Yesterday Chris and I were grocery shopping in Wal-Mart (which I really hate to do because it takes 73 hours) and I realized that our cart was overflowing. We had a smorgasbord of crap. Chris and I grocery shop like our parents are gone for the weekend.
We completely walked right by the fruits and vegetables, well, we did buy a bag of apples, so that's a little redeeming, but generally, if it doesn't come in a can, or isn't of the corn or French style green bean variety, we're really not interested. We made a bee-line for the bakery. I was like, ooo, cupcakes! Have you ever had their cupcakes? SO, SO good. Anyway, I'm standing in front of the cupcakes which all have a little plastic ring thing on them, because apparently Wal-Mart thinks that children and not adults eat cupcakes, and I start to grab the cupcakes on top, which happened to be Hannah Montana. Chris says, I don't want Hannah Montana cupcakes. I'm like, they're all chocolate, it's just the ring on top that's different. He says, no, I don't want to have stupid cupcakes, I want good ones. So he made me dig all the way in the back for Transformer cupcakes. Mind you that we don't keep the ring, we take it off and throw it away, we don't even give it to the kids, but damnit, he doesn't want stupid cupcakes, he wants Transformer cupcakes! Whatever dude, don't ever say that I'm anal.
So after we've found suitable cupcakes, we hit the cereal aisle. When I see the best cereal on the planet is back I let a squeal and bump into a lady as dive toward the shelf. Count Chocula. Which by the way, I wish they'd stop only making it during Halloween season. It's the best cereal ever with its little chocolate bats and marshmallow ghosts. Once fall is over and I know that they're going to stop selling it soon, I buy literally about 10 boxes, it makes me so sad that I can't buy it year-round (General Mills are you listening?). Chris got Captain Crunch, some special one that turns the milk green, which is a little cool and a little gross at the same time. We loaded up on Diet Coke, I bought a can of Vienna sausages and a bunch of other crap I can't even remember, which is sad because it came to $143.
The most ridiculous thing about all this is, I don't let the kids eat any of that crap. They don't eat cookies and cupcakes or sugary cereal. I try to make them eat a balanced diet. It's for me and Chris. It's really not surprising that we have what doctors like to call a little bit of a weight problem. And before you tell me that I should set a better example, save it, I'm not interested. Don't use your logic on me, we're talking cupcakes and Count Chocula here. How can you even argue with that?
Where's Dr. Phil when you really need him?
The last couple of days have been crazy. We decided that we were done messing around, that June was too far away and that we REALLY hate being cold. We want to move in January. I think we're really close to finding the right house. I hesitate to say too much, because I don't want to jinx it. If I believed in jinxes, which I don't, but you know what I mean. I promise, as soon as I know anything for sure, I'll share it with you guys.
Anyway, since we're really trying to involve the kids in all this, I talked to them about moving early, which they were both totally fine with. Davey poured over the different listings, scanning each picture, weighing the pros and cons, being very methodical (sounds like anyone you know?), Kat on the other hand was like, which ones have pools? I showed her. She says, Yeah. It should have a pool. As long as it has a pool and I have a pink room, I'm happy. With that she fluttered out of the room in her "I'm a princess way". Everything seemed to be ok, they were excited. Then last night, Davey says, I'm tired. I think I'm just going to go to bed. It was like 7:30. I knew immediately something was up. So I pushed a little bit and was like, c'mon buddy, what's going on? Then he burst into tears and starts talking about how he's scared to move because no one will want to be friends with him, how he's different than the other kids, how sometimes all he wants is to be one of the popular kids, how he doesn't understand why the other boys walk away when he's talking to them...on and on. My heart broke in a million pieces.
Davey has always marched to the beat of his own drummer. He's not like other kids. He's ridiculously smart, he's funny, witty, and in my opinion, pretty damn cool. I think that's a great thing, but for him it's starting to be a problem. His ongoing anxiety issues don't help anything and I really, really don't want to put him on medication again. I told him that he's special the way that he is and that I admire him for not being ashamed of being who he is, but that giving the other kids a chance wouldn't be so bad. I suggested that maybe he try to play kickball or football with them at recess and give them a chance, maybe they'd give him a chance. So what's a mom to do? Do I tell him to let his freak flag fly? Do I tell him that it doesn't matter what other kids think? Can I tell him that his anxiety is holding him back without sending him into an anxiety attack? Do I tell him not to bother trying to play with the other kids because they can be so judgemental and stupid? Do I shelter him or should I be honest? To make matters worse, Kat is pretty popular which only makes David feel worse.
This morning David was better. Still a little hesitant, but said he would try to make more of an effort to be included. Did I do the right thing telling him to try harder? This is my baby we're talking about...help me internet!
Anyway, since we're really trying to involve the kids in all this, I talked to them about moving early, which they were both totally fine with. Davey poured over the different listings, scanning each picture, weighing the pros and cons, being very methodical (sounds like anyone you know?), Kat on the other hand was like, which ones have pools? I showed her. She says, Yeah. It should have a pool. As long as it has a pool and I have a pink room, I'm happy. With that she fluttered out of the room in her "I'm a princess way". Everything seemed to be ok, they were excited. Then last night, Davey says, I'm tired. I think I'm just going to go to bed. It was like 7:30. I knew immediately something was up. So I pushed a little bit and was like, c'mon buddy, what's going on? Then he burst into tears and starts talking about how he's scared to move because no one will want to be friends with him, how he's different than the other kids, how sometimes all he wants is to be one of the popular kids, how he doesn't understand why the other boys walk away when he's talking to them...on and on. My heart broke in a million pieces.
Davey has always marched to the beat of his own drummer. He's not like other kids. He's ridiculously smart, he's funny, witty, and in my opinion, pretty damn cool. I think that's a great thing, but for him it's starting to be a problem. His ongoing anxiety issues don't help anything and I really, really don't want to put him on medication again. I told him that he's special the way that he is and that I admire him for not being ashamed of being who he is, but that giving the other kids a chance wouldn't be so bad. I suggested that maybe he try to play kickball or football with them at recess and give them a chance, maybe they'd give him a chance. So what's a mom to do? Do I tell him to let his freak flag fly? Do I tell him that it doesn't matter what other kids think? Can I tell him that his anxiety is holding him back without sending him into an anxiety attack? Do I tell him not to bother trying to play with the other kids because they can be so judgemental and stupid? Do I shelter him or should I be honest? To make matters worse, Kat is pretty popular which only makes David feel worse.
This morning David was better. Still a little hesitant, but said he would try to make more of an effort to be included. Did I do the right thing telling him to try harder? This is my baby we're talking about...help me internet!
Fall means football and headaches
Our family loves football. Shocker, right? Well, this love for football means that we take football very seriously. It's not just a game, it's a way of life. We schedule around football, both college and pro (which leaves zero time for socializing on the weekends), Davey plays football and dreams of a career in the NFL, Chris eats, sleeps, breathes and coaches football. It's this last bit that's causing a problem. Chris has always coached the kids. When they were 4 they were on this junior soccer team, and Chris was the coach. It was the most horrendously awful thing you've ever seen. Chris knows absolutely nothing about soccer and the kids were really, REALLY bad at it. To make matters worse, they were on the yellow team. So imagine this big burly guy running around in a sunshine yellow t-shirt with a bunch of 4 year olds pretending to play soccer. Most of the time they'd stop dribbling the ball to pick flowers or catch butterflies. And poor Chris would be clapping his hands and being all, good job, now run for the ball...no, leave that flower alone! The ball, get the ball! I think our record was something like 1-13. So sad. But the great thing was seeing the lengths that Chris would go to stay involved in the kids' activities. Enter football.
This is Chris' third year coaching David's football team, only this year, he's not an assistant or head coach of one of the teams, he's running the whole youth football program for our town, so the pressure is really on him. He's got parents confronting him all the time asking why they're son can't play quarterback, he's dealing with scheduling crap, mouthy 10 year olds, plus coaching his own kid and dealing with me. Well, Sunday was their first game. They played ok, not bad, but there were some issues. So Chris spent hours retooling both the offense and defense, furiously scribbling notes and X's and O's in his little notebook, so he was really looking forward to practice last night. Apparently the kids were not. I guess (and this only hearing it second-hand), the kids didn't block, they didn't do any of what they were supposed to, and Chris was really, really angry. But of course, he can't show the other kids that, he doesn't yell at his team, and really tries hard to always be positive. However, as soon as he got in the car, he called me and started venting, not really remembering that it wasn't just his son in the car, that his son is also one of his players. By the time they got home, Chris' face was red, Davey was almost in tears, it was not pretty. Davey is having a really hard time separating dad Chris from coach Chris, and Chris is having an equally hard time separating Davey the player from Davey his son.
Eventually they talked it all out, and I think they'll be better for tomorrow's practice, but man, at this rate I don't know that I'm going to keep my sanity for the season. It's so hard to watch them struggle with all this father/son stuff (when all I've ever wished for them is to get to that great father/son place) and this coach/player stuff, all the while knowing that I have to stay out of it. I like to fix things, so me butting out is really hard. I think I'm going to bake the team cookies for this week's game. Cookies solve a myriad of life's problems. Just ask my thighs and ever-expanding ass.
One bonus though: on Sunday I was sitting by the end zone, "on the wrong side of the fence", and someone said, I don't think you can sit here. I said, I'm sleeping with the coach, I can sit anywhere I want.
This is Chris' third year coaching David's football team, only this year, he's not an assistant or head coach of one of the teams, he's running the whole youth football program for our town, so the pressure is really on him. He's got parents confronting him all the time asking why they're son can't play quarterback, he's dealing with scheduling crap, mouthy 10 year olds, plus coaching his own kid and dealing with me. Well, Sunday was their first game. They played ok, not bad, but there were some issues. So Chris spent hours retooling both the offense and defense, furiously scribbling notes and X's and O's in his little notebook, so he was really looking forward to practice last night. Apparently the kids were not. I guess (and this only hearing it second-hand), the kids didn't block, they didn't do any of what they were supposed to, and Chris was really, really angry. But of course, he can't show the other kids that, he doesn't yell at his team, and really tries hard to always be positive. However, as soon as he got in the car, he called me and started venting, not really remembering that it wasn't just his son in the car, that his son is also one of his players. By the time they got home, Chris' face was red, Davey was almost in tears, it was not pretty. Davey is having a really hard time separating dad Chris from coach Chris, and Chris is having an equally hard time separating Davey the player from Davey his son.
Eventually they talked it all out, and I think they'll be better for tomorrow's practice, but man, at this rate I don't know that I'm going to keep my sanity for the season. It's so hard to watch them struggle with all this father/son stuff (when all I've ever wished for them is to get to that great father/son place) and this coach/player stuff, all the while knowing that I have to stay out of it. I like to fix things, so me butting out is really hard. I think I'm going to bake the team cookies for this week's game. Cookies solve a myriad of life's problems. Just ask my thighs and ever-expanding ass.
One bonus though: on Sunday I was sitting by the end zone, "on the wrong side of the fence", and someone said, I don't think you can sit here. I said, I'm sleeping with the coach, I can sit anywhere I want.
At least she's tiny...
It's been a little over a week now since we introduced our newest pain in the ass little addition to our family. We got Kat a chihuahua for her birthday, even though her birthday isn't for another couple of weeks (ok, maybe they're a LITTLE spoiled). Kat decided this monster puppy should be called Bella, because she's beautiful because of Twilight because Tinkerbell was already taken by Paris Hilton and Chris refused to call her Tinkerbell purely on principle.
When Kat's dad and I took Kat to pick upSatan Bella, we had already agreed that she'd need to also go to the pet store to get puppy stuff. In Kat's mind, that meant clothes, a "fabulous bag" to carry her around in, lots of pink accessories, and even a baby book, all of which she suckered her dad into buying. I didn't even know they made baby books for dogs. Now, I totally get the appeal of a little dog, I have a pomeranian, Vivvy, who is honestly like a third child to me. She's the biggest baby ever, she's spoiled and demanding, and I completely adore her. I have never seen anything like this in my whole life. Since the minute Kat picked her up, she's done nothing but follow Kat around, sleep on Kat's bed every night, just be completely and totally devoted to Kat. In fact, the Monday after we brought her home, Kat had to go to school and you would've thought that it was the most traumatic thing in the world...for both of them. Kat cried, Beastly Bella let out this awful, heart-breaking wail...for about 30 minutes. She cried and shook almost all day waiting for Kat and as soon as Kat walked in, it was like the the damn dog had witnessed the Second Coming. I've never seen anything so ridiculous in my life. From either one of them, by the way. They're both nuts about each other.
So she's now doing all that reallyannoying cute puppy stuff. Stealing slippers (which incidentally is the dumbest thing I've ever seen because the slipper is about 10 times her size), peeing on the carpet, scaring the crap out of me ever time she gallops down the stairs, or better yet, sticks her head through the railing on the stairs, learning to bark, all that great stuff. But as much as we can't believe that we were so stupid to get another dog are dealing with this puppy stuff, it's totally worth it, because Kat is so, so happy. As Jerry Maguire said, check out what pure joy looks like.
When Kat's dad and I took Kat to pick up
So she's now doing all that really
Yup, for real. Poop.
Yesterday afternoon David came in the kitchen and said, Mom, my stomach really hurts. It has this really bad pain when I lean over. I didn't really think much of it at first. Then he lifted up his shirt and said, it hurts right here. There was this huge bump on his stomach, right under his rib cage. It was about the size of a small fist. Protruding out of his stomach. My own stomach dropped to my knees, I felt this hot pulse go through my body followed by tingling in all my limbs. But I didn't freak out. I didn't react (at least not externally). I looked at Chris with a sheer panic in my eyes, hoping that he could read my thoughts. He nodded and calmly said, can I see that bump again? He felt around, asking does it hurt here? How about here? Does it hurt when you turn from side to side? We asked Davey if he'd gotten hit at football practice (he said he didn't), does he remember doing anything that might have caused this? (he said he didn't). Then Chris says to me, I think we need to call the doctor.
Now Chris does not call the doctor. Ever. He never suggests it, and often scoffs when I say someone should go. He just doesn't do doctors. So him saying that throws me into all out panic. I knew that I couldn't let Davey see that, he has enough anxiety issues without me freaking him out. So I say, we're gonna call the doctor just to be safe. I'm sure it's nothing, buddy. Like a robot, I grabbed the phone and went outside to smoke a cigarette and call the doctor, feeling a weird combination of panic and numbness. I said to Chris, that's not normal. Bumps are really bad (my eyes start welling up with tears and start shaking). You know usually a bump like that is... Thank God Chris knows me so well, because he said, I know baby. Just call the doctor. I was so grateful to not have to finish that sentence. I've read too many stories about kids whose first symptom of cancer is a large bump, I just couldn't say it out loud. I'm thinking, no. Not my baby. No. This can't be happening. So I start thinking "best" case scenarios. Appendix? Spleen? Liver? Hernia? I'm truly teetering on the edge of a complete meltdown.
We get an appointment immediately at the doctor's office, literally 20 minutes later. Apparently they thought it was a pretty big deal as well, because we all know, that NEVER happens. So I'm doing my best to smile and laugh with Davey. Chris is telling us jokes and making sure that we're all focused on anything but this lump on my baby boy's stomach. When the doctor walked in, Chris squeezed my hand, I knew he was scared. He starts examining Davey. Having him bend over, turn from side to side. He says, hmmm, interesting... Which completely sends my mind into overdrive again. He says, do a sit up for me. Now do a crunch and hold it. He pushes around again and says, see this section here? That's his bowel. It's backed up poop. You can feel it right here. See how it's moved down? Are you fucking kidding me? Poop? Surely not. So I said, are you sure? You don't think it's anything...else? He says, no, it doesn't hurt him when I push on it, and if it was anything else, he'd be in excruciating pain. Are you in pain little guy? Davey says, actually, no. It feels a lot better. Son of a bitch. Poop? For real? When the doctor left the room, I said, let me see that bump. Gone. No bump. No lump. Nothing. Fucking poop.
So I paid $10, lost 15 years off my life and got 50% more gray hair to have the doctor tell me that my kid needs to poop. Typical.
Now Chris does not call the doctor. Ever. He never suggests it, and often scoffs when I say someone should go. He just doesn't do doctors. So him saying that throws me into all out panic. I knew that I couldn't let Davey see that, he has enough anxiety issues without me freaking him out. So I say, we're gonna call the doctor just to be safe. I'm sure it's nothing, buddy. Like a robot, I grabbed the phone and went outside to smoke a cigarette and call the doctor, feeling a weird combination of panic and numbness. I said to Chris, that's not normal. Bumps are really bad (my eyes start welling up with tears and start shaking). You know usually a bump like that is... Thank God Chris knows me so well, because he said, I know baby. Just call the doctor. I was so grateful to not have to finish that sentence. I've read too many stories about kids whose first symptom of cancer is a large bump, I just couldn't say it out loud. I'm thinking, no. Not my baby. No. This can't be happening. So I start thinking "best" case scenarios. Appendix? Spleen? Liver? Hernia? I'm truly teetering on the edge of a complete meltdown.
We get an appointment immediately at the doctor's office, literally 20 minutes later. Apparently they thought it was a pretty big deal as well, because we all know, that NEVER happens. So I'm doing my best to smile and laugh with Davey. Chris is telling us jokes and making sure that we're all focused on anything but this lump on my baby boy's stomach. When the doctor walked in, Chris squeezed my hand, I knew he was scared. He starts examining Davey. Having him bend over, turn from side to side. He says, hmmm, interesting... Which completely sends my mind into overdrive again. He says, do a sit up for me. Now do a crunch and hold it. He pushes around again and says, see this section here? That's his bowel. It's backed up poop. You can feel it right here. See how it's moved down? Are you fucking kidding me? Poop? Surely not. So I said, are you sure? You don't think it's anything...else? He says, no, it doesn't hurt him when I push on it, and if it was anything else, he'd be in excruciating pain. Are you in pain little guy? Davey says, actually, no. It feels a lot better. Son of a bitch. Poop? For real? When the doctor left the room, I said, let me see that bump. Gone. No bump. No lump. Nothing. Fucking poop.
So I paid $10, lost 15 years off my life and got 50% more gray hair to have the doctor tell me that my kid needs to poop. Typical.
Facelift
After my last debacle with trying my pathetic best to design my blog, I had resigned myself to this is as good as it gets. Then by some kind of miracle (something along the lines of the blind being miraculously cured, the paralyzed standing up and walking, the Earth's orbit changing, stuff like that) Chris said I could PAY someone to do my blog design. I think he was half asleep at the time, but if isn't bright enough not to talk in his sleep, that's not my problem.
I contacted Judith Shakes Designs and after a few hundred frantic emails (from me), a few thousand anal requests (also from me) and the patience of a saint (totally her, not me), I have a gorgeous new look. I'm so, so happy with it. It's all crazy and cool and kick ass.
If you're looking for a new design, she's fantastic and totally reasonably priced. Best of all, she's a really cool chick.
Feel free to gush.
I contacted Judith Shakes Designs and after a few hundred frantic emails (from me), a few thousand anal requests (also from me) and the patience of a saint (totally her, not me), I have a gorgeous new look. I'm so, so happy with it. It's all crazy and cool and kick ass.
If you're looking for a new design, she's fantastic and totally reasonably priced. Best of all, she's a really cool chick.
Feel free to gush.
Bring back that loving feeling, whoa that loving feeling...
With all this move stuff going on, Chris and I have been spending the majority of our time either arguing, stressing, debating or scratching each other's eyes out. It kind of all came to a head a few days ago when we were having what should've been a normal discussion and it ended up with me in tears and him holding his head in hands, clearly on the verge of a breakdown. This just isn't how we do things. We just don't fight that often, I mean, yeah we disagree and snipe back and forth sometimes, but we really don't fight. Most times, when we "fight" we bicker for a few minutes, he makes a joke, I call him a jackass and we move on. Lately, that just hasn't been happening. Anyway, after the dust settled, we decided that enough was enough. We decided that we really needed to get back to basics and get back to why we work so well to begin with.
So Monday night, we were both kinda tired, but we wanted to watch Monday Night Football, so we decided to watch it upstairs in bed. So we're lying there all cuddly (trying to mend our relationship, remember), and he says, this is nice. I was like, it is. You know, sometimes I wish that we could've done things different. Like, I had the chance to be your actual girlfriend. See, when we got together, he lived in South Carolina, I lived in Maine with the kids, so we've never had a "normal" relationship. We never got to do some of those fun dating things that people do. So he says, what do you mean? You were my girlfriend. I was like, no, I mean like, you pick me up for dates and stuff. You know, like normal people do. Normal people go on real dates. The only date you ever took me on was to Hooters, that hardly counts. He was all, Hooters totally counts, you just don't appreciate it like I do. Heh, I bet I don't. So we didn't say much else about it, the game got pretty good and fixing a relationship or not, football was on. We do have priorities, you know.
So yesterday, he only had to work until 12:30, so he sent me a text and asked if I wanted to leave early and get some lunch. I was like, yeah sure, just let me know when you get here. So I go about my business, and figure he'll call when he's in the parking lot. About 20 minutes later, he calls and says, hey, so I was wondering if you were busy. I'm in town today, and I'd really like to see you. I'm totally confused. I was like, uh, ok? I checked my phone to make sure that it was really him, and I wasn't going insane. He says, yeah, I just thought that we could go get some Chinese food. I've been thinking about you a lot, and I'd love to spend some time together. I'm completely confused. I was like, what are you talking about? I thought we already said we'd go have lunch? What are you saying? Honestly, at this point, I'm thinking he didn't mean to call me. He really meant to call his mistress and just didn't realize it was me and didn't hang up fast enough. My mind is racing, my blood starts boiling, I'm getting really, really angry. He says, I thought you said you wanted to go on a real date. Isn't this what guys are supposed to do? Call you up and ask you all proper? I just want us to be good again, and I know this is important to you. I feel like a total douche. Here I am thinking that my husband is having an affair, and he's really just trying to "date" me. I've said something in passing that he's not only listened to but has actually put some thought in, and all I can think is that he didn't call me on purpose, that he meant to call some other woman. Sigh.
After lunch we were driving home and got a flat tire on the interstate. He says, see, I'm so glad this wasn't an actual date. Bad Chinese food, a flat tire, you standing on the side of the interstate, I'd have to go home and cry myself to sleep. This is the worst date ever. I just smiled and said, I think it went pretty well, considering.
So Monday night, we were both kinda tired, but we wanted to watch Monday Night Football, so we decided to watch it upstairs in bed. So we're lying there all cuddly (trying to mend our relationship, remember), and he says, this is nice. I was like, it is. You know, sometimes I wish that we could've done things different. Like, I had the chance to be your actual girlfriend. See, when we got together, he lived in South Carolina, I lived in Maine with the kids, so we've never had a "normal" relationship. We never got to do some of those fun dating things that people do. So he says, what do you mean? You were my girlfriend. I was like, no, I mean like, you pick me up for dates and stuff. You know, like normal people do. Normal people go on real dates. The only date you ever took me on was to Hooters, that hardly counts. He was all, Hooters totally counts, you just don't appreciate it like I do. Heh, I bet I don't. So we didn't say much else about it, the game got pretty good and fixing a relationship or not, football was on. We do have priorities, you know.
So yesterday, he only had to work until 12:30, so he sent me a text and asked if I wanted to leave early and get some lunch. I was like, yeah sure, just let me know when you get here. So I go about my business, and figure he'll call when he's in the parking lot. About 20 minutes later, he calls and says, hey, so I was wondering if you were busy. I'm in town today, and I'd really like to see you. I'm totally confused. I was like, uh, ok? I checked my phone to make sure that it was really him, and I wasn't going insane. He says, yeah, I just thought that we could go get some Chinese food. I've been thinking about you a lot, and I'd love to spend some time together. I'm completely confused. I was like, what are you talking about? I thought we already said we'd go have lunch? What are you saying? Honestly, at this point, I'm thinking he didn't mean to call me. He really meant to call his mistress and just didn't realize it was me and didn't hang up fast enough. My mind is racing, my blood starts boiling, I'm getting really, really angry. He says, I thought you said you wanted to go on a real date. Isn't this what guys are supposed to do? Call you up and ask you all proper? I just want us to be good again, and I know this is important to you. I feel like a total douche. Here I am thinking that my husband is having an affair, and he's really just trying to "date" me. I've said something in passing that he's not only listened to but has actually put some thought in, and all I can think is that he didn't call me on purpose, that he meant to call some other woman. Sigh.
After lunch we were driving home and got a flat tire on the interstate. He says, see, I'm so glad this wasn't an actual date. Bad Chinese food, a flat tire, you standing on the side of the interstate, I'd have to go home and cry myself to sleep. This is the worst date ever. I just smiled and said, I think it went pretty well, considering.
They're not spoiled...they just get everything they want
Since the kids have been babies, everyone has always told me that they're spoiled, I do too much for them, I'm insane, whatever. I used to scoff at these people, what the hell do they know about me or my kids? I mean if I want to spoil them, I can, right? They are MINE after all. As much as I may complain or bitch about the finer points of motherhood, the fact is, I'm crazy about my kids. I think they're the coolest people on the planet, and I feel so lucky to know them, let alone be able to raise them. It's just awesome, they're awesome, I'm awesome, it's all awesome. Well, in all this awesomeness, I've started to think that maybe I've not only spoiled them, but I may have set a new standard for spoiled. Don't get me wrong, they don't act spoiled. I get pleases and thank yous, I get (and demand) respect, and anything that even looks like ungrateful or spoiled is dealt with quickly and harshly. My problem is, when you spoil so much, and the bar gets higher and higher, what do you do to top yourself?
For instance, they're turning 10 in October. And c'mon, 10 is a big deal, double-digits, 10 years without any catastrophic injuries or prosthetic limbs, that's something to celebrate. So anyway, Chris and I decided (well, I decided, Chris kinda just sighed and went along with it) to fulfil Davey's greatest wish, which is to see KISS in concert. They're his favorite band, he's been singing along with "Rock and Roll All Nite" and "Calling Dr. Love" since he was about 2 years old (don't judge me, the kid has good taste. What am I supposed to do? Say, no, you can't listen to that. Listen to the Wiggles just like everyone else. Fuck that, the Wiggles suck.) So we're taking him, in full Gene Simmons face makeup to see KISS for his birthday. I saw KISS about 8 years ago when they were on tour with Aerosmith, and it kicked so much ass. Davey has always asked me about it, and said that it was his "biggest wish EVER" to see them, and I told him that if they came close to us again, I'd take him. So, we're taking him. He's near giddy with excitement.
Kat has zero interest in going, so we had to find a great birthday present for her. She's always wanted a dog of her own, so...can you see where this is going? We got her a dog. Even though her birthday isn't for another couple of weeks, I can't keep a secret or a surprise to save my life, so she got it early. We got her a white chihuahua puppy on Friday night. She was so excited, she literally cried tears of joy, it was one of the coolest things I've ever seen. She was so grateful, and so happy. We already have 2 dogs and getting a dog for a kid means that the parents have to take care of it, but Kat is one of the most responsible kids I've ever met, much more so than even Davey, so I'm not worried about it. Besides, the puppy is cute as hell.
My problem is, how am I ever going to top this? I just don't think I can keep up this pace, I'm going to go broke or get divorced, or both. Like, last year for their birthday I got Kat a pair of Uggs, which are really not cheap, and we bought Davey a PSP (PlayStation Portable), also not cheap. Christmas was "low key", in that Kat got an American Girl doll and Davey got a bunch of video games, I still ended up spending nearly $500 on each of them. Now I've topped that with the whole KISS concert/new puppy birthday, plus we're taking them to Disney World for Christmas this year, what the hell am I going to do next year? At this pace, they're going to have a fucking yacht by the time they turn 18.
Now Chris has made me promise that I can't buy them anything else. He said, no matter what, you CANNOT BUY THEM ANYTHING ELSE. I was like, yeah, got it. He was all, babe, I'm not fucking kidding, this is IT. NO MORE. He always says that though. Maybe I could just get them something small, maybe a small island of the coast or France or something...
For instance, they're turning 10 in October. And c'mon, 10 is a big deal, double-digits, 10 years without any catastrophic injuries or prosthetic limbs, that's something to celebrate. So anyway, Chris and I decided (well, I decided, Chris kinda just sighed and went along with it) to fulfil Davey's greatest wish, which is to see KISS in concert. They're his favorite band, he's been singing along with "Rock and Roll All Nite" and "Calling Dr. Love" since he was about 2 years old (don't judge me, the kid has good taste. What am I supposed to do? Say, no, you can't listen to that. Listen to the Wiggles just like everyone else. Fuck that, the Wiggles suck.) So we're taking him, in full Gene Simmons face makeup to see KISS for his birthday. I saw KISS about 8 years ago when they were on tour with Aerosmith, and it kicked so much ass. Davey has always asked me about it, and said that it was his "biggest wish EVER" to see them, and I told him that if they came close to us again, I'd take him. So, we're taking him. He's near giddy with excitement.
Kat has zero interest in going, so we had to find a great birthday present for her. She's always wanted a dog of her own, so...can you see where this is going? We got her a dog. Even though her birthday isn't for another couple of weeks, I can't keep a secret or a surprise to save my life, so she got it early. We got her a white chihuahua puppy on Friday night. She was so excited, she literally cried tears of joy, it was one of the coolest things I've ever seen. She was so grateful, and so happy. We already have 2 dogs and getting a dog for a kid means that the parents have to take care of it, but Kat is one of the most responsible kids I've ever met, much more so than even Davey, so I'm not worried about it. Besides, the puppy is cute as hell.
My problem is, how am I ever going to top this? I just don't think I can keep up this pace, I'm going to go broke or get divorced, or both. Like, last year for their birthday I got Kat a pair of Uggs, which are really not cheap, and we bought Davey a PSP (PlayStation Portable), also not cheap. Christmas was "low key", in that Kat got an American Girl doll and Davey got a bunch of video games, I still ended up spending nearly $500 on each of them. Now I've topped that with the whole KISS concert/new puppy birthday, plus we're taking them to Disney World for Christmas this year, what the hell am I going to do next year? At this pace, they're going to have a fucking yacht by the time they turn 18.
Now Chris has made me promise that I can't buy them anything else. He said, no matter what, you CANNOT BUY THEM ANYTHING ELSE. I was like, yeah, got it. He was all, babe, I'm not fucking kidding, this is IT. NO MORE. He always says that though. Maybe I could just get them something small, maybe a small island of the coast or France or something...
Old things new again
The other night I watched the new Melrose Place. I was a huge fan of the show back in the 90's when it originally aired. When Chris and I moved in together, they had just started showing the original Melrose on Soap Network, and we DVR'ed them and watched them every night. He was pretty skeptical at first, he'd never watched the show and thought it sounded pretty awful. My response was, awfully fantastic! Watching all the old ones again, I loved it just as much, it was just as cheesy, just as ridiculous, and just as awesome. Anyway, by the time we watched the whole series, he grudgingly admitted that it was not only highly addictive and entertaining, but so trashy it made you want to shower after watching it. Now, that's what I call great t.v. Anyway, I'm digressing. As I was watching this new Melrose, I was thinking about all the other things that keep coming back that we're trying to improve. Is that always a good thing? Can you improve on an original?
For instance, leg warmers. I rocked the leg warmers back in the day. My favorite ones were white with red cats on them. I wore them with black stirrup leggings, a baggy hot pink shirt, pulled low on one side so my shoulder and sports bra showed, and about 12 belts over the shirt. And as much as I was on the cutting edge of fashion in the 80's, I was horrified this week when I saw that not only leg warmers, which really was bad enough, but ARM warmers were in fashion. Arm warmers? Seriously? That's not an improvement on the orginal, that's just stupid. People wear them with t-shirts and tank tops. Dude, if your arms are cold, wear a long-sleeved shirt.
Sometimes making old things new again is a good thing, like when you find a great vintage bag, or you bring back a killer retro t-shirt. Some things are better left in the past, like jelly shoes, acid washed jeans and yes, leg warmers. And sometimes, when you try to improve on a good thing, you get a big pile of steaming crap. We'll see how the whole Melrose 2.0 fares, let's hope it doesn't turn out to be an arm warmer debacle.
For instance, leg warmers. I rocked the leg warmers back in the day. My favorite ones were white with red cats on them. I wore them with black stirrup leggings, a baggy hot pink shirt, pulled low on one side so my shoulder and sports bra showed, and about 12 belts over the shirt. And as much as I was on the cutting edge of fashion in the 80's, I was horrified this week when I saw that not only leg warmers, which really was bad enough, but ARM warmers were in fashion. Arm warmers? Seriously? That's not an improvement on the orginal, that's just stupid. People wear them with t-shirts and tank tops. Dude, if your arms are cold, wear a long-sleeved shirt.
Sometimes making old things new again is a good thing, like when you find a great vintage bag, or you bring back a killer retro t-shirt. Some things are better left in the past, like jelly shoes, acid washed jeans and yes, leg warmers. And sometimes, when you try to improve on a good thing, you get a big pile of steaming crap. We'll see how the whole Melrose 2.0 fares, let's hope it doesn't turn out to be an arm warmer debacle.
I AM crafty! Who knew?
Friday I got it in my head that I should refinish the buffet. I spent the afternoon trying to sand the finish off it. First, sanding sucks, even with an electric sander. It's so, so boring. I got the top about 3/4 done when I sent Chris a text that said, Screw this. I'm done sanding. I'm thinking at this point that maybe home projects aren't really my thing, I have no patience for it. When Chris got home from work he tried to show me how "easy" it was to sand. It was still messy and boring as hell. So I told him where he could put his sander and decided to just paint it instead. I went to Home Depot and got my primer and paint, then we spend about an hour and half in the drawer pull aisle. Debating on the merits of brushed metal compared to silver or embossed silver. For real. I think that we just need to have a constant argument going. He finally said, Babe, seriously, I don't care. Just pick something. Good enough, sounds like a win to me.
So I got home and was all re-enthused about painting it. I started priming it and the phone rang. It was our pastor (also a huge football fan). It was opening weekend of college football, and he didn't get the channel that his team's game was on, so Chris invited him to watch it at our house. Keep in mind my house was a disaster. Dust everywhere from sanding all day, drawers emptied out, painting sheets all over the floor, it was an enormous mess. He says, you don't mind, right? Heh. It was ok though, it made me get my ass in gear. There was no way I was going to let my pastor and his wife come to my house like that. You should see her house, it's right out of Southern Living, it's so, so beautiful. I have total house-envy. So, I got up early Saturday morning and finished the buffet (it's gorgeous, by the way), got the house cleaned and out back together, showered and was ready in time to watch the Georgia game with Chris. Then I got the best compliment...EVER. The pastor's wife said, Oh, I love your house, you really have style. It's very...Pottery Barn. I could have died and gone to heaven right then. I played it cool though, I was like, Oh, thank you, it's nothing. Inside I was totally going, omgomgomgomg YEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS! Success! I mean, my love for all things Pottery Barn is really no secret.
That's what it looks like now. I didn't take a before picture, mostly because I didn't think it would turn out this good and I didn't want to have any proof that I messed it up.
So maybe I don't hate home projects after all, maybe I just needed some validation. Or maybe projects that include an electric sander just inherently suck. Or maybe I just really have no patience. Either way, it was a big accomplishment, and I really love it. I celebrated by doing absolutely nothing for the next 48 hours.
So I got home and was all re-enthused about painting it. I started priming it and the phone rang. It was our pastor (also a huge football fan). It was opening weekend of college football, and he didn't get the channel that his team's game was on, so Chris invited him to watch it at our house. Keep in mind my house was a disaster. Dust everywhere from sanding all day, drawers emptied out, painting sheets all over the floor, it was an enormous mess. He says, you don't mind, right? Heh. It was ok though, it made me get my ass in gear. There was no way I was going to let my pastor and his wife come to my house like that. You should see her house, it's right out of Southern Living, it's so, so beautiful. I have total house-envy. So, I got up early Saturday morning and finished the buffet (it's gorgeous, by the way), got the house cleaned and out back together, showered and was ready in time to watch the Georgia game with Chris. Then I got the best compliment...EVER. The pastor's wife said, Oh, I love your house, you really have style. It's very...Pottery Barn. I could have died and gone to heaven right then. I played it cool though, I was like, Oh, thank you, it's nothing. Inside I was totally going, omgomgomgomg YEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS! Success! I mean, my love for all things Pottery Barn is really no secret.
That's what it looks like now. I didn't take a before picture, mostly because I didn't think it would turn out this good and I didn't want to have any proof that I messed it up.So maybe I don't hate home projects after all, maybe I just needed some validation. Or maybe projects that include an electric sander just inherently suck. Or maybe I just really have no patience. Either way, it was a big accomplishment, and I really love it. I celebrated by doing absolutely nothing for the next 48 hours.
Sweet dreams are made of this
I've been so exhausted the past couple of weeks. I haven't been sleeping well, and I haven't been getting nearly enough. I've also been having weird dreams. A couple weeks ago I dreamt that the world had been taken over by space aliens, and all of humanity had been forced to work in these Nazi-like prison camps. Most people had been completely brain-washed, only a few people were left with their sanity. And I kept seeing my children walk by like drones, the didn't know me, and they kept using heavy farm equipment. I kept calling out to them, but they just looked past me, like they didn't know me.
Then a couple of nights ago, I had a similar dream, only the kids were safe, they'd been taken by some alien refugee-fighter people, and Chris and I were left to escape the compound alone. And Chris and I had almost escaped when I remembered that I forgot a red bucket of paint, and I HAD to have this red bucket of paint, so I went back for it, and they captured us again.
Then last night, I dreamt that Chris were going to rescue the kids, and I stole an 18-wheeler and a shotgun, and I shot the hell out of the aliens, only to be captured by the chief mama alien who had a thing for Chris. The kids were set free and were happy and safe. But my punishment was to be locked in a room forever with Chris while I watched him go crazy.
I don't know why I keep dreaming about aliens, but I'm wondering if I should try to start interpreting my dreams. Like maybe the aliens are a metaphor for society and I don't want to be a drone, and I'm afraid of losing my kids to the evils of society. And maybe I'm a little afraid of farm equipment. Maybe the compound Chris and I are trying to escape is this town, and maybe we're going to fight over this house stuff so much that we'll end up staying here. And maybe the only solution is to steal an 18-wheeler and start blowing shit up. Probably not, but I don't see a metaphor for that. But maybe Chris is really the crazy one, not me. Or maybe in the end it'll be just me and Chris, and a crazy space alien. Or maybe I just need more sleep.
Then a couple of nights ago, I had a similar dream, only the kids were safe, they'd been taken by some alien refugee-fighter people, and Chris and I were left to escape the compound alone. And Chris and I had almost escaped when I remembered that I forgot a red bucket of paint, and I HAD to have this red bucket of paint, so I went back for it, and they captured us again.
Then last night, I dreamt that Chris were going to rescue the kids, and I stole an 18-wheeler and a shotgun, and I shot the hell out of the aliens, only to be captured by the chief mama alien who had a thing for Chris. The kids were set free and were happy and safe. But my punishment was to be locked in a room forever with Chris while I watched him go crazy.
I don't know why I keep dreaming about aliens, but I'm wondering if I should try to start interpreting my dreams. Like maybe the aliens are a metaphor for society and I don't want to be a drone, and I'm afraid of losing my kids to the evils of society. And maybe I'm a little afraid of farm equipment. Maybe the compound Chris and I are trying to escape is this town, and maybe we're going to fight over this house stuff so much that we'll end up staying here. And maybe the only solution is to steal an 18-wheeler and start blowing shit up. Probably not, but I don't see a metaphor for that. But maybe Chris is really the crazy one, not me. Or maybe in the end it'll be just me and Chris, and a crazy space alien. Or maybe I just need more sleep.
Maybe my new house should have padded walls
Yesterday I got the new Pottery Barn catalog. I've read it cover to cover about 47 times. It's a bad habit that I have, drooling over things that I can't afford/shouldn't buy because my husband will divorce me. Only this time it's worse. I have in my head this beautiful blank canvas in which I can do anything I want to. I've already chosen the paint colors, the faucets, tiles, carpets, the whole 9. Problem is, we don't have a house yet. And we're not moving until June. Perhaps it's a little early, but I think it's just because I like to plan. Chris says it's because I'm a total control freak and am neurotic like nobodies business.
I mean, yeah, I clean my ears at least 5 times a day. I'm not exaggerating. I clean them every time I go into the bathroom. We go through q-tips like normal people go through toilet paper. I don't know why, I guess I just like having clean ears. And I won't drink Diet Coke out of a 2-liter bottle if it's less than 25% full. I measure this by the label. It it's under the label, it's no good. I pour it out. If it's under the label it doesn't have as many bubbles, and I really like carbonation. This of course drives Chris crazy because it's a "waste". I think it's a waste that no one has figured out how to make the last bit of Diet Coke bubbly.
But it's not like Irefold laundry after it's put away if it's not done right, make sure that all the towels and wash clothes are facing the same way, wash the dishes in water so hot it melts your skin off, think bleach is the best smell in the world and would bathe in bleach if I thought I wouldn't die. Ok, so maybe I'm neurotic. But that's part of my charm. I'm still going shopping for household items for a house we don't have. Why? Because if I don't, I feel like I'm losing control, I start wringing my hands and pacing. I break into a cold sweat and start sputtering sentence fragments and setting things on fire (funniest movie ever reference). I start pulling at my hair and rocking back and forth in the corner.
On second thought, maybe I should skip the Pottery Barn catalog and start shopping for anti-psychotics.
I mean, yeah, I clean my ears at least 5 times a day. I'm not exaggerating. I clean them every time I go into the bathroom. We go through q-tips like normal people go through toilet paper. I don't know why, I guess I just like having clean ears. And I won't drink Diet Coke out of a 2-liter bottle if it's less than 25% full. I measure this by the label. It it's under the label, it's no good. I pour it out. If it's under the label it doesn't have as many bubbles, and I really like carbonation. This of course drives Chris crazy because it's a "waste". I think it's a waste that no one has figured out how to make the last bit of Diet Coke bubbly.
But it's not like I
On second thought, maybe I should skip the Pottery Barn catalog and start shopping for anti-psychotics.
