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Friday, March 30, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
Boy or girl?
After living with a wild child the past few weeks, I'm really starting to wonder what this next kiddo is going to be like. Another silly, energetic boy? Or perhaps we'll be blessed with a more relaxed lad who takes after his/her daddy. Because Mac is pretty much his mommy, through and through. ...A little high-strung busy bee.
Some people don’t want to know what they are having—they want to be surprised after all that effort of labor. And I can appreciate that. But us? We want to know ASAP. For me, realizing that I could order a turkey sandwich via touch screen in my hospital room was enough of a surprise surrounding Mac's birth. Oh, and that whole surgery thing.
So, we just want to know NOW—is it a boy or a girl?
...And next week, we will!
Nope, I'm nowhere near the 19-21 week window when most people find out the gender of their baby at the OB's office. I'll be just 14.5 weeks next Wednesday. And that's when the wonderful world of technology will grace us with its super early determination of whether this tiny little bean is a He or a She.
We're traveling on up to Powell to Ultrasona Columbus, a 3D/4D sonographer that can tell you what you're having in as little as just 14 weeks pregnant. And you can invite up to 18 people to partake in the magic! But we're taking just Mac. Sorry, but I think it's kind of creepy to have a sizeable audience watching while goo is smeared on your naked belly and a photo of the fetus is blasted onto a 50" plasma. To each his own, of course, and you can bet that we WILL share the news shortly after.
We're getting just a 2D ultrasound, because that's the best for early gender recognition, and I think the 3D and 4D ones are totally bizarre. I'll wait to see my babe's actual facial features after he's born. That's at least one more surprise for me. ...Even more surprising that automatically-delivered turkey sammies!
If it's a boy, this will be the second test that has confirmed the baby as such. See, we are so crazily eager to find out the gender that we plopped down $45 for an Intelligender at-home test a few weeks back. It's kind of hokey, but why not try it out for the fun of it? (Although the cashier at Walgreens said, "That's a lot of money for fun.") And it was, I honestly wouldn't recommend it. But we did it, and it said "Boy!" We took the same Intelligender test when I about 16 weeks pregnant with Mac and it also said "Boy!" So, we'll see if we're two for two in the goofy pee-test department.
We also paid for a 3D ultrasound of Mac at about 18 weeks. This time, we're just doing everything a bit earlier. Obviously, we are losers with nothing better to do, and nothing better to spend our hard-earned money on. I mean, we have a kid, so we don't go out anymore and blow it on ourselves. And I'm fat now anyway, so my Target clothing expenses have come waaaaay down the past few months.
So, I say it's fun to splurge a bit if you are as gender-hungry (ewe, sounds weird) as us. Or, you can try out some of the free, online options—also fun in my book!
Gender prediction quiz (This one says "boy" for us, too.)
Chinese gender prediction (But this one? – "girl.")
Friday, February 17, 2012
The mind of a 20-month-old boy
I love my son Cormac James to an infinite amount of little bitty, itty witty, wittle (made-up word) pieces. So much so that it hurts. In fact, this morning as I drove him to daycare, I cried as I looked at his adorable contemplative face in the rear-view mirror (Yes, he faces front now—In your face, AAP child seat guidelines!) Anyway, I cried because this sweet little child is MINE. I made him (with some help) and I get to watch him grow up, and learn to do really cool things, and become a respectable young man who loves his mommy more than any other girl in the world!
But I also have to watch him fall down sometimes (tear), get sick occasionally (double tear), and nearly stick a fork in the head of an unsuspecting customer at Tee-Jay's. ...Yeah, I think I'd definitely cry at the thought of getting sued for that one.
It's a good thing I love this kid so much, because there are the occasional days when he drives me absolutely nuts. I mean, he's a toddler and can barely speak and is only like 33 inches tall and wears a diaper. He poops in his own pants. But somehow this seemingly helpless and innocent little one has the upper hand on me and daddy, most of the time.
Maybe it's a boy thing. I don't know, I only have a boy and I only have one of them so I have nothing to compare it to, really. But it seems like they are typically more mischievous than their female counterparts. Not smarter—definitely not smarter—just more willing to push the envelope and all sense of peace and orderliness.
Now I fully expect every child to be just that—a child. To run around, pull out toys, occasionally scream at the top of their lungs for no reason, to smack the dog and laugh each time. But then they have their down time, right? ...Sit and read a book for 15 minutes? ...Right?
I swear I see little girls doing this.
But Mac? No way, Jose. And I bet if you have a little boy(s) you can relate. Or maybe you have a crazy little lady and can relate. Do you sometimes feel as if the following is what is going on inside your kid's head at night? That wonderful little "witching" hour right before bedtime?
Try to pull cord out of wall. Yank hard, yank hard, yank hard. (laugh, scream, run)
Glass cup on corner of table. Reach for it, grab it, throw it down. (laugh, scream, run)
Laptop is open. Hit every key. Pick it up. Drop it. (laugh, scream, run)
Everything on the coffee table, throw it on the floor.
Everything on the side table, throw it on the floor.
Everything in the toy bin, throw it on the floor. (laugh, but definitely don't actually play with anything)
Everything in mommy's purse, pull it out and throw it on the floor.
Everything in your diaper bag, pull it out and throw it on the floor.
A new pack of diapers! Pull each one out and throw it on the floor.
Take a second to notice the clippers you recently removed from the diaper bag, and act like you're trying to clip your toenails.
...Awe, that's actually kind of cute. (tear) But the second I think he's sitting for a second, he gets bored and jumps up.
"Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy!"
"Cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese!"
"Wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa!" (water)
(Five seconds of chugging)
Throw cup at Roxy. Smack Roxy repeatedly. Hit daddy with a book repeatedly. (laugh, scream, run)
Climb atop window seat and bang head and hands against window for 20 minutes.
Pull a leaf off of every plant on the window seat.
Launch yourself off of window seat and start crying.
BEDTIME!!!!
And you know what? The kid just grabs his Binky, waves bye-bye to daddy, and walks (crawls) upstairs to his bedroom for "night, night." And then I hold him, and rock him for a second, and kiss his forehead, and lay him down, and rub the temples of his forehead, and walk out the door. And he falls asleep. (We have it easy, for now, I know).
And then I pass out on the couch. And wonder how the heck we will deal with two of them come August.
But I also have to watch him fall down sometimes (tear), get sick occasionally (double tear), and nearly stick a fork in the head of an unsuspecting customer at Tee-Jay's. ...Yeah, I think I'd definitely cry at the thought of getting sued for that one.
It's a good thing I love this kid so much, because there are the occasional days when he drives me absolutely nuts. I mean, he's a toddler and can barely speak and is only like 33 inches tall and wears a diaper. He poops in his own pants. But somehow this seemingly helpless and innocent little one has the upper hand on me and daddy, most of the time.
Maybe it's a boy thing. I don't know, I only have a boy and I only have one of them so I have nothing to compare it to, really. But it seems like they are typically more mischievous than their female counterparts. Not smarter—definitely not smarter—just more willing to push the envelope and all sense of peace and orderliness.
Now I fully expect every child to be just that—a child. To run around, pull out toys, occasionally scream at the top of their lungs for no reason, to smack the dog and laugh each time. But then they have their down time, right? ...Sit and read a book for 15 minutes? ...Right?
I swear I see little girls doing this.
But Mac? No way, Jose. And I bet if you have a little boy(s) you can relate. Or maybe you have a crazy little lady and can relate. Do you sometimes feel as if the following is what is going on inside your kid's head at night? That wonderful little "witching" hour right before bedtime?
Try to pull cord out of wall. Yank hard, yank hard, yank hard. (laugh, scream, run)
Glass cup on corner of table. Reach for it, grab it, throw it down. (laugh, scream, run)
Laptop is open. Hit every key. Pick it up. Drop it. (laugh, scream, run)
Everything on the coffee table, throw it on the floor.
Everything on the side table, throw it on the floor.
Everything in the toy bin, throw it on the floor. (laugh, but definitely don't actually play with anything)
Everything in mommy's purse, pull it out and throw it on the floor.
Everything in your diaper bag, pull it out and throw it on the floor.
A new pack of diapers! Pull each one out and throw it on the floor.
Take a second to notice the clippers you recently removed from the diaper bag, and act like you're trying to clip your toenails.
...Awe, that's actually kind of cute. (tear) But the second I think he's sitting for a second, he gets bored and jumps up.
"Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy!"
"Cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese!"
"Wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa, wawa!" (water)
(Five seconds of chugging)
Throw cup at Roxy. Smack Roxy repeatedly. Hit daddy with a book repeatedly. (laugh, scream, run)
Climb atop window seat and bang head and hands against window for 20 minutes.
Pull a leaf off of every plant on the window seat.
Launch yourself off of window seat and start crying.
BEDTIME!!!!
And you know what? The kid just grabs his Binky, waves bye-bye to daddy, and walks (crawls) upstairs to his bedroom for "night, night." And then I hold him, and rock him for a second, and kiss his forehead, and lay him down, and rub the temples of his forehead, and walk out the door. And he falls asleep. (We have it easy, for now, I know).
And then I pass out on the couch. And wonder how the heck we will deal with two of them come August.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
My love affair with GAP
I only have a few store credit cards: Best Buy, Kohl's (you know, so I can soon buy 30 pairs of second-rate Rock and Republic jeans), Macy's (only for Clinique make-up), Express (I sooooooo don’t shop there anymore since I quit moonlighting as a go-go dancer) and wonderful, always-has-what-I-need-at-the-right-price Gap.
I know, I ride high atop the bland and yuppie "we sell every plain shirt in 17 different colors" bandwagon, and well I really don't care. Because when you have a child that grows out of pants in 17 minutes and a burgeoning belly that has to be conservatively and professionally dressed for work five days a week, you go with what's easy and affordable. And that's my little Gappy.
And it's not only Gap, but Old Navy... and Banana Republic and Piper Lime... and that Athleta store I've never bought anything from. It's this great five-for-one'r when you are ordering online! I just add a pair of $10 clearance pants for Mac from Old Navy into my shopping bag, and then click a tab over and find a pair of $40 half-panel black dress pants in long from Gap on sale for moi, and BOOM—I get free shipping for my combined "over $50" order AND I can use coupon codes for each site PLUS my rewards dollars because I spend a mortgage payment with them each month.
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| I like my kid in mini-adult clothes. So these plain, slightly darker washed jeans are perfect. |
Kidding, I do not spend that much. But I do spend enough to get some pretty sweet discounts occasionally. And, I've been upgraded to Gap Silver. Which means a limo picks me up and takes me shopping to the Gap at Easton on select Saturdays. And I'm able to turn water into wine.
Again, I jest.
OH, and I also got this one-piece maternity bathing suit that my cutie-pie pregnant friend down the street recommended. Since I surely will be a beached whale this summer. I think the side shirring will help hide the protrusion.
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| We'll see if I can squeeze into this at 7-9 months this summer. |
So really, why am I so truly, madly, deeply in love with Gap? (And not like I was with Savage Garden circa 1997.) It's because little boy clothes and maternity clothes typically suck, and Gap actually gives me some decent options at prices I can stand to spend on stuff that barely will be worn.
...more on maternity clothing shopping in my next post.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Blog of a wimpy mom
By now, most of you know that I am not a big fan of pregnancy. Let me rephrase that—While we are super duper excited (with vanilla and a cherry on top) to add another kiddo to the party pack, I do not enjoy how the presence of a human being in my uterus makes me feel for 9+ months.
I just don't.
For the past few weeks, I have been miserable. And Brian can attest, because it's likely I'm making him quite miserable, too. My energy has been zapped. Nausea in the morning. Headaches all afternoon. In bed by 8pm. Back pain. Sciatic never pain. Constant metallic taste in the back of my throat. I mean, seriously, try concentrating at work when it feels like you just downed 13 pennies.
Sounds like a Tosh.0 video challenge.
About six weeks ago, I felt like an invisible person was sticking the middle of my back with his little invisible hot poker. It really, really hurt. So I went to the hospital for a really fun ultrasound of my innards. I couldn't eat or drink for eight hours prior, and that in itself is a dreadful feat for a typically pigging-out preggo lady. But when I got to the waiting room, they didn't have my paperwork from my doctor, so I had to wait an extra hour and a half. Oh yeah, this hormonal girl 'bout went crazy up in Riverside Methodist Hospital. I think my eyes turned red. Red, I tell you. And they bled scarlet tears of hunger and fury.
And so... the testing found nothing. "It's just your hormones, honey!" said the doctor. Oh trust me, Captain Obvious, I'm blaming everything on those hellacious hormones right now, don't you worry.
Including eating. Ain't no eating like a preggo mom eating and this preggo mom eating can't stop. This kid is already eating me out of house and home and car and Target. I just spent $9 at Einstein's. At 3:30 in the afternoon. I got a bagel sandwich, milk and chips. This is in addition to the following already consumed today: Cereal, cottage cheese, a granola bar, a pack of instant oatmeal, almonds, a cheese stick, a banana, carrots, a tuna sandwich on wheat, pretzels, a cookie and some chocolate Teddy Grahams. Let's see if I can pack in about 1,000 more calories before the day is over. You know, the baby needs it.
Honestly, I don't think raising a kid is tough. But growing one? It's a nightmare. And yes, I know there are so many women out there who love being pregnant—they relish the time and wouldn't mind doing it 10 times over if they could. They enjoy it...they actually love it. And I'm dumbfounded.
And jealous. Maybe they just have easier pregnancies? Or maybe mine are just worse than your average bear's?
Nope and nope. You see, I do actually realize the simple truth of the matter—I'm a yellow-bellied baby-carrier. And I just need to tough it out for seven more months. (tear - clear this time)
I just don't.
For the past few weeks, I have been miserable. And Brian can attest, because it's likely I'm making him quite miserable, too. My energy has been zapped. Nausea in the morning. Headaches all afternoon. In bed by 8pm. Back pain. Sciatic never pain. Constant metallic taste in the back of my throat. I mean, seriously, try concentrating at work when it feels like you just downed 13 pennies.
Sounds like a Tosh.0 video challenge.
About six weeks ago, I felt like an invisible person was sticking the middle of my back with his little invisible hot poker. It really, really hurt. So I went to the hospital for a really fun ultrasound of my innards. I couldn't eat or drink for eight hours prior, and that in itself is a dreadful feat for a typically pigging-out preggo lady. But when I got to the waiting room, they didn't have my paperwork from my doctor, so I had to wait an extra hour and a half. Oh yeah, this hormonal girl 'bout went crazy up in Riverside Methodist Hospital. I think my eyes turned red. Red, I tell you. And they bled scarlet tears of hunger and fury.
And so... the testing found nothing. "It's just your hormones, honey!" said the doctor. Oh trust me, Captain Obvious, I'm blaming everything on those hellacious hormones right now, don't you worry.
Including eating. Ain't no eating like a preggo mom eating and this preggo mom eating can't stop. This kid is already eating me out of house and home and car and Target. I just spent $9 at Einstein's. At 3:30 in the afternoon. I got a bagel sandwich, milk and chips. This is in addition to the following already consumed today: Cereal, cottage cheese, a granola bar, a pack of instant oatmeal, almonds, a cheese stick, a banana, carrots, a tuna sandwich on wheat, pretzels, a cookie and some chocolate Teddy Grahams. Let's see if I can pack in about 1,000 more calories before the day is over. You know, the baby needs it.
Honestly, I don't think raising a kid is tough. But growing one? It's a nightmare. And yes, I know there are so many women out there who love being pregnant—they relish the time and wouldn't mind doing it 10 times over if they could. They enjoy it...they actually love it. And I'm dumbfounded.
And jealous. Maybe they just have easier pregnancies? Or maybe mine are just worse than your average bear's?
Nope and nope. You see, I do actually realize the simple truth of the matter—I'm a yellow-bellied baby-carrier. And I just need to tough it out for seven more months. (tear - clear this time)
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Electric youth
Back when I was a pre-teen, I used to despise wedding and baby showers. Not because I disliked holy matrimony or slobbery babies, but because I was dragged to a an adult event during non-school, supposed-to-be-fun, me-time—Like when watching Saved by the Bell. Hanging out with old people was definitely the last priority on my self-centered pre-pubescent to-do list, and I always had to put on a lacy, flowery dress for the occasion.
Think Fashion Bug. We're talking late 80's here, folks. Forever 21 had yet to make dresses cool.
And then there was the weird food. "Appetizer" was not part of my general vocabulary at the time, and I definitely didn't see anything around that resembled Friday's loaded potato skins. Did they forget that my mom RSVP'ed for one child? ...Or, wait, I don't think people RSVP'ed back then. You just showed up. Or you didn't. They just made enough food for the entire neighborhood.
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| Diaper cake at my Cousin Jenny's baby shower - How did I not think this was adorable at age 12? |
At one baby shower, I was crowned winner of a game I didn't even know I was playing. We all had to look at the bottom of our plates, and if there was a rubber ducky sticker, we won. Well, I won, and I was given a rose-scented Crabtree & Evelyn gift pack with lotion and little mauve soaps. The grandma scent definitely would never get me to hand-holding level on the playground. Couldn't they have at least sprung for a little vile of Debbie Gibson's signature spritz? Throw me a bone here, ladies!
Fast forward 20 plus years, and I get so excited for baby and wedding showers that I could just pee my pants. In front of people. Getting that free pass to stuff your face with amazing hors d'oeuvres and fancy drinks, watch someone open gifts you surely will have to comment on ("Oh, those big packs of diaper/burp cloths are fantastic, you will wash at least 30 of those a week!" or "I saw that glass bowl at Crate & Barrel, it is to DIE for!") and play games you know you can win (fo shizzle, this lady can recall what every candy bar looks like melted in a diaper).
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| Unlike my sis-in-law, I did not have "Shake Weight" on my wedding registry. |
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| Awe - With our Grandma Alma at Aunt JJ's wedding shower. |
You'd think I was medicated. But really, I'm just high on adult me-time.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
We crazy
I said I would never do it again. "No way, not a chance, count me out." Why on this lovely green earth would I choose to put myself through such discomfort and physical pain—again? I'm not that whack, am I?
But time heals all wounds, right? And you tend to forget the challenges you have been through before; Like it never even happened? (Sorry, I think that's the tag line for the company that cleans up after fires.)
Anyway, please note—I don't forget. Oh heeeel no, I do not forget. That process was not fun. And I really don't know if I can do it again.
But I'm going to have to.
And for the past few weeks I've started to remember all the fun little things that come along with it. The nice little perks. The little jabs in my side. Yep, it's already started. And much earlier this time.
My dreams are super vivid.
Is that heartburn? I only had a stinkin' banana...
Eye twitch. twitch. twitch.
I smell oranges.
Did I just fall asleep at my desk?
I smell Clinique Happy. ...Do they still sell that?
Why do I want to punch everyone in the face today?
I smell copper.
I taste copper.
This headache is going to make me pass out.
Why is the room spinning?
Clinique Happy-lady is going to make me throw up.
Well now my nose is stuffed. Solid.
Oops, now it's bleeding. Ewe.
Uh-oh. This can all mean just one thing. One intense, intimidating, immense thingy-ding-ding.
One incredible thing.
We're going to have another baby!
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Glass jar terrarium
So I'd like to say that I've completed my first-ever Pinterest project. But that would be a half-truth. Instead, it is my husband - who doesn't even have a Pinterest account - that can tout this proud accomplishment today. However, I was there - sitting across the table - to lend judgment help and photograph the process, so I think I'll take some credit. I don't think you mind.
Brian has been saying for weeks that he wants to create a glass terrarium for our dining room. I think he got the itch after watching a segment on "Sunday Morning" that featured renowned glass and terrarium artist, Paula Hayes. Her awesome terrariums are on display in multiple art museums throughout the world, and are made of very large custom, hand-blown glass vessels that are tens of thousands of dollars.
Ours? Just $20. Word to your hubby.
Most of the materials were purchased through a kit at Oakland Nursery in Columbus, Ohio... just this morning. So it doesn't take long to get everything in order and get down to making your very own living decoration.
The terrarium kit came with most of what you see here, except for the three plants. It was nice of them to label all of the ingredients. You know, in case you don't know your "rocks" from your "soil."
Next, we simply added each element in the proper order to ensure self-watering and proper filtration inside the terrarium. Thankfully, the kit came with detailed (but very easy) instructions, so we felt confident in diving right in. First step - adding the rocks! And any rocks will do - even pretty tumbled ones from the craft store. We used the ones in the kit.
After the plants were in, you can see above that we added a bit of dried moss that came with the kit. There were both dark green and lime pieces, which added some nice color to the foliage. Then we mixed in a bit of left-over rock and bark for added dimension and color.
As Mac would say (er, scream) - ALL DONE! Except we still had about half of our plants left, so we filled in a sad, wiry plant that was nearly dead upstairs, and it seems to have sprung back to life. Feels so good getting some greenery in the house in January!
Not bad for a quick Sunday project. It took us maybe 30 minutes during Mac's nap from start to finish - no big deal in my book. But creating, uploading and posting this entry? Well that took about five hours, in between chasing around that little spitfire 20-month-old. That's one CRAZY deal!
Brian has been saying for weeks that he wants to create a glass terrarium for our dining room. I think he got the itch after watching a segment on "Sunday Morning" that featured renowned glass and terrarium artist, Paula Hayes. Her awesome terrariums are on display in multiple art museums throughout the world, and are made of very large custom, hand-blown glass vessels that are tens of thousands of dollars.
Ours? Just $20. Word to your hubby.
Most of the materials were purchased through a kit at Oakland Nursery in Columbus, Ohio... just this morning. So it doesn't take long to get everything in order and get down to making your very own living decoration.
The terrarium kit came with most of what you see here, except for the three plants. It was nice of them to label all of the ingredients. You know, in case you don't know your "rocks" from your "soil."
Next, we simply added each element in the proper order to ensure self-watering and proper filtration inside the terrarium. Thankfully, the kit came with detailed (but very easy) instructions, so we felt confident in diving right in. First step - adding the rocks! And any rocks will do - even pretty tumbled ones from the craft store. We used the ones in the kit.
Well that was Staples' button easy. Next, we piled in a very thin layer of charcoal (filters the water) and then about four inches of soil. You do need to ensure the soil is clean and as organic as possible. You don't want a dirty little moldy world to develop inside there.
Now it's showtime! Make it rain all green up in here. Just one plant was actually cultivated for terrarium use, so it was tiny and fit in nice and snug right off the bat. The other two plants we had to break up, and used about 1/4 of each one. We dug little holes with a spoon, and made sure to pat down the soil between each plant to give them a secure footing in their new home.
After the plants were in, you can see above that we added a bit of dried moss that came with the kit. There were both dark green and lime pieces, which added some nice color to the foliage. Then we mixed in a bit of left-over rock and bark for added dimension and color.
Finally, we added a small amount of water with a baster to get the whole environment 'turned on,' and then put the lid on the jar. Now it's up to all the natural stuff to essentially take care of itself. We just have to watch the level of condensation, and when it seems minimal, add a bit more water. Shouldn't be that frequent.
As Mac would say (er, scream) - ALL DONE! Except we still had about half of our plants left, so we filled in a sad, wiry plant that was nearly dead upstairs, and it seems to have sprung back to life. Feels so good getting some greenery in the house in January!
Not bad for a quick Sunday project. It took us maybe 30 minutes during Mac's nap from start to finish - no big deal in my book. But creating, uploading and posting this entry? Well that took about five hours, in between chasing around that little spitfire 20-month-old. That's one CRAZY deal!
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Dude, relax
Just a bit over 10 years ago, during my senior year of college, I lived with five other outspoken ladies. We all had our strengths and weaknesses when it came to running the family household, and if you dare to believe it, my vigor was keeping the asylum home neat and tidy.
However, my super-clean-neat-freakishnish regularly ticked off the other gals. And now I understand why. I mean, who wants to wake up early the day after a raging kegger and start cleaning the smelly tenement swimming in 700+ Natty Light beer cans?
"Oh me, please me! Yeah, let ME do it!!!"
I imagine it was pretty annoying to hear me running the sweeper at 10am when the last of them just went to bed at 6am. Is it too late to say I'm sorry?
Because guess what? I've managed to come a full 180 degrees since those days. I think most women would have turned more toward domesticity, but yeah no I've turned my psychotic cleaning days around and now I totally don’t care! Well I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm some neglectful hoarder who knowingly leaves a mountainous mess in every room, but the random toys and daily drinking glasses and week's worth of work clothes on the floor in our bedroom just don't bother me anymore.
So why am I so indifferent now? I swear on most days it bothers Brian more than me, and that's just weird. I do still get my gung-ho days where my hands can't keep up with my feet and I'm sprinting around the house like the Queen is coming for tea. But most of the time, I don't even see the mess.
And what did I used to hear from my housemates in college? The ones who just sat there drinking Mt. Dew while I tried to clean up around them, frustrated at their lack of concern for the pigsty surrounding them? – "Melissa, you just see it first."
Hmm. True. I did. But not anymore.
Because now—instead—I see Mac. And how he loves to run around from toy to toy, and try it out for two seconds and then move on to the next one. Why would I pick them up? He's just going to pull them back out of the bins the minute I straighten up. And I work all week, and my time home with him is super precious. So the dishes can wait.
And honestly, no one but me notices the dog hair collecting in the corner, or the pile of laundry in the basement, or the extra leaves in our yard. Or the tiny fingerprints on all the doors about two feet up from the bottom. My mom always waits a day or two to wash them off her back door after a Mac visit. Such pensive little marks.
Folks, the Queen is surely never coming to visit. And any friend or family member who walks through our front door doesn't give two poos about our slight mess...because they have their own at home.
However, my super-clean-neat-freakishnish regularly ticked off the other gals. And now I understand why. I mean, who wants to wake up early the day after a raging kegger and start cleaning the smelly tenement swimming in 700+ Natty Light beer cans?
"Oh me, please me! Yeah, let ME do it!!!"
I imagine it was pretty annoying to hear me running the sweeper at 10am when the last of them just went to bed at 6am. Is it too late to say I'm sorry?
Because guess what? I've managed to come a full 180 degrees since those days. I think most women would have turned more toward domesticity, but yeah no I've turned my psychotic cleaning days around and now I totally don’t care! Well I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm some neglectful hoarder who knowingly leaves a mountainous mess in every room, but the random toys and daily drinking glasses and week's worth of work clothes on the floor in our bedroom just don't bother me anymore.
So why am I so indifferent now? I swear on most days it bothers Brian more than me, and that's just weird. I do still get my gung-ho days where my hands can't keep up with my feet and I'm sprinting around the house like the Queen is coming for tea. But most of the time, I don't even see the mess.
And what did I used to hear from my housemates in college? The ones who just sat there drinking Mt. Dew while I tried to clean up around them, frustrated at their lack of concern for the pigsty surrounding them? – "Melissa, you just see it first."
Hmm. True. I did. But not anymore.
Because now—instead—I see Mac. And how he loves to run around from toy to toy, and try it out for two seconds and then move on to the next one. Why would I pick them up? He's just going to pull them back out of the bins the minute I straighten up. And I work all week, and my time home with him is super precious. So the dishes can wait.
And honestly, no one but me notices the dog hair collecting in the corner, or the pile of laundry in the basement, or the extra leaves in our yard. Or the tiny fingerprints on all the doors about two feet up from the bottom. My mom always waits a day or two to wash them off her back door after a Mac visit. Such pensive little marks.
Folks, the Queen is surely never coming to visit. And any friend or family member who walks through our front door doesn't give two poos about our slight mess...because they have their own at home.
And I promise I won't look if you don't.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
This gal learned a little in 2011
OK, strike that—I've learned a helluva a lot this year. Like when I was actually in school again for a few months. And when I had to buck up and learn how to raise an ornery 1-year-old, and decided to switch jobs, and thought it would be fun to put our house on the market for cow plop and chuckles.
So what exactly did the fabulous year of 2011—my 32nd year of life—teach me amongst all this chaotic silliness?
1. Don't move around your bedroom furniture by yourself on the first morning of your staycation. Because when you go to bend over and pick up your kid that evening, you'll throw out your back and then pass out at 4am in the kitchen from the pain, landing you in the ER on day #2 of staycation. Staycation ruined.
2. When traveling abroad, turn off your phone and never, ever turn it back on until you are safely back in the US of A, unless you call prior and get on an international plan. Within five minutes of playing on Facebook, I was charged over $50 by our fine friends at Verizon. And believe you me, my roaming was turned off.
3. When traveling abroad, "all-inclusive" does not always apply to the resort's top-shelf alcohol. Oh they will make you think it does, but later a nice lad will bring you a bill for a $108 bottle of craptastically gritty Mexican wine as a night cap. And of course at that point they don't understand a lick of English. ¡qué fastidio!
4. Dog's have a cute way of forewarning you when they are sick. Well, at least their bodily functions do. If your dog's flatulence is surprisingly debilitating for your family for a few days straight, chances are something not-so-pretty is going to happen. So put the pup in a cage or keep her outside until she erupts. You can thank me later.
5. If your kid doesn't like sugar, don’t push it on them at their first birthday party. We all want the cute photo of them diving into the cake and making a huge mess, but the mess they will leave you in the crib at 2 am is just not worth it.
6. If you are given a chance to get back to Athens, Ohio—do like Sir Mix-A-Lot says and jump on it! We traveled to OU for both my sister-in-law's graduation and a friend's wedding, and felt 10 years younger, instantly. Pub, Junction, Pawpurr's—then some sweet D.P. Dough. Oh, oh, yes please.
7. Planning a 10-year college reunion with girlfriends in Vegas is the Best. Idea. Ever. Screaming out Jersey Shore quotes while drinking on the strip? ...Well, that may not be.
8. Now this is a super-duper important one (ladies). Save the food section at Target for last. If you are anything like me, most Target trips take at least 1.5 hours. Thus, if you put a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie in your cart at oh, say 8:15 pm, by about 9:30 you've got quite the little mess for yourself in the shoe section.
9. No matter how much I try to be a loyal fan, my Ohio sports teams will always disappoint. Except when their players complete front-flips into the end zone.
10. Just as soon as I think Mac has a well-fitting (enough) wardrobe to get him by on weekends and at daycare for a few months, his pants all go Pee Wee Herman Harman on him.
And that's about all I've learned. Plus 1,534,968 other things. But that's the great thing about us human being peeps—we never stop learning. And I will never stop learning to make fun of my dorky self along the way.
Happy New Year 2012, friends! I'll see you on the flip side.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
Yep, you smarty pants guessed it. I'm here to share a few of my favorite things. Well, for this festive season, anyway. Because could there be a better way to jump back into blogging than to bore you all with the junk I heart? ... Didn't think so!
So here I am. Back again like Slim Shady. I'd love to say I've been MIA because I was chosen for some fantastic reality TV series that I was flown to Maui to film. Or that I won the lottery and had to figure out how to divvy up the money. (Your check is in the mail, trust me). But in lame fact, I had just been lost in a nightmare of graduate study homework and continuous home-showing cleaning (yup, it's still for sale - bummer). So, I've decided to catch a breather, gear up for the holidays and share some of the great finds, fun decorations and silly purchases we've made this season. Some simply for the exclusive fact that they will make our son smile. ...Such as these fancy Elmo PJ's for Brian.
So here I am. Back again like Slim Shady. I'd love to say I've been MIA because I was chosen for some fantastic reality TV series that I was flown to Maui to film. Or that I won the lottery and had to figure out how to divvy up the money. (Your check is in the mail, trust me). But in lame fact, I had just been lost in a nightmare of graduate study homework and continuous home-showing cleaning (yup, it's still for sale - bummer). So, I've decided to catch a breather, gear up for the holidays and share some of the great finds, fun decorations and silly purchases we've made this season. Some simply for the exclusive fact that they will make our son smile. ...Such as these fancy Elmo PJ's for Brian.
Real nice, Clark. And just $17 at my favorite late-night hangout, Target. "Elbow" is Mac's main squeeze right now. And look - they indeed made him smile! ...And even drool a little. That's amore.
So I thought it would be funny to tease Roxy with something soft and feathery, just far enough out of reach for her to contemplate pouncing each day. Thus, this purchase of a $3.95 ornament was made @ Kohl's. PLUS I had a 20% off coupon. I could have made this myself, but I'm lazy and can't imagine I would have spent less than $4. And as of today, it is still intact.
Since I have not used some of my typically birthday-only trimmings, I matched some teal ribbon with pink and red paper, and found a new love affair. This one is for Aunt Lulu, from H&M. She picked it out; I want to steal. Should have let you see it before wrapping!
Outside lights shout, "I swear I'm no scrooge!" no matter how many times your neighbors hear you yelling at the dog. Or your husband. Or your child. Or your old computer. And I love the candy cane feel of both white and red lights. Notice I'm too lazy to place lights anywhere above waist-level.
Old-school ornament. Or at least from when I was in college. Super sad that this reminds me I joined a sorority in 1997. I'm ancient, yo. Can I get a nice round of "A-oh, A-oh, the only way to go!" please? Word to your sista.
And since we're reminiscing, might as well add in a shot of one of the most awesome gifts Brian and I have ever received. Nearly makes me tear up. Who doesn't want an illuminated glass block that is a constant reminder of only the BEST days of your life?
OK, so to round things out, here's my own take of "Brown paper packages tied up with strings." I shared this on FacePlace last week, but it's just too cute to not repost here. It's fun and wintry without being too overtly Christmasy. I likey a lotty.
Owl paper found at World Market; Ribbon at Old Time Pottery. I'm down with OTP, yeah you know me.
So I lied. One final photo then I promise I'm done. I think this may be my most favorite thing. ...Our mini-maid, cleaning the floor with his wipes. Only my child.
So I lied. One final photo then I promise I'm done. I think this may be my most favorite thing. ...Our mini-maid, cleaning the floor with his wipes. Only my child.
Friday, September 9, 2011
This old, odd, outstanding house
On Tuesday, our house will officially be on the market. From that point forward, it's up to us to keep the home clean and smelling like an Old Yankee Candle, while the bricks and mortar attempt to strut their 20's-era charm and mojo to win over onlookers and ogglers.
Let's cross our fingers that they oggle... and linger... and ooh and ahh and fall in love, like we did a little over three years ago.
But just like Buttafuoco and Fisher, relationships lose their luster. And although we still really, really, really do love this home, it's time to move on. For many a reason. Let me show thee...
Laminate faux marble counter tops. These designer-imposter surfaces speak all for themselves. And right now I hear them whispering, "We're not fooling anyone!"
People in the early 1900's apparently had no shoulders. Because I have to turn every one of my hangers to a 45 degree angle in order to fit my clothes in my closet and shut the door.
One, yes only ONE, sad porcelain throne, people! 'Nuff said.
This is a random, second-story porch only accessible through Mac's room. If we move his bed out of the way first. I'm sure he would appreciate this perfect escape route as a teenager, but right now it's littered with leaves and the stares of our neighbor's children at eye-level since their father built a large tree house on our property line. Speaking of which...
Ahh...so nice of them to give us this beautiful view from our peaceful backyard. And so appropriate in the city. Because we really do appreciate your 7-year-old daughter perching 12 feet directly above us to throw orange peels at our dog while she watches us grill steak.
I know, I know. All old homes have their quirks. And I do appreciate most of them. But what is this light fixture? I've tried finding a replacement globe in stores, online, in the trash (kidding), but nothing fits this prehistoric contraption. We even bought an entirely new sconce, but the old knob and tube wiring is too complicated to figure it out. So granny's etched berries it is.
Something in this room just doesn't fit. Oh, maybe it is the 1994 after-market octagon window that was shoved in adjacent to the bedroom closet door. Makes sense. No need to put it in a more desirable, aesthetic location. The corner will do.
And I digress...for today. Enough of poking fun at this nearly 90-year-old abode. Because as I sit here in this still, cozy home writing and posting, I'd rather reflect on the one million reasons why it will be hard to leave this house. That post is for tomorrow.
Let's cross our fingers that they oggle... and linger... and ooh and ahh and fall in love, like we did a little over three years ago.
But just like Buttafuoco and Fisher, relationships lose their luster. And although we still really, really, really do love this home, it's time to move on. For many a reason. Let me show thee...
 |
People in the early 1900's apparently had no shoulders. Because I have to turn every one of my hangers to a 45 degree angle in order to fit my clothes in my closet and shut the door.
One, yes only ONE, sad porcelain throne, people! 'Nuff said.
Ahh...so nice of them to give us this beautiful view from our peaceful backyard. And so appropriate in the city. Because we really do appreciate your 7-year-old daughter perching 12 feet directly above us to throw orange peels at our dog while she watches us grill steak.
I know, I know. All old homes have their quirks. And I do appreciate most of them. But what is this light fixture? I've tried finding a replacement globe in stores, online, in the trash (kidding), but nothing fits this prehistoric contraption. We even bought an entirely new sconce, but the old knob and tube wiring is too complicated to figure it out. So granny's etched berries it is.
Something in this room just doesn't fit. Oh, maybe it is the 1994 after-market octagon window that was shoved in adjacent to the bedroom closet door. Makes sense. No need to put it in a more desirable, aesthetic location. The corner will do.
And I digress...for today. Enough of poking fun at this nearly 90-year-old abode. Because as I sit here in this still, cozy home writing and posting, I'd rather reflect on the one million reasons why it will be hard to leave this house. That post is for tomorrow.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Standing tall on the wings of Jaime's dreams
In a few months, I must don the following glittery Charlotte Russe shoes as part of my bridesmaid ensemble for my fabulous to-be sister-in-law's slow demise -- I mean, wedded bliss.
Six-plus inches of razzle-dazzle is all that will lay between my steadfast soles and the unforgiving, compacted hard earth come mid-November, folks. And I'm scared. But please do know that I looooove these blingy shoes; I heart sparkles and paired with the flowy, black tea-length dress all us gals will be wearing, the wedding photos are sure to turn heads. If my stumbling down the aisle doesn't first.
Thus, to help absorb the potential for disaster within that wobbly six-plus inches of additional height, I need to learn to walk like a super-model. And fast. So I bought some "professional" super-high, high-heels in which to practice. Daily. At work.
Let me just say ... Blisterfest 2011. I mean, how do women walk in these things? There's no "heel, toe" when you are this high up in the air. I feel like I'm bouncing down the hallways like a little girl trying on her mother's shoes for the first time. Is there some secret I never learned as a pre-teen girl? Some magical trick that my junior high friends forgot to teach me in order to now walk strong and "own it" like other women I see out on the streets in fantastically tall shoes? (Thanks a lot, Sharon.)
I may be crazy, but I'm going to lay part of the blame for my swollen tootsies on the fact that I have abnormally small feet for my height - I wear size 7 shoes and am nearly 5'8". Less square inches on which to steady myself. And, I'm convinced that smaller-sized shoes will have a greater incline between where your toes go and the heel.
...I really think I'm right on this one.
Anyway, practice apparently makes perfect, so I will do whatever I can over the next two months to ensure that I'm not the dorky old mom getting the "OMG" stares as I attempt to strut down the runway...errr, aisle. But until then, I will continue to curse that perfectly lady-like Shania broad. Because man, I DON'T feel like a woman.
Six-plus inches of razzle-dazzle is all that will lay between my steadfast soles and the unforgiving, compacted hard earth come mid-November, folks. And I'm scared. But please do know that I looooove these blingy shoes; I heart sparkles and paired with the flowy, black tea-length dress all us gals will be wearing, the wedding photos are sure to turn heads. If my stumbling down the aisle doesn't first.
Thus, to help absorb the potential for disaster within that wobbly six-plus inches of additional height, I need to learn to walk like a super-model. And fast. So I bought some "professional" super-high, high-heels in which to practice. Daily. At work.
 |
| (Yes, I totally took a photo of my own foot. Ewe.) |
I may be crazy, but I'm going to lay part of the blame for my swollen tootsies on the fact that I have abnormally small feet for my height - I wear size 7 shoes and am nearly 5'8". Less square inches on which to steady myself. And, I'm convinced that smaller-sized shoes will have a greater incline between where your toes go and the heel.
...I really think I'm right on this one.
Anyway, practice apparently makes perfect, so I will do whatever I can over the next two months to ensure that I'm not the dorky old mom getting the "OMG" stares as I attempt to strut down the runway...errr, aisle. But until then, I will continue to curse that perfectly lady-like Shania broad. Because man, I DON'T feel like a woman.
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