month for gymnastics, and I'm SO not into throwing away money. So, she scuttlebutted her way back to her group, and I spent the next 5 minutes slowly moving further and further away from her--until I was back with the other parents, who quickly offer me sighing-smiles, pats on the back, and knowing glances, all the while, thinking, "thank GOD that's not MY kid!"
Regardless of the drama, Jenna was as perfect as they come for the rest of class. She listened, she performed, she was great. She got a stamp from the teacher, and I bought her a Gatorade. Blue. Because blue's her favorite color. One of her coaches walked up to me and said, "She did REALLY good with me today!" and I said, "She did. She DID do really well," and Jenna looked at me and I looked at her, then I looked at her teacher and said, "That's because she's a good girl, and a fantastic kid," and I smiled. Jenna and I skipped out to the car.
Man, I love that kid! Have I mentioned that before? I LOVE THAT KID!
The night started out reasonably well. We met our very close friends (and by "close" I mean that if I were in 6th grade, I'd say they were "our very best friends, ever! Because they're 2 good + 2 be = 4gotten!")at a fun restaurant for dinner. So, we got to eat, chitchat, watch their two children behave, and watch mine terrorize the place. It's always so much fun. Did you know that a 1.5-year old, that has very limited speech, can clearly (and I mean CLEARLY) scream, "NO!" and "I WANT MOM!" so loudly that it a)makes your ears bleed and b)causes everyone to duck under their table, because surely, this is the precursor to the bomb that we've all been warned about--please get under your table, and fold your hands over your head. Regardless, we all were able to eat, unscathed, and return to our vehicles for a pleasant ride home. No casualties=a good night.
I had to hurry up and get Jenna in her leotard for gymnatics. The two very wrong words in that sentence are "had," because with her, if you "have" to do something, it's critical for her to disobey your every whim; and "hurry"--with a child that has to be forewarned that you're having chicken for dinner instead of porkchops, 6 hours before dinner or she'll have a meltdown, it's just no good. But, alas, we were out of the house in 15 minutes, which is a miracle for our household.
I took advantage of the drive to gymnastics to remind Jenna, for the bazillionth time, HOW to be a good girl at gymnastics. I go through the whole schpiel, beginning with "sit on your dot and listen to your teacher," and end with the usual, "blunt trauma, sharp objects in the eyes, and calling on your henchmen are totally not acceptable." You know, the usual. What always gets me, is she listens SO intently, and then, when I ask, "Understand?" She either says, "huh?" or "Can I listen to my music?" This kid can tune me out like an AM radio. It's amazing.
Gymnastics, at first, seems to go well. Then, Jenna realized that HEY! she's at gymnastics; and WHOA! there are several things that I'm not supposed to be doing; and YEAH! the coaches are too slow for me! Those thoughts led to the inexplicable explosion of energy that she gets when she's excited. The only warning signs are her shifty eyes, and her tongue slowly creeping out of her mouth. 2 seconds later, we're in full-blown, Michael Jordan action--with the high-jumping, and the slamming, and the tongue hanging out. For about 5 minutes, I ignored her. I ignored that she had left her class, and was hanging upside down, unattended, on the parellel bars. I ignored her when she ran to the foam pit and jumped in. However, when she got onto the trampoline, she had to be stopped. I mean, she could get hurt, with all the jumping, and the bouncing, and the flailing of her 3-year-old limbs. So, I nonchalantly sauntered over to the trampoline, then, much like a lion, leapt over the small wall, and tackled her. She never saw it coming. I am sly like a fox.
I sat her in front of me, had her put her hands on my shoulders, and look me in the eyes: "You have two choices: 1. You can go sit with your group, and listen to your teacher, or you can 2. Go home. That's it. Stay here and behave, or go home. It's up to you." Thankfully, she chose number 1, because honestly, I pay $60 a month for gymnastics, and I'm SO not into throwing away money. So, she scuttlebutted her way back to her group, and I spent the next 5 minutes slowly moving further and further away from her--until I was back with the other parents, who quickly offer me sighing-smiles, pats on the back, and knowing glances, all the while, thinking, "thank GOD that's not MY kid!"
Regardless of the drama, Jenna was as perfect as they come for the rest of class. She listened, she performed, she was great. She got a stamp from the teacher, and I bought her a Gatorade. Blue. Because blue's her favorite color. One of her coaches walked up to me and said, "She did REALLY good with me today!" and I said, "She did. She DID do really well," and Jenna looked at me and I looked at her, then I looked at her teacher and said, "That's because she's a good girl, and a fantastic kid," and I smiled. Jenna and I skipped out to the car.
Man, I love that kid! Have I mentioned that before? I LOVE THAT KID!
If I had a nickel...
for every time someone has said, "Here's my personal email account" under their breath, I'd be rich.
It seems that not everyone who works here is as happy with their job as they seem.
It seems that not everyone who works here is as happy with their job as they seem.
May 23, 2005
Random sticky note
Are you the person who left this cake in the break room?
If you are, please email me, because I want to (a) marry you, or at least (b) get the recipe from you.
I think I love you.
Stephanie Townsend
If you are, please email me, because I want to (a) marry you, or at least (b) get the recipe from you.
I think I love you.
Stephanie Townsend
May 20, 2005
Moving on up...
I quit my jo-ob, I quit my jo-ob! la la la la la!
Here it is, quick and dirty:
Got a phone call.
People flew in and took me out to dinner.
Job offer.
Bye bye company I work for now that doesn't pay me what I'm worth.
Am I worth it? YES, I AM!
Here it is, quick and dirty:
Got a phone call.
People flew in and took me out to dinner.
Job offer.
Bye bye company I work for now that doesn't pay me what I'm worth.
Am I worth it? YES, I AM!
May 19, 2005
Dear Snack Machine Filler-Upper Man,
For years now, I've let you go on your merry way, filling up the first floor snack machine with delicacies such as "Double-Barrel Beef Sticks," "Mrs. Freshley's Chocolate Mound," and "Tom's Dunkin' Sticks." Rarely, rarely was there ever a treat in that machine that caught my eye. Well, I'll admit, I have a liking for the coconut doughnut gems. They're my favorite. Anyways, like I said, RARELY have you tempted my coins with your flashy-packaged snack food. Until today. Today, as I microwaved my Healthy Choice meal, I glanced over to the snack machine. Whilst my lunch bubbles and boils in the microwave, I like to go make small-talk with the snacks. You know, just to see how those "Chili-Cheese Fritos" are doing, or to tell the "Hot Fries" not to give up, that SOMEONE will certainly drop sixty cents to indulge in their spicy goodness. However, today I was taken aback. Apparently, YOU, Mr. Snack Machine Filler-Upper Man, have a conspiracy against me. A conspiracy, if you will, against my weight-loss plan. There, in row C, occupying slots C1, C2, C3, and C4, was an obvious attack on my person.
First, in C1: A Snickers bar. Packed with peanuts, it's just so satisfying. Especially since they're celebrating their 75th anniversary! How do I turn away from such a celebration?!
Second, in C2: A Three Musketeers. This is a candy-bar like none other--it has 75% less fat than the leading candy bar! Did you hear that?! 75% less fat than the LEADING candy bar! I'm not sure which candy bar's in the lead, but it has a lot more fat than the Three Musketeers!
Third, in C3: Reese's Pieces. These bring a tear to my eye. When I see these, I just want to "phone home," and remind everyone that "I'll be right there." I also have a great need to create a path with them, then gingerly pick them up, using only three of my fingers.
Last, but definitely not least, in C4: Kit Kat. Please, won't someone just gimme a break? Gimme a break! Break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar! I feel compelled to break each bar away from the other, and nibble off the chocolate ridge that it leaves, saving the wafery-goodness until the end.
So you see, by using row C, columns 1 through 4 to house my favorite snacks, you may corrupt both me and my diet. Oh, I'm holding on strong now, Snack Machine Man, but I have loose change on my desk, and it's begging to be put to use.
In closing, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, and I ne'er shall revoke my hate until you stock the entire machine with either disgusting fare, or healthy snacks.
I hate you, still,
Stephanie E. Townsend
First, in C1: A Snickers bar. Packed with peanuts, it's just so satisfying. Especially since they're celebrating their 75th anniversary! How do I turn away from such a celebration?!
Second, in C2: A Three Musketeers. This is a candy-bar like none other--it has 75% less fat than the leading candy bar! Did you hear that?! 75% less fat than the LEADING candy bar! I'm not sure which candy bar's in the lead, but it has a lot more fat than the Three Musketeers!
Third, in C3: Reese's Pieces. These bring a tear to my eye. When I see these, I just want to "phone home," and remind everyone that "I'll be right there." I also have a great need to create a path with them, then gingerly pick them up, using only three of my fingers.
Last, but definitely not least, in C4: Kit Kat. Please, won't someone just gimme a break? Gimme a break! Break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar! I feel compelled to break each bar away from the other, and nibble off the chocolate ridge that it leaves, saving the wafery-goodness until the end.
So you see, by using row C, columns 1 through 4 to house my favorite snacks, you may corrupt both me and my diet. Oh, I'm holding on strong now, Snack Machine Man, but I have loose change on my desk, and it's begging to be put to use.
In closing, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, and I ne'er shall revoke my hate until you stock the entire machine with either disgusting fare, or healthy snacks.
I hate you, still,
Stephanie E. Townsend
A List...
of things I would like to have. Right now.
1. A Twinkie. A real one. Not one of those "low-fat-I'm-pretending-I'm-a-Twinkie-but-I'm-really-just-a-fluffy-imposter." I looooove Twinkies.
2. Movie popcorn. No butter. Lots of salt. The BIG bucket. And I'm not sharing.
3. Diet Cherry Coke. This Diet Vanilla crap just isn't cutting it today.
4. Chocolate cake. The "pudding in the mix" variety. With chocolate frosting.
5. My sanity. I've just spent about 3 minutes, in between number 4 and number 5, thinking about Twinkies and their absolute deliciousness.
Okay, that's it.
ETA: No, wait. I forgot one more thing: A Lion Bar. If you don't know what a Lion Bar is, then you're just not living.
1. A Twinkie. A real one. Not one of those "low-fat-I'm-pretending-I'm-a-Twinkie-but-I'm-really-just-a-fluffy-imposter." I looooove Twinkies.
2. Movie popcorn. No butter. Lots of salt. The BIG bucket. And I'm not sharing.
3. Diet Cherry Coke. This Diet Vanilla crap just isn't cutting it today.
4. Chocolate cake. The "pudding in the mix" variety. With chocolate frosting.
5. My sanity. I've just spent about 3 minutes, in between number 4 and number 5, thinking about Twinkies and their absolute deliciousness.
Okay, that's it.
ETA: No, wait. I forgot one more thing: A Lion Bar. If you don't know what a Lion Bar is, then you're just not living.
Pandora's box
Had my regular, monthly appointment with the head shrink yesterday. Everything's great. Everything's under control. I was making a random comment and he looks at me and says, "Wow. You're really funny, aren't you? I've never seen this side of you."
Welcome to the dark side.
Welcome to the dark side.
May 18, 2005
Rambling
Last night, while trying to get the chicks to sleep, my sister called. So, once again, I was forced to grow another set of arms. Kid 1 in bed? Check. Kid 2 in bed? Check. But alas, it was not meant to be that easy:
Hey Nan! What's up? Yea, I'm just putting the girls to bed. Jenna, get back in bed. I mean it! Yeah, I watched it. Get back in bed! Bo is so great. Clive Owen basically said that he'd be signing him on his label. Clairey,don't cry. I'm not yelling at her, just raising my voice. Get in bed. He sang his last song accapella. Nothing but the spotlight on him. Clairey, get in bed, it's okay. No music or anything...it was great. Jenna. In bed. NOW. Eh, she's alright. I think tonight was her last night. Claire, do you want your bink? Yeah, I think she'll be cut next. Where's Danny? I can't believe you missed it. Jenna, No, you don't have to pee. Get in bed.
The chicks FINALLY fell asleep, which left me and Nan to talk about important stuff, and our deepest and darkest wishes, like:
-No more war
-World peace
-Good-smelling poop and farts
All of those are out there, but the way things are going, the last one is probably gonna happen before the other two. And that's not a bad thing. I mean, seriously, it's kinda out there, but isn't that a great thing to wish for? All those times when you have to squeeze your butt cheeks so tight, because you're in a public place and you don't want to let out a stinker. Now, if they smelled good, you could just let it go (and hope it was silent). Next thing you know, someone asks, "Is there a bakery around here? I smell cookies!" or, if you had the "floral" scented poo-air, you may hear someone say, "Wow, someone's wearing some nice perfume!"
Wouldn't life be so much easier?
Hey Nan! What's up? Yea, I'm just putting the girls to bed. Jenna, get back in bed. I mean it! Yeah, I watched it. Get back in bed! Bo is so great. Clive Owen basically said that he'd be signing him on his label. Clairey,don't cry. I'm not yelling at her, just raising my voice. Get in bed. He sang his last song accapella. Nothing but the spotlight on him. Clairey, get in bed, it's okay. No music or anything...it was great. Jenna. In bed. NOW. Eh, she's alright. I think tonight was her last night. Claire, do you want your bink? Yeah, I think she'll be cut next. Where's Danny? I can't believe you missed it. Jenna, No, you don't have to pee. Get in bed.
The chicks FINALLY fell asleep, which left me and Nan to talk about important stuff, and our deepest and darkest wishes, like:
-No more war
-World peace
-Good-smelling poop and farts
All of those are out there, but the way things are going, the last one is probably gonna happen before the other two. And that's not a bad thing. I mean, seriously, it's kinda out there, but isn't that a great thing to wish for? All those times when you have to squeeze your butt cheeks so tight, because you're in a public place and you don't want to let out a stinker. Now, if they smelled good, you could just let it go (and hope it was silent). Next thing you know, someone asks, "Is there a bakery around here? I smell cookies!" or, if you had the "floral" scented poo-air, you may hear someone say, "Wow, someone's wearing some nice perfume!"
Wouldn't life be so much easier?
May 17, 2005
Today's ensemble
Today, Jenna is wearing a tie-dyed tank top, jean shorts, and Uggs.
It was 630am...do YOU want to fight with a three-year old who MUST wear her boots because the BOOTS ARE SO COOL and she LOVES THE BOOTS so she HAS TO WEAR THE BOOTS? Didn't think so.
It was 630am...do YOU want to fight with a three-year old who MUST wear her boots because the BOOTS ARE SO COOL and she LOVES THE BOOTS so she HAS TO WEAR THE BOOTS? Didn't think so.
Who's Russell, she said, and smiled in her special way...
Do you guys remember that song? "Who's Johnny?" 80s flashback, pardon me. Anyways, I just read another blog that reminded me of Russell. "Who's Russell?" you ask. Well, Russell is my boyfriend. He's been my boyfriend for, oh gosh, somewhere in the realm of 13 years. Definitely on the side, as I'm married, with children.
Scott knows about Russell, and often brings him up in conversation.
"Where'd you go for lunch today?"
"I just met some friends at Willie's."
"Was Russell there?"
"But, of course."
Russell always 'would have.' As in, "You did'nt get me anything for Valentine's Day? Russell would have," and "Today's Tuesday! You didn't get me anything? Russell would have." You know, like that.
I'm not sure exactly where I picked up Russell. It's not like it's a common name or anything, unless you're talking about a dog. The only thing I can think of, is that in middle school, there was a set of twins named Russell and Ryan. We shared the same birthdate, and were born at the same time. In 6th grade, that pretty much means that you're some kind of star-crossed best friends, so they were part of my life for a long while. Anyways, I must have been thinking about them the day Scott and I got in a little high-school tiff. I was 17, so Lord knows what we were arguing about. Probably something like why the cafeteria's Crispitos were so much better than the steak fingers. Hello...one's meant for cheese-dipping, and one's meant for gravy-dipping. Cheese always wins. Anyways, after our lunch squabble, I told him that I would just go to prom with someone else. Someone that treated me right. "Who?" he asked.
"Oh, I have lots of other guys that would take me."
"Really? Who?"
"Russell."
"Russell?"
"Yeah. Russell. He's my boyfriend, and he's going to take me to prom."
Enter Russell. Never to exit again. Whenever I get angry with Scott, I always threaten him with Russell. Whenever Scott gets full of me, he says, "Why don't you go bug Russell for a while?" It's all good. Russell: my back-up, imaginary man. Every girl should have one.
I'm sure one of my girls will take Russell to their prom.
Scott knows about Russell, and often brings him up in conversation.
"Where'd you go for lunch today?"
"I just met some friends at Willie's."
"Was Russell there?"
"But, of course."
Russell always 'would have.' As in, "You did'nt get me anything for Valentine's Day? Russell would have," and "Today's Tuesday! You didn't get me anything? Russell would have." You know, like that.
I'm not sure exactly where I picked up Russell. It's not like it's a common name or anything, unless you're talking about a dog. The only thing I can think of, is that in middle school, there was a set of twins named Russell and Ryan. We shared the same birthdate, and were born at the same time. In 6th grade, that pretty much means that you're some kind of star-crossed best friends, so they were part of my life for a long while. Anyways, I must have been thinking about them the day Scott and I got in a little high-school tiff. I was 17, so Lord knows what we were arguing about. Probably something like why the cafeteria's Crispitos were so much better than the steak fingers. Hello...one's meant for cheese-dipping, and one's meant for gravy-dipping. Cheese always wins. Anyways, after our lunch squabble, I told him that I would just go to prom with someone else. Someone that treated me right. "Who?" he asked.
"Oh, I have lots of other guys that would take me."
"Really? Who?"
"Russell."
"Russell?"
"Yeah. Russell. He's my boyfriend, and he's going to take me to prom."
Enter Russell. Never to exit again. Whenever I get angry with Scott, I always threaten him with Russell. Whenever Scott gets full of me, he says, "Why don't you go bug Russell for a while?" It's all good. Russell: my back-up, imaginary man. Every girl should have one.
I'm sure one of my girls will take Russell to their prom.
lamma-lamma-bo-bamma
Clairey has this lamb that she sleeps with. It's actually Lambchop, from Sherry Lewis fame. She loves it. Last night, I said, "Okay, lie down with 'Lamma'," and Claire says, "No, no 'Lamma'." So I say, "Clairey, 'Lamma's' tired, lie down with Lamma and go night-night." "No," Clairey says, "Dannee."
"Lambie?"
"No. No, 'Dannee'!"
"Danny?"
"Yes, Danneeee."
"Your lamma's name is 'Danny'?"
"Yes, Danneeee."
Then, she proceeds to tell 'Danny' night-night, kiss his nose, and lie down. Of course, I was thinking, "Where the hell did she come up with that?" and I'm thinking of all the Disney movies embedded in her spongy brain, and I can't come up with one "Danny" in any of them. Scott got home from taking Jenna to gymnastics (bwhahahahahahaha...)and I said, "So, Claire decided that 'Lamma's' name isn't 'Lamma' anymore--it's 'Danny'?"
"Danny?"
"Yeah, I have no idea where she got that."
"Like, 'Uncle Danny'?"
*ding, ding* Enter music from Twilight Zone.........
Scott's Uncle Danny was killed on the USS Forrestal. Scott has a tattoo on his left arm, comemmerating his uncle. Strange, eh?
"Lambie?"
"No. No, 'Dannee'!"
"Danny?"
"Yes, Danneeee."
"Your lamma's name is 'Danny'?"
"Yes, Danneeee."
Then, she proceeds to tell 'Danny' night-night, kiss his nose, and lie down. Of course, I was thinking, "Where the hell did she come up with that?" and I'm thinking of all the Disney movies embedded in her spongy brain, and I can't come up with one "Danny" in any of them. Scott got home from taking Jenna to gymnastics (bwhahahahahahaha...)and I said, "So, Claire decided that 'Lamma's' name isn't 'Lamma' anymore--it's 'Danny'?"
"Danny?"
"Yeah, I have no idea where she got that."
"Like, 'Uncle Danny'?"
*ding, ding* Enter music from Twilight Zone.........
Scott's Uncle Danny was killed on the USS Forrestal. Scott has a tattoo on his left arm, comemmerating his uncle. Strange, eh?
May 16, 2005
Pomp and more pomp
My smart, best-friend cajoled me into leaving my kids with her on Saturday rather than taking them to my graduation. After sitting in rows of black-caped graduates for FOUR hours, I believe that was the right decision. I was number 684. SIX-HUNDRED and EIGHTY-FOUR--just in case you didn't understand the number. Grad students went last, so there were, you know, 600+ undergrads before they even got to me. Thank God for cell phones. I was horribly bad, and from the graduation floor, called my brother (to tell him to secretly deliver me a sandwich) and then called my sister in New York.
Let's see...the fun parts of the day:
*Proving to myself, once again, that I have literally NO sense of direction, as I steered my car towards Victoria, Texas, when I was supposed to be going downtown.
*Finding out that I had a Bachelor's hood, rather than a Master's hood. I kicked someone's ass in the bathroom, and stole her hood. There was some screaming and clawing, but she gave in pretty easily. Nah, I just walked up to the table and said, "Excuse me? I think this is the wrong hood," and they gave me the right one. Nice people.
*Standing up for an hour in heels. SO pleasant.
*Slipping in the hallway while walking out to the auditorium, on a huge soap-spill. Because you know, there are ALWAYS random soap puddles in the hallway--I should just learn to watch out for them.
*Not eating lunch, therefore, going from 1030am to 6pm with NO FOOD. By the time I got to walk across the stage, I was nearly delirious with hunger. When the president handed me my diploma cover, I nearly (a) bit his arm and (b) threatened, "There better be a fucking sandwich in there!"
The best part? Seeing how proud my parents were. I wouldn't have even gone through all the pomp and circumstance for myself, but that moment was purely for my parents.
Let's see...the fun parts of the day:
*Proving to myself, once again, that I have literally NO sense of direction, as I steered my car towards Victoria, Texas, when I was supposed to be going downtown.
*Finding out that I had a Bachelor's hood, rather than a Master's hood. I kicked someone's ass in the bathroom, and stole her hood. There was some screaming and clawing, but she gave in pretty easily. Nah, I just walked up to the table and said, "Excuse me? I think this is the wrong hood," and they gave me the right one. Nice people.
*Standing up for an hour in heels. SO pleasant.
*Slipping in the hallway while walking out to the auditorium, on a huge soap-spill. Because you know, there are ALWAYS random soap puddles in the hallway--I should just learn to watch out for them.
*Not eating lunch, therefore, going from 1030am to 6pm with NO FOOD. By the time I got to walk across the stage, I was nearly delirious with hunger. When the president handed me my diploma cover, I nearly (a) bit his arm and (b) threatened, "There better be a fucking sandwich in there!"
The best part? Seeing how proud my parents were. I wouldn't have even gone through all the pomp and circumstance for myself, but that moment was purely for my parents.
May 13, 2005
(Photo from DailyCeleb.com)Watch the news tomorrow
Tomorrow is my graduation ceremony. Okay, it's not MINE, but I'm going to be in it. It's a long ceremony--3 hours or so--of nothing but names. Names, names, and more names. My name will be in there somewhere, and I'll get to walk across a stage, and some nice professor will shake my hand, and then they'll put my pretty cape on me. Then I'll sit down, and wait for the other thousand people to go. It's gonna be a blast. What would be really exciting, is if they just randomly called names instead of going in alphabetical order. At least that would spice it up a bit.
Because this is going to be such a treasure of a day, we're thinking that maybe we'll bring the kids along. No, I'm not smoking crack, but maybe I should. When I even mention that I'm thinking about bringing them, my wall turns into a smorgasboard of evil entities, looking like they're trying to escape from a glue factory, moaning, "Nooo...nooo...nooo!" Listen, I KNOW they're most likely going to be really horrible BUT I'm their mother; therefore, I have this weird part of my brain that tells me that they MIGHT be good. That they MIGHT behave like little angels, and people will say things such as, "What precious little girls!" and "Oh my, they behave SO well!" instead of phrases like, "Sweet baby Jesus! Save me!" and "Oh my God. Do they EVER sit still?!" and "No! No! Not the groin area!" You just never know.
So, watch the news. Hell just might freeze over.
Because this is going to be such a treasure of a day, we're thinking that maybe we'll bring the kids along. No, I'm not smoking crack, but maybe I should. When I even mention that I'm thinking about bringing them, my wall turns into a smorgasboard of evil entities, looking like they're trying to escape from a glue factory, moaning, "Nooo...nooo...nooo!" Listen, I KNOW they're most likely going to be really horrible BUT I'm their mother; therefore, I have this weird part of my brain that tells me that they MIGHT be good. That they MIGHT behave like little angels, and people will say things such as, "What precious little girls!" and "Oh my, they behave SO well!" instead of phrases like, "Sweet baby Jesus! Save me!" and "Oh my God. Do they EVER sit still?!" and "No! No! Not the groin area!" You just never know.
So, watch the news. Hell just might freeze over.
Friday morning haiku
Welcome to the "Friday morning haiku"!
Ahem....
Fridays are no good
I am tired and cranky
because I didn't get any sleep last night because there was too much screaming and crying and more screaming because the chicks couldn't sleep with mommy in her bed because mommy said "no" because she was tired and wanted the bed all to herself with no little feet crammed into her neck.
Oh, wait. That last line was more than 5 syllables.
Let's try that again. Different subject, maybe.
Tall, coffeepot man,
I glanced at your coffee cup.
Please, clean the damn thing.
Ahem....
Fridays are no good
I am tired and cranky
because I didn't get any sleep last night because there was too much screaming and crying and more screaming because the chicks couldn't sleep with mommy in her bed because mommy said "no" because she was tired and wanted the bed all to herself with no little feet crammed into her neck.
Oh, wait. That last line was more than 5 syllables.
Let's try that again. Different subject, maybe.
Tall, coffeepot man,
I glanced at your coffee cup.
Please, clean the damn thing.
May 12, 2005
A whale of a tale. No, really.
Nancy was smarter than what I gave her credit for. Nancy introduced me to the Atkins diet back in 1997. Nancy was also a rude, fat cow, that wore bright-blue eyeshadow, and liked to sneer at me from behind the cash register. Nancy didn't like me. I didn't like Nancy. It was a mutual hatred.
I was 22, Nancy was in her late 40s. We were working in a Christian store in Old Town Spring--a bevy of Victorian houses, turned into little cutesy stores--a magnet for buses full of old people, and bored, stay-at-home moms. We had to wear these crappy "jumpers." They were long dresses that came in a bunch of I'm-90-and-own-50-cats type prints. They were hideous, but very comfortable. A lot of school teachers bought them. Not that I have anything against school teachers, but apparently, there are many badly-dressed ones out there. Especially in Spring, Texas. So, here I am, a new, young, bride, working in a senior-citizens camp, wearing a potato sack with pictures of "country bunnies" on it, and being given the evil-eye by a 350-lb woman with a mustache. Does life get any better than this?
I don't even know where I was going with this story....
Oh, yes, the Atkins Diet. One day, only Nancy and I were working. It was a Tuesday, so we could expect about 5 people in the store all day--and that's only if a nursing home was visiting. Around noon, Nancy went to go get lunch and came back with McDonald's. She had a double-quarter pounder with cheese, a super-sized fries, two fried apple pies, and a super-sized coke. Seriously, people, this woman was just a waddling billboard for a heart attack. As we're sitting there--me, eating my yogurt, trying hard not to puke because watching Nancy eat her fries is like watching a T-Rex tear into an unsuspecting Brontosauraus--she unwraps her slab-'o-meat, cheese and mustard/ketchup mix crawling down the side, and proceeds to remove the top bun. I looked at her, a bit confused, not only by the removal of the bun, but by the bits of fry-salt stuck in her lady-stache. Sensing my confusion, she says, "I take the top bun off--it's less calories that way." AND THE ATKINS DIET WAS BORN.
(You may now break into wild applause.)
Good thing she took the top bun off of the DOUBLE-QUARTER-POUNDER WITH CHEESE. That way, she could finish her super-sized fries, and eat her two fried apple pies without feeling guilty.
Cripes.
I was 22, Nancy was in her late 40s. We were working in a Christian store in Old Town Spring--a bevy of Victorian houses, turned into little cutesy stores--a magnet for buses full of old people, and bored, stay-at-home moms. We had to wear these crappy "jumpers." They were long dresses that came in a bunch of I'm-90-and-own-50-cats type prints. They were hideous, but very comfortable. A lot of school teachers bought them. Not that I have anything against school teachers, but apparently, there are many badly-dressed ones out there. Especially in Spring, Texas. So, here I am, a new, young, bride, working in a senior-citizens camp, wearing a potato sack with pictures of "country bunnies" on it, and being given the evil-eye by a 350-lb woman with a mustache. Does life get any better than this?
I don't even know where I was going with this story....
Oh, yes, the Atkins Diet. One day, only Nancy and I were working. It was a Tuesday, so we could expect about 5 people in the store all day--and that's only if a nursing home was visiting. Around noon, Nancy went to go get lunch and came back with McDonald's. She had a double-quarter pounder with cheese, a super-sized fries, two fried apple pies, and a super-sized coke. Seriously, people, this woman was just a waddling billboard for a heart attack. As we're sitting there--me, eating my yogurt, trying hard not to puke because watching Nancy eat her fries is like watching a T-Rex tear into an unsuspecting Brontosauraus--she unwraps her slab-'o-meat, cheese and mustard/ketchup mix crawling down the side, and proceeds to remove the top bun. I looked at her, a bit confused, not only by the removal of the bun, but by the bits of fry-salt stuck in her lady-stache. Sensing my confusion, she says, "I take the top bun off--it's less calories that way." AND THE ATKINS DIET WAS BORN.
(You may now break into wild applause.)
Good thing she took the top bun off of the DOUBLE-QUARTER-POUNDER WITH CHEESE. That way, she could finish her super-sized fries, and eat her two fried apple pies without feeling guilty.
Cripes.
Fine Young Cannibals
"She drives me crazy, woo, woo, woo!"
Remember that song? I was quite young when that came out, but I can relate to it now, for Jenna, indeed, "drives me crazy."
Early this morning, she woke up at 130am with the fake whining/crying bit. "Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeeed you!" she cried to me, as she stood by my bedside.
"Honey, I love you, but you need to sleep in your own bed," I replied. This, of course, was met with a deep inhalation that left her little, peanut body in screams that rival those of the banshees in my dreams. And, obviously, these lovely screams woke up Little E, who soon added her own discerning decibels to the mix.
Two screaming kids. Not even two o'clock in the morning. Two very tired parents. Thinking of drinking too much Jack and Coke, so they can get more than two hours of sleep. It's all in pairs, baby, all in pairs.
Scott took Clairey back to the room, whilst I worked on getting Jenna to (a)stop the incessant screaming and (b)get out of my bed and into hers. No amount of cajoling could get this child to silence. I started with the normal, "Jenna, I'm not ASKING, I'm TELLING you to stop the screaming NOW," then moved to the, "WHY? WHY are you screaming? Tell me so I can help you!" then finally moved to the rarely-used-but-pulled-out-in-the-most-dire-of-circumstances, "I will give you CANDY if you stop screaming." Nada. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. This child, unfortunately, inherited my amazing ability to be stubborn beyond all belief. She wanted to sleep with me, and there was no way in hell I was going to get her out of my bed.
Background: Usually, this isn't a big problem. I love to have the girls sleep with us, UPON OCCASION. When they've been climbing into your bed EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. for the past two weeks, you have to draw the line somewhere. Besides, they take up the ENTIRE bed, and I end up having to sleep all contorted-like, you know, with a foot under my jaw, a little hand in my hair, a nose pressed directly up against mine, and half of my body hanging off the bed.
She kept on screaming. Then I lost my cool. I was a bad mom and spanked her out of anger. I hate that. I HATE it. No excuse. A few minutes later, I picked her up (still screaming) and took her to her room, where Claire was still screaming. It's surround sound. Jenna lied in bed, screaming; I held Claire in the rocking chair, screaming; Scott was on the bed, passing out from sheer exhaustion; and I sat there, rocking back and forth, screaming in my head, while listening to the screams of my children. Who are no screaming just for the sake of screaming because they've gotten to the point of screaming where they can't stop.
Finally, Oh Dear God, FINALLY, they both passed out. No doubt from the lack of oxygen from SCREAMING SO LOUD. Then, I just sat there and looked at them. Feeling my patience restore itself, and my anger just float away. I looked at them, sleeping contently in their beds. Little rosebud lips parted in dreams (screaming dreams, I'm sure), flushed cheeks (again, from screaming), raspy breath (you guessed it--from screaming) and thought about how much I wanted to pick them up and take them to bed with me.
Parenting--it's such a vicious cycle.
Remember that song? I was quite young when that came out, but I can relate to it now, for Jenna, indeed, "drives me crazy."
Early this morning, she woke up at 130am with the fake whining/crying bit. "Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeeed you!" she cried to me, as she stood by my bedside.
"Honey, I love you, but you need to sleep in your own bed," I replied. This, of course, was met with a deep inhalation that left her little, peanut body in screams that rival those of the banshees in my dreams. And, obviously, these lovely screams woke up Little E, who soon added her own discerning decibels to the mix.
Two screaming kids. Not even two o'clock in the morning. Two very tired parents. Thinking of drinking too much Jack and Coke, so they can get more than two hours of sleep. It's all in pairs, baby, all in pairs.
Scott took Clairey back to the room, whilst I worked on getting Jenna to (a)stop the incessant screaming and (b)get out of my bed and into hers. No amount of cajoling could get this child to silence. I started with the normal, "Jenna, I'm not ASKING, I'm TELLING you to stop the screaming NOW," then moved to the, "WHY? WHY are you screaming? Tell me so I can help you!" then finally moved to the rarely-used-but-pulled-out-in-the-most-dire-of-circumstances, "I will give you CANDY if you stop screaming." Nada. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. This child, unfortunately, inherited my amazing ability to be stubborn beyond all belief. She wanted to sleep with me, and there was no way in hell I was going to get her out of my bed.
Background: Usually, this isn't a big problem. I love to have the girls sleep with us, UPON OCCASION. When they've been climbing into your bed EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. for the past two weeks, you have to draw the line somewhere. Besides, they take up the ENTIRE bed, and I end up having to sleep all contorted-like, you know, with a foot under my jaw, a little hand in my hair, a nose pressed directly up against mine, and half of my body hanging off the bed.
She kept on screaming. Then I lost my cool. I was a bad mom and spanked her out of anger. I hate that. I HATE it. No excuse. A few minutes later, I picked her up (still screaming) and took her to her room, where Claire was still screaming. It's surround sound. Jenna lied in bed, screaming; I held Claire in the rocking chair, screaming; Scott was on the bed, passing out from sheer exhaustion; and I sat there, rocking back and forth, screaming in my head, while listening to the screams of my children. Who are no screaming just for the sake of screaming because they've gotten to the point of screaming where they can't stop.
Finally, Oh Dear God, FINALLY, they both passed out. No doubt from the lack of oxygen from SCREAMING SO LOUD. Then, I just sat there and looked at them. Feeling my patience restore itself, and my anger just float away. I looked at them, sleeping contently in their beds. Little rosebud lips parted in dreams (screaming dreams, I'm sure), flushed cheeks (again, from screaming), raspy breath (you guessed it--from screaming) and thought about how much I wanted to pick them up and take them to bed with me.
Parenting--it's such a vicious cycle.
May 10, 2005
Conversations with Jenna
Recently, we came to own some temporary tattoos. This is the first time she's ever had one, and she loved it, but it didn't last very long on her super-dry skin.
Me: Hey, sweetie, what's wrong?
Jenna: Mommy, I'm VERY disappointed with this tattoo. It's not staying on.
Me: Well, it's not going to honey. It will eventually all come off.
Jenna: Can I get a real one?
We had to make a stop at the local pharmacy to pick up her prescriptions for her ears. As we were leaving:
Jenna: Can I drive?
Me: No.
Jenna: Please, please, please! I wanna drive!
Me: Um....NO.
Jenna: Wwwwwwhhhhhhhyyyyyyy? (if you're a parent, you know EXACTLY what that sounds like)
Me: Well, let's see. One, you can't see over the dashboard; two, you can't reach the pedals; and three, it's against the law. If a policeman saw you driving, they'd take me away for being a bad mom.
Jenna: (contemplating this in her head) Would you come back?
Me: Eventually.
Jenna: Can I drive?
Me: Hey, sweetie, what's wrong?
Jenna: Mommy, I'm VERY disappointed with this tattoo. It's not staying on.
Me: Well, it's not going to honey. It will eventually all come off.
Jenna: Can I get a real one?
We had to make a stop at the local pharmacy to pick up her prescriptions for her ears. As we were leaving:
Jenna: Can I drive?
Me: No.
Jenna: Please, please, please! I wanna drive!
Me: Um....NO.
Jenna: Wwwwwwhhhhhhhyyyyyyy? (if you're a parent, you know EXACTLY what that sounds like)
Me: Well, let's see. One, you can't see over the dashboard; two, you can't reach the pedals; and three, it's against the law. If a policeman saw you driving, they'd take me away for being a bad mom.
Jenna: (contemplating this in her head) Would you come back?
Me: Eventually.
Jenna: Can I drive?
Weekend update
Ah, yes. Here I am, recovering from a semi-lovely weekend.
Saturday was fantastic--had a garage sale and made $415 off of my junk. My mom took Big E (Big Evil--Jenna) off my hands, which left me with Little E, who, when not being tortured by Big E, is not so E after all. We spent the remainder of the day over at my best friend's house, wherein I stuffed myself on barbecued ribs. Delish. I was having a dandy of a time, you know, without having to remind Jenna not to punch/stab/whip/beat their kids, when the phone rang. As soon as Scott said it was my mom, I knew my night was over.
Earache. I'm not sure there's another word that can grip a mother's heart like that. EARACHE. It's not that you're worried about your child, in fact, you know they're going to be just fine. Their ears will be fine...YOURS, not so much. Because the screaming and shrieking that comes with an earache is really just unbearable. While your kid is raising the dead with her wailing, you're running around the house trying to find something that will knock her out cold so the screaming will stop. While we were fresh out of Jack Daniels, we DID find her prescription eardrops, so we administered those. Like it was that easy. It was more like trying to force a cat into a bucket of cold water--it's just not gonna happen without a screen, a pillowcase, and some force. Okay, so it was KINDA like that, except without the supplies. Scott just had to restrain her so I could put four drops of the "magic ear fixer" in her right ear. Have you ever tried to restrain a pissed-off three-year old? It's like they automatically "have the power." We're wrestling with her, and I swear, the music to He-Man starts playing in the background. I was scared shitless, just expecting Battle Cat to jump out from the closet. She has this hidden, brute strength which she uses to protect her evil. Scott had a hard time holding her down, and she's THREE. I mean, I've been getting on him to work out lately--he's kinda been slacking off, but she's really, really strong. I promise. Anyways, 4 eardrops and a dose of Tylenol later, and Jenna was out for the count.
I ended up having to sleep with her. In her twin-sized bed. Against the window ledge. Nice.
Sunday was a large improvement. I received 20 ivory, pink-tipped roses, which are just gorgeous, mind you, and cards from my chicks. Jenna reminded me every 2-3 minutes that it was Mother's Day, in case I should forget, and Clairey told me, "pee-pee mudder dee!" Which, translated into adult English, is "Happy Mother's Day, to the woman that sustains my life." It was a good day.
Saturday was fantastic--had a garage sale and made $415 off of my junk. My mom took Big E (Big Evil--Jenna) off my hands, which left me with Little E, who, when not being tortured by Big E, is not so E after all. We spent the remainder of the day over at my best friend's house, wherein I stuffed myself on barbecued ribs. Delish. I was having a dandy of a time, you know, without having to remind Jenna not to punch/stab/whip/beat their kids, when the phone rang. As soon as Scott said it was my mom, I knew my night was over.
Earache. I'm not sure there's another word that can grip a mother's heart like that. EARACHE. It's not that you're worried about your child, in fact, you know they're going to be just fine. Their ears will be fine...YOURS, not so much. Because the screaming and shrieking that comes with an earache is really just unbearable. While your kid is raising the dead with her wailing, you're running around the house trying to find something that will knock her out cold so the screaming will stop. While we were fresh out of Jack Daniels, we DID find her prescription eardrops, so we administered those. Like it was that easy. It was more like trying to force a cat into a bucket of cold water--it's just not gonna happen without a screen, a pillowcase, and some force. Okay, so it was KINDA like that, except without the supplies. Scott just had to restrain her so I could put four drops of the "magic ear fixer" in her right ear. Have you ever tried to restrain a pissed-off three-year old? It's like they automatically "have the power." We're wrestling with her, and I swear, the music to He-Man starts playing in the background. I was scared shitless, just expecting Battle Cat to jump out from the closet. She has this hidden, brute strength which she uses to protect her evil. Scott had a hard time holding her down, and she's THREE. I mean, I've been getting on him to work out lately--he's kinda been slacking off, but she's really, really strong. I promise. Anyways, 4 eardrops and a dose of Tylenol later, and Jenna was out for the count.
I ended up having to sleep with her. In her twin-sized bed. Against the window ledge. Nice.
Sunday was a large improvement. I received 20 ivory, pink-tipped roses, which are just gorgeous, mind you, and cards from my chicks. Jenna reminded me every 2-3 minutes that it was Mother's Day, in case I should forget, and Clairey told me, "pee-pee mudder dee!" Which, translated into adult English, is "Happy Mother's Day, to the woman that sustains my life." It was a good day.
May 6, 2005
Nickname: Scar
In just 12 weeks, me and my family will be vacationing in Cozumel with my best friend and her family. As I've mentioned before, that means "bathing suit." Although no matter how svelte I am by that time, my butt will always be too big, my hips too wide, and my stomach too flabby--that's just how I am, but I digress. Anyways, a new, but fun problem has come up. How do I explain my scars?
Background info: Malignant melanoma 2x, squamous cell 1x. Results: 3.5 inch scar above my belly button; 2-inch scar on my left, upper chest; 6-inch scar across my back. My skin, according to the surgeon, is very "elastic," so no strength of fishing line would hold my skin together. Therefore, I'm left with very big, very ugly, and VERY visible scars.
When people ask, which they always do, what should I tell them? I used to go with the 'ol standard "bar fight," but I'm getting bored of that.
Background info: Malignant melanoma 2x, squamous cell 1x. Results: 3.5 inch scar above my belly button; 2-inch scar on my left, upper chest; 6-inch scar across my back. My skin, according to the surgeon, is very "elastic," so no strength of fishing line would hold my skin together. Therefore, I'm left with very big, very ugly, and VERY visible scars.
When people ask, which they always do, what should I tell them? I used to go with the 'ol standard "bar fight," but I'm getting bored of that.
It's finally here?
Is it really and truly Friday? This has been the longest week ever. By Tuesday, I was ready for it to be over. Actually, I was ready for it to be over Sunday night, when I came to the realization that the next day was Monday. Doesn't work just suck? I mean, don't get me wrong, I love my job, the people I work with aren't so bad (except for a select few), and the pay's decent, but ugh! Just the fact that I HAVE to work is what makes it so horrible. Also, seeing that it is absolutely gorgeous outside, and for the first time in YEARS, Houston is actually having some semblance of a "Spring," makes me want to be outside contracting more skin cancer. But, alas! Baby needs a new pair of shoes.
This week, I have attended 6 meetings, all of which were boring as mud and actually decreased my mental capacity by a large margin. On Wednesday, I had a meeting to discuss what topics to discuss in the next meeting. I gain nothing from these meetings. Well, I do learn a few little things, thereby making me a veritable fountain of useless knowledge. Yesterday, I learned:
-There are 72 ceiling tiles in meeting room BC091A.
-If I sit with my right leg crossed over my left, with my right leg pressed against the table, it makes a HUGE crease in my leg.
-The carpet has a coffee stain near the left wall.
-I can answer a question, even when I have NO IDEA what the conversation is about.
-9 people had coffee, 1 had water (me).
Meetings. What a fabulous waste of time!
This week, I have attended 6 meetings, all of which were boring as mud and actually decreased my mental capacity by a large margin. On Wednesday, I had a meeting to discuss what topics to discuss in the next meeting. I gain nothing from these meetings. Well, I do learn a few little things, thereby making me a veritable fountain of useless knowledge. Yesterday, I learned:
-There are 72 ceiling tiles in meeting room BC091A.
-If I sit with my right leg crossed over my left, with my right leg pressed against the table, it makes a HUGE crease in my leg.
-The carpet has a coffee stain near the left wall.
-I can answer a question, even when I have NO IDEA what the conversation is about.
-9 people had coffee, 1 had water (me).
Meetings. What a fabulous waste of time!
May 5, 2005
Happy Cinco de Mayo
All the Northerners are thinking, "Huh? What's 'sinko dee may-oh'?" Well, the 5th of May commemorates the victory of the Mexicans over the French army at The Battle Of Puebla in 1862. Fabulous, right? It's basically celebrated in Mexico and places with a large Mexican population (enter Houston). For the Mexicans, there are heavily-makeupped women, wearing flowy and brightly-colored Mexican dresses, dancing all over the place, with random men, yelling, "A ha ha!" For the gringos, there is an extended happy hour and half-priced fajitas for two. It's all good.
May 3, 2005
Ah, memories
A lot of web logs I keep up with have recently been reminiscing about first kisses, first boyfriends, etc. It's easier for me to remember this stuff than it is for most people, because in high school, I was the Dateless Wonder. I NEVER got asked to dances, I NEVER had a boyfriend, and no boys EVER liked me. Back in those days, I used to be so upset, wondering what I was doing wrong. Moron. It's because I didn't put out. Cripes. I can't believe I actually wondered if I wasn't pretty enough, or smart enough, or not popular enough. Not until I was well into college did I realize that THAT'S all boys wanted. And Scott had to tell me. I was so naive.
I'm not sure what the "bases" stand for anymore, but I think when I was in school it was first: kiss, second: boobs, third: touchy-touchy, homerun: skin slapping. I never let anyone get past second base with me, except for Scott. If they did, it was unmemorable. I can't believe that girls these days actually think oral sex is no big deal. Holy shit. I weep for my girls' future. I didn't do that until we were dating for a LONG time, then we got married, and everybody knows that married women don't have to do that anymore...
Anyways, back onto the boyfriend thing. Out of the few guys I dated, I suppose I was lucky, because only one made me cry, only one broke my little heart. I thought he was so nice, and so "not like those other boys," but alas, in the end, he was. He had his friend break up with me for him. Nice, eh? I believe the conversation, if not exact, was pretty close to: "Hey, ----- said that he'll give you one more week to sleep with him, and if you don't, he's going to break up with you." Um...come again? No pun intended. I can't remember if I said anything or not. I was completely stunned. A day or two before that, ----- had driven me out to his grandfather's land, and we made out under the stars. Wait...that sounds SO romantic. I was 17, people, there was no romance. The truth of the matter is, he drove me out to his grandfather's cow pasture, where we hopped in the bed of his truck, and kissed like only two teenagers can, while surrounded by mosquitoes and the warm scent of cow crap. I told him that I didn't want my first time to be in the back of a truck in the middle of a cow pasture. Guess he didn't take to that too well, since he sent the Breakup Patrol after me the next day. But I digress.
Anyways, that fucker made me cry. It still makes me mad, because I know my girls will have to go through the same thing, and I know that their hearts will get broken, and they'll cry, and they'll feel like they're not pretty enough, or skinny enough, or smart enough.
Then, they'll marry the man of their dreams, and recall all those stupid boys and laugh wickedly and think, "You are all a bunch of dumb fuckers."
The End
*Oh, and my first kiss? That great honor went to a strapping young lad named Mark Jernigan. I was 13, he put his tongue in my mouth, and I believe my thoughts were, "What the HELL is he doing?" I never talked to him again.
I'm not sure what the "bases" stand for anymore, but I think when I was in school it was first: kiss, second: boobs, third: touchy-touchy, homerun: skin slapping. I never let anyone get past second base with me, except for Scott. If they did, it was unmemorable. I can't believe that girls these days actually think oral sex is no big deal. Holy shit. I weep for my girls' future. I didn't do that until we were dating for a LONG time, then we got married, and everybody knows that married women don't have to do that anymore...
Anyways, back onto the boyfriend thing. Out of the few guys I dated, I suppose I was lucky, because only one made me cry, only one broke my little heart. I thought he was so nice, and so "not like those other boys," but alas, in the end, he was. He had his friend break up with me for him. Nice, eh? I believe the conversation, if not exact, was pretty close to: "Hey, ----- said that he'll give you one more week to sleep with him, and if you don't, he's going to break up with you." Um...come again? No pun intended. I can't remember if I said anything or not. I was completely stunned. A day or two before that, ----- had driven me out to his grandfather's land, and we made out under the stars. Wait...that sounds SO romantic. I was 17, people, there was no romance. The truth of the matter is, he drove me out to his grandfather's cow pasture, where we hopped in the bed of his truck, and kissed like only two teenagers can, while surrounded by mosquitoes and the warm scent of cow crap. I told him that I didn't want my first time to be in the back of a truck in the middle of a cow pasture. Guess he didn't take to that too well, since he sent the Breakup Patrol after me the next day. But I digress.
Anyways, that fucker made me cry. It still makes me mad, because I know my girls will have to go through the same thing, and I know that their hearts will get broken, and they'll cry, and they'll feel like they're not pretty enough, or skinny enough, or smart enough.
Then, they'll marry the man of their dreams, and recall all those stupid boys and laugh wickedly and think, "You are all a bunch of dumb fuckers."
The End
*Oh, and my first kiss? That great honor went to a strapping young lad named Mark Jernigan. I was 13, he put his tongue in my mouth, and I believe my thoughts were, "What the HELL is he doing?" I never talked to him again.
J-E-N-N-A, that is how you spell Evil
One word: HELLION. I need to buy her a shirt that says, "Where are we going? And why am I in this handbasket?" Can she be any more of a handful?! I THINK NOT.
Gymnastics: 3 classes of near-perfect behavior. Last night--hello, lets open the gates of hell on all the innocent parents and children. Not to mention the instructors that are trying so hard not to physically beat my child.
Needless to say, we left with 15 minutes of class left. She misbehaves ON PURPOSE. SHE LOVES THE ATTENTION. Shit, she practically misbehaves, then when people laugh at her, she curtsies.
KARMA HAS, INDEED, KICKED ME IN THE ASS.
I bought the book, "Parenting the Strong-Willed Child, Revised and Updated Edition: The Clinically Proven Five-Week Program for Parents of Two- to Six-Year-Olds." I figured I have nothing to lose. I looked for "Recognizing the Six Signs of Satan in Your Preschooler," but there's no such book by that title.
Gymnastics: 3 classes of near-perfect behavior. Last night--hello, lets open the gates of hell on all the innocent parents and children. Not to mention the instructors that are trying so hard not to physically beat my child.
Needless to say, we left with 15 minutes of class left. She misbehaves ON PURPOSE. SHE LOVES THE ATTENTION. Shit, she practically misbehaves, then when people laugh at her, she curtsies.
KARMA HAS, INDEED, KICKED ME IN THE ASS.
I bought the book, "Parenting the Strong-Willed Child, Revised and Updated Edition: The Clinically Proven Five-Week Program for Parents of Two- to Six-Year-Olds." I figured I have nothing to lose. I looked for "Recognizing the Six Signs of Satan in Your Preschooler," but there's no such book by that title.
May 2, 2005
Balls, trash, and tacos
Friday's baseball game was fun. We didn't get to stay past the 6th inning, but it didn't matter because WE GOT A BALL. Cute kids CAN be put to good use! I just propped Claire up on the fence, and she looked at the outfielder, and he tossed the ball to us. Then we had to leave because Child A was crying over the loss of her super, extra-long, pink balloon that popped when mommy "held" it after tearing it away from Child A because Child A was hitting innocent baseball-watchers in the head/arms/eyes; and Child B was screaming because I wouldn't let her climb the fence and run onto the diamond to give the first-baseman cotton candy. Actually, that's not true. I don't know the real reason she wanted to climb the fence, but she did. And when I was a HORRIBLE mother and refused to let her, she clued everyone in on what an ATROCIOUS BITCH I am by letting out a blood-curdling scream. So, as we climbed the stairs up to the concession area, I kept saying, "I'm sorry they're losing! It's not my fault! I'm so sorry!" My sorrowful apologetics, coupled with Claire's screams and tears got a few good laughs from the crowd.
Saturday was even more fun--if you can imagine that! Me, Scott, and my brother Shawn went to the motorcross. Oh yes, WHITE TRASH HAVEN. I have never seen so many mullets, fake boobs, or beer guts under one roof in my entire life. Some of which were on a single person. The motorcross is a Prime-A people-watching venue. Of course, I broke my diet and had to indulge in a $7.50 Bud Light. Because if it's SEVEN-FIFTY, it MUST be drawn straight out of those Colorado Rockies. A few of those, and you could have bought a plane ticket to Colorado. $7.50 for a beer. SEVEN FIFTY. I'm sorry, that's just so hard to grasp. After the motorcross, we went to Taco Cabana for some quick food. There, we paid $3.00 per beer, and we were overcharged. The cashier rang up Bud Light and Coors Light as premium beers. Premium, my ass. Then, the cashier committed a sin right in clear view of everyone. She threw a margarita in the TRASH. A perfectly good, delicious margarita. In a trash can. Why would you do such a thing? So you poured a "regular" instead of a "strawberry"--set the mispoured cup behind the tortilla heater and snag a sip between enchilada-rolling. Cripes. I thinkest thou dost hit the crack pipe oft too much, oh, Taco Cabana cashier.
Saturday was even more fun--if you can imagine that! Me, Scott, and my brother Shawn went to the motorcross. Oh yes, WHITE TRASH HAVEN. I have never seen so many mullets, fake boobs, or beer guts under one roof in my entire life. Some of which were on a single person. The motorcross is a Prime-A people-watching venue. Of course, I broke my diet and had to indulge in a $7.50 Bud Light. Because if it's SEVEN-FIFTY, it MUST be drawn straight out of those Colorado Rockies. A few of those, and you could have bought a plane ticket to Colorado. $7.50 for a beer. SEVEN FIFTY. I'm sorry, that's just so hard to grasp. After the motorcross, we went to Taco Cabana for some quick food. There, we paid $3.00 per beer, and we were overcharged. The cashier rang up Bud Light and Coors Light as premium beers. Premium, my ass. Then, the cashier committed a sin right in clear view of everyone. She threw a margarita in the TRASH. A perfectly good, delicious margarita. In a trash can. Why would you do such a thing? So you poured a "regular" instead of a "strawberry"--set the mispoured cup behind the tortilla heater and snag a sip between enchilada-rolling. Cripes. I thinkest thou dost hit the crack pipe oft too much, oh, Taco Cabana cashier.
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