Yesterday as I was leaving work, I was subject to a cat-call. I know some women get offended by cat calls, and some would be grossed out, but me? I was sort of weirdly flattered. Because nothing says, "I still got it!" like 3 middle-aged scruffy men who likely smell like a dumpster ogling your chest and whistling from the cab of their primer gray/forest service green pick up, the rear of which is loaded up with (I assume) dumpster-diving treasures.
Oh yeah, baby. Still got it!
Showing posts with label Funny Shit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Funny Shit. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
How the Dinosaurs Died.
No, seriously. According to my (science teacher) husband, an asteroid is now (ok, had been for years and years) the commonly accepted most likely answer for how the dinosaurs went extinct. And here I thought it was an ice age and acid rains?
Either way, I am seriously digging the 1980s vibe of this artistic interpretation of mass extinction of dinos.
Aside for the humorless: There is nothing funny about mass species extinction.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
How A Baby Is Born.
"Mommy, can we talk about hospitals?" she asks. It's just one of her typical leading questions, and I was hoping this time it would be benign, unlike last time. I'm cute when I'm so foolishly optimistic, huh?
"Sure, sweetie. Why don't you start?"
"Can you tell me what the hospital did to me when I was little and I borned there?"
"Well, mommy gave birth to you, then they weighed and measured you, checked you to make sure you were healthy, gave you a bath, and helped mommy and daddy take care of you."
"And the doctors took me from your belly?"
"Um, well....not exactly, sweetie. Mommy actually pushed you out and they helped me."
"Oh, how did you push me out?"
"Well, I used my tummy muscles and pushed until you were born."
"But how?"
"Um, you know when you go potty sometimes you use your tummy and push?"
"Yeah."
"Like that."
"Oh. But did you push me out from your tummy?"
(I chose to only answer the 'how do you push' part and not tell her how the baby gets out. I'm all for full disclosure, but until she asks me specifically about the logisitics, I think she might be too young to really understand a woman's multipurpose nethers.)
"Well, honey, you grew in mommy's tummy, but you didn't come out that way, exactly."
(husband growing more uncomfortable)
"Oh. Yeah. I came out your leg like in those shows where babies are born. The doctors helped you push out your leg."
(Here's where I was momentarily confused, until I realized what she meant)
"Well, in those shows the doctors hold the mommy's leg to help her push, but the baby doesn't come out her leg."
(silence as she considers)
"When Flower is born (Flower being the name Luca has already decided on for her hypothetical baby sister to come) I can help you push her from your tummy, right?"
"I don't know sweetheart. That's kind of the mommy's work. But I'll tell you what. IF mommy ever has a baby Flower, I promise you can watch her be born, ok? And then you'll know how mommies push out their babies."
"Ok mommy. But I'm not going to breastfeed her, ok?"
"Sure, sweetie. Why don't you start?"
"Can you tell me what the hospital did to me when I was little and I borned there?"
"Well, mommy gave birth to you, then they weighed and measured you, checked you to make sure you were healthy, gave you a bath, and helped mommy and daddy take care of you."
"And the doctors took me from your belly?"
"Um, well....not exactly, sweetie. Mommy actually pushed you out and they helped me."
"Oh, how did you push me out?"
"Well, I used my tummy muscles and pushed until you were born."
"But how?"
"Um, you know when you go potty sometimes you use your tummy and push?"
"Yeah."
"Like that."
"Oh. But did you push me out from your tummy?"
(I chose to only answer the 'how do you push' part and not tell her how the baby gets out. I'm all for full disclosure, but until she asks me specifically about the logisitics, I think she might be too young to really understand a woman's multipurpose nethers.)
"Well, honey, you grew in mommy's tummy, but you didn't come out that way, exactly."
(husband growing more uncomfortable)
"Oh. Yeah. I came out your leg like in those shows where babies are born. The doctors helped you push out your leg."
(Here's where I was momentarily confused, until I realized what she meant)
"Well, in those shows the doctors hold the mommy's leg to help her push, but the baby doesn't come out her leg."
(silence as she considers)
"When Flower is born (Flower being the name Luca has already decided on for her hypothetical baby sister to come) I can help you push her from your tummy, right?"
"I don't know sweetheart. That's kind of the mommy's work. But I'll tell you what. IF mommy ever has a baby Flower, I promise you can watch her be born, ok? And then you'll know how mommies push out their babies."
"Ok mommy. But I'm not going to breastfeed her, ok?"
Friday, February 4, 2011
Humor from the Trenches.
All my life, I knew I wanted to be a mom. There was never a question of 'if' just a question of when and how many (that last question has yet to be answered). I expected both great joy and great challenges, and more than any other age, Luca's third year has been a huge learning experience for all of us. Three ushered in the era of tantrums and screaming and defiance. Three also ushered in independence, personal style, sense of humor, compassion, and a love for school and her new friends, imagination play, empathy, and more. It's been an amazing year that's stretched us all, and it's not even over yet!
And so, when I saw this clip, I laughed my ass off. Really, he hit the nail on the head here.
Disclaimer: This video is completely not safe for work, nor is it safe for people who lack a sense of humor and think it means I secretly want to beat my kids or throw them out windows. Consider yourself disclaimed.
And so, when I saw this clip, I laughed my ass off. Really, he hit the nail on the head here.
Disclaimer: This video is completely not safe for work, nor is it safe for people who lack a sense of humor and think it means I secretly want to beat my kids or throw them out windows. Consider yourself disclaimed.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Turns Out, I Still Got It.
We're renovating our offices at work, which ends up meaning we're losing our conference room in favor of two more offices and also we had to work side-by-side with the guys who come in and blow out walls and drywall and paint. And by side-by-side, I mean to say that the fuckers had me pull my furniture from the walls so they could paint 5 feet from me as I attempted to work. So you can see, it's not my fault at all that I spent a good part of the last 10 days of work gossiping with co-workers, Facebooking, and staring into space. It was the paint fumes, I tell ya.
In the process of losing our conference room, we have had to get creative about having lunch together because in an office like ours we all tend to lunch at the same time. We had been gathering around a very small round table for over a week, until the painters were done and we could move the conference table off into a better spot so we could all eat around it again. Which lasted exactly one day, because on the very day we brilliantly realized the table could be moved to acommodate us, we got an email that someone had seen it on Craigslist and wanted to buy it, with cash, that afternoon.
We were eating lunch, musing over what the table would be used for. Probably someone with a business, was the consensus. The table would be moved from our old conference room into theirs. Looking at the table more closely now that it was about to be taken, I said out loud, "I wish I had a dining room. I'd take this table, refinish it, and put it with some interesting thrift store chairs. It would make an awesome dining room table in the right space." The collective group of my co-workers gave me the side eye, so I shrugged and went back to my salad.
Fast forward to that afternoon, and into the office stroll two guys who look to be early to mid twenties. I show them the table, they give me the cash, and I offer them some tools to help disassemble it. I wander back to my office, and on the way there learn that a few of the single girls I work with think one of the boys is cute. There's some discussion about how to flirt with him vs whether he might be married, and I say something about him looking too young to be married. The youngins in the office roll their eyes and inform me he's not young - - - after all, he must be at least 26! The HORRORS! Get that man a Medicaid application stat!!
A little later, one of my co-workers brings the guys back to her office, where they also haul away (gratis) two metal shelving units. She asks them, upon their interest in said very industrial, heavy, and seemingly useless things, whether they might be furnishing a new office.
"No," replies quasi-attractive maybe-26 year old. "I just bought a house, and I thought I'd refinish the conference table and put it in my dining room."
This is where I point out that the 26 year old (tops...I vote closer to 24) had the same grand plan for that table as I. Which means, for anyone too daft to pick up what I'm puttin' down, I am hip. Just when I was feeling old and frumpy and boring, turns out I Still Got It.
In the process of losing our conference room, we have had to get creative about having lunch together because in an office like ours we all tend to lunch at the same time. We had been gathering around a very small round table for over a week, until the painters were done and we could move the conference table off into a better spot so we could all eat around it again. Which lasted exactly one day, because on the very day we brilliantly realized the table could be moved to acommodate us, we got an email that someone had seen it on Craigslist and wanted to buy it, with cash, that afternoon.
We were eating lunch, musing over what the table would be used for. Probably someone with a business, was the consensus. The table would be moved from our old conference room into theirs. Looking at the table more closely now that it was about to be taken, I said out loud, "I wish I had a dining room. I'd take this table, refinish it, and put it with some interesting thrift store chairs. It would make an awesome dining room table in the right space." The collective group of my co-workers gave me the side eye, so I shrugged and went back to my salad.
Fast forward to that afternoon, and into the office stroll two guys who look to be early to mid twenties. I show them the table, they give me the cash, and I offer them some tools to help disassemble it. I wander back to my office, and on the way there learn that a few of the single girls I work with think one of the boys is cute. There's some discussion about how to flirt with him vs whether he might be married, and I say something about him looking too young to be married. The youngins in the office roll their eyes and inform me he's not young - - - after all, he must be at least 26! The HORRORS! Get that man a Medicaid application stat!!
A little later, one of my co-workers brings the guys back to her office, where they also haul away (gratis) two metal shelving units. She asks them, upon their interest in said very industrial, heavy, and seemingly useless things, whether they might be furnishing a new office.
"No," replies quasi-attractive maybe-26 year old. "I just bought a house, and I thought I'd refinish the conference table and put it in my dining room."
This is where I point out that the 26 year old (tops...I vote closer to 24) had the same grand plan for that table as I. Which means, for anyone too daft to pick up what I'm puttin' down, I am hip. Just when I was feeling old and frumpy and boring, turns out I Still Got It.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Compassion.
I had a rough day on Friday for reasons I'm not interested in delving into on a blog (you've heard of Dooce and being Dooced, right?) though in the interest of clarity I will share I was not dooced, I just don't want to delve into things that could get me dooced. Let's just say I'd been looking forward to things happening on Friday and my expectations far exceeded my reality. So after work I headed over to my in-laws' house to meet up with my husband and kids and eat dinner, and I was definitely in a funk. Add to my funk the fact I was on day 2 of a cold, which always and without fail makes me more emotional and sensitive, and it was a recipe for a breakdown, but it was a breakdown that had to be put on pause until I was alone.
Except that 'being alone' is hard to come by when you have two kids, and by the time Luca begged to ride home with me and not her daddy, I was wound so tightly I felt like a spring about to burst and shoot across the room.
I decided to treat myself to coffee and chocolate cake from a little coffee shop near our house, so Luca and I stopped and went inside to order. The shop is right off a man-made lake, and usually we go to a restaurant in the same plaza and let Luca and Rohan go see the ducks by the lake. But seeing as how it was almost 8 pm and the only thing by the lake was coffee-drinking chain smokers, when she asked to go see the lake I said no. And then, I said no to that same request approximately 17 more times in the 10 minutes we were in the coffee shop. I kept my cool, loaded her and the drinks in the car, and then fielded no less than 6 requests to hand her the chocolate milk I'd bought her so she could drink it, all answered with a "You may have it when we get home." and by this point I was not even out of the parking lot yet.
And, I lost it. Big, ugly tears started to stream down my face and my congested nose was running and there were tissues in piles and I said to Luca, "Sweetie, mama is having a tough night and needs you to just not talk right now please, ok?"
Being the sweet and sensitive soul she is, Luca replied from the backseat, "Ohhhh, mama. Don't be saaaaad, mama. I'm sorrrrry mama."
I thanked her and continued to cry, trying to focus on the road ahead. I wanted to be alone to break down, but at the same time I was glad for a compassionate soul so near me. She was silent and gave me space to be emotional and sad and a snot-nosed mess.
And then, from the backseat, "Mommy?"
And me, figuring she had something really sweet and endearing to say, "Yes, baby?"
"Um, the booger I just ate tasted like a corn chip. Isn't that crazy?"
Except that 'being alone' is hard to come by when you have two kids, and by the time Luca begged to ride home with me and not her daddy, I was wound so tightly I felt like a spring about to burst and shoot across the room.
I decided to treat myself to coffee and chocolate cake from a little coffee shop near our house, so Luca and I stopped and went inside to order. The shop is right off a man-made lake, and usually we go to a restaurant in the same plaza and let Luca and Rohan go see the ducks by the lake. But seeing as how it was almost 8 pm and the only thing by the lake was coffee-drinking chain smokers, when she asked to go see the lake I said no. And then, I said no to that same request approximately 17 more times in the 10 minutes we were in the coffee shop. I kept my cool, loaded her and the drinks in the car, and then fielded no less than 6 requests to hand her the chocolate milk I'd bought her so she could drink it, all answered with a "You may have it when we get home." and by this point I was not even out of the parking lot yet.
And, I lost it. Big, ugly tears started to stream down my face and my congested nose was running and there were tissues in piles and I said to Luca, "Sweetie, mama is having a tough night and needs you to just not talk right now please, ok?"
Being the sweet and sensitive soul she is, Luca replied from the backseat, "Ohhhh, mama. Don't be saaaaad, mama. I'm sorrrrry mama."
I thanked her and continued to cry, trying to focus on the road ahead. I wanted to be alone to break down, but at the same time I was glad for a compassionate soul so near me. She was silent and gave me space to be emotional and sad and a snot-nosed mess.
And then, from the backseat, "Mommy?"
And me, figuring she had something really sweet and endearing to say, "Yes, baby?"
"Um, the booger I just ate tasted like a corn chip. Isn't that crazy?"
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Cabbage.
Next weekend, my husband is competing in a wing-eating championship. If you read my blog regularly, you may remember that he won the local wing contest on a total whim several months back, which qualified him for the finals in August. Well, that finale is next Saturday, so we've been prepping him for a few weeks now.
At first, 'prepping' meant he ate a lot of dinner and drank a half gallon of water in the morning and another half with dinner. But then, we did a practice run at Chompie's with their slider challenge and he was less than impressed with his results. He started his half hour with 12 sliders and a pile of onion strings. He called it quits 18 minutes into it with 4.5 sliders and most of the strings left. Not too shabby, right? But is it enough to be able to win the wing contest next weekend? He wasn't convinced.
Which was when he decided to suggest the unthinkable to me: cabbage. Yes, it seems in the ametuer eating contest arena, eating a head of boiled cabbage a day is well-recognized as a low-calorie way to get your stomach used to being stretched with a large quantity of food.
Being the awesome and perfect wife I am (ha ha ha) I went to the store the next day and bought him 3 heads of cabbage. And boiled them. Because, remember when I said I am awesome? I am also apparently stupid enough to ignore what I know was going to happen as a result of all that cabbage.
At first, 'prepping' meant he ate a lot of dinner and drank a half gallon of water in the morning and another half with dinner. But then, we did a practice run at Chompie's with their slider challenge and he was less than impressed with his results. He started his half hour with 12 sliders and a pile of onion strings. He called it quits 18 minutes into it with 4.5 sliders and most of the strings left. Not too shabby, right? But is it enough to be able to win the wing contest next weekend? He wasn't convinced.
Which was when he decided to suggest the unthinkable to me: cabbage. Yes, it seems in the ametuer eating contest arena, eating a head of boiled cabbage a day is well-recognized as a low-calorie way to get your stomach used to being stretched with a large quantity of food.
Being the awesome and perfect wife I am (ha ha ha) I went to the store the next day and bought him 3 heads of cabbage. And boiled them. Because, remember when I said I am awesome? I am also apparently stupid enough to ignore what I know was going to happen as a result of all that cabbage.
In summary, here's how you know I love my husband even when I might be inclined to tease him or complain about his socks on the floor or even ask him in my very-own semi-annoyed/semi-teasing way if he has somewhere he needs to go so I can have the house to myself for a bit: I boiled him a head of cabbage in order to assist his quest for wing greatness.
Post-Script: It smelled worse 12 hours later. Believe me.
Post-Script Two: I can also admit that I am spurred to Wifely Greatness just a bit by the prizes up for grabs.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Studio Shots.
Darrick's mom really, really wanted a big family picture, so she reserved the date and time 4 weeks in advance so everyone could take time off and be there. The boys, in collared shirts with long sleeves and ties. The girls, in cute tops and heels and lip gloss. The kids, even in a tie (his) and a new dress (hers), looking quite Baby Gap.
And this, my friends, is the list that results from this experience. We're calling this list "Why You Should't Rely on a Department Store Portrait Studio":
1. Because one of you will wear jeans since all your 'nice' pants are not clean, and the 'photographer' won't think to crop them out or put that person in back.
2. Because the studio will actually be one small room the size of my kitchen with, apparently, no air conditioning. And it will be 105 and humid outside....and feel the same inside.
3. Because your kids? They look adorable, but they really, really are not amused by said small, hot room.
4. Because portrait studios don't Photoshop out the sweat beads on your forehead or the drool on your 15 month old's button-down.
5. Because the so-called photographer will fumble with the DLSR she is using, taking 1 shot per pose and never saying 'cheese' or '1, 2, 3' or even 'look this way, assholes' in order to ensure that 8 adults, 2 toddlers, and 1 newborn are all looking toward the camera when the shutter releases.
6. Because after you sweat through 30 minutes of pictures and change into the 'just for fun, we only need 1 or 2 shots in these clothes' clothes, so-called photographers boss will come in and inform you the flash has not worked and all the sweat and smiles and juggling sleepy kids was for naught.
7. Because your Mother-In-Law, bless her, will refrain from beating the SCP about the neck and head with a mini chaise lounge designed for kids, and instead will say, "Just take as many as you can get in these outfits." And so your formal family picture will end up being a group shot of 8 adults, 2 toddlers, and 1 newborn in jeans and tie-dye.
I promise, if I get a digital copy of these pictures I am going to share. Because, really, it's too mind-bogglingly ridiculous not to.
And this, my friends, is the list that results from this experience. We're calling this list "Why You Should't Rely on a Department Store Portrait Studio":
1. Because one of you will wear jeans since all your 'nice' pants are not clean, and the 'photographer' won't think to crop them out or put that person in back.
2. Because the studio will actually be one small room the size of my kitchen with, apparently, no air conditioning. And it will be 105 and humid outside....and feel the same inside.
3. Because your kids? They look adorable, but they really, really are not amused by said small, hot room.
4. Because portrait studios don't Photoshop out the sweat beads on your forehead or the drool on your 15 month old's button-down.
5. Because the so-called photographer will fumble with the DLSR she is using, taking 1 shot per pose and never saying 'cheese' or '1, 2, 3' or even 'look this way, assholes' in order to ensure that 8 adults, 2 toddlers, and 1 newborn are all looking toward the camera when the shutter releases.
6. Because after you sweat through 30 minutes of pictures and change into the 'just for fun, we only need 1 or 2 shots in these clothes' clothes, so-called photographers boss will come in and inform you the flash has not worked and all the sweat and smiles and juggling sleepy kids was for naught.
7. Because your Mother-In-Law, bless her, will refrain from beating the SCP about the neck and head with a mini chaise lounge designed for kids, and instead will say, "Just take as many as you can get in these outfits." And so your formal family picture will end up being a group shot of 8 adults, 2 toddlers, and 1 newborn in jeans and tie-dye.
I promise, if I get a digital copy of these pictures I am going to share. Because, really, it's too mind-bogglingly ridiculous not to.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sammy Hagar.
So, I made the news. And so did Sammy Hagar. What....you don't see him in this clip?
Look closer...he's on my jawbone, partying like a hormonal rock star.
And here I was worried about my lovehandles!
Look closer...he's on my jawbone, partying like a hormonal rock star.
And here I was worried about my lovehandles!
Sunday, May 2, 2010
A Parenting Success
Parenting is full of a lot of questions and doubts and self-criticism. It's full of drive-bys from other people (a la "Where are your shoes, little boy?" said to Rohan as I carried him in a store at 13 months old....), advice you don't want/need/like/agree with/care to hear even though it's probably right, and moments of pure humiliation and "Oh my god what the fuck was I thinking creating life????"-ness.
And then, every once in awhile, something happens and the stars align and you have a moment of Parenting Success.
And, new moms? Here is where I break this down to you: 7 out of 10 times, your parenting success will revolve around a bodily function. Breastfeeding. Baby poop. Diaper changing without getting a stream of pee in your eye at 3 a.m.. Potty training. You get the idea.
So there we were, at the Greek Festival at Tempe Town Lake, and after eating lunch I noticed the telltale holding of the pee from Luca. Every kid does the same damn thing, so anyone with any experience ever being around, or even previously BEING a kid, knows when a potty trained kid needs to 'go'. She also is almost 3, which means the quickest way to get her to NOT use the potty is to say, "Luca, do you need to go potty?" It usually goes a little something like this:
Me: "Luca, do you need to go potty?"
Luca: "No."
Me: "Are you sure, sweetie?"
Luca: "I don't hafta go potty, Mama."
Me: "Ok. If you change your mind and need to go potty, please let Mama know."
Luca: "Please stop asking if I hafta go potty, Mama." (yeah, dude...my almost-3-year-old talks like an almost-13-year-old)
:::14 seconds elapse:::
Luca: "I hafta go potty, Mama!!!" :::grabs self:::
Me: "Oh, you do? :::stifles sarcasm which would surely be lost on an almost-3-year-old::: Well, let's go!"
So it went at the Greek Festival, and in the end I put her on my hip and away we went in search of the potty. And the potty, it turns out, was a line of purple port-a-johns. Don't EVEN get me started on how they USED to have a real restroom but it was closed because of the budget cuts in our state. But nevermind that...here we had multiple potties from which to choose and each one was PURPLE! PURPLE, which also happens to be a favorite color of a certain little girl. So I walked confidently over, swung open a door, and asked her to stand next to me and not touch a thing.
(Have you ever noticed in a public restroom every mom is telling every kid Not To Touch Anything? And every kid will, at some point, touch not just 'anything' but the filthiest spot on the filthiest potty ever and you will only be alerted that he or she did this while you were looking the other way getting out your purse-sized hand sanitizer because he or she will say, "Icky. It's WET!")
Anyhow, I got the toilet seat lined in 4 layers of toilet paper and turned to pick her up, and her eyes were big as saucers.She flat our refused to sit on the potty, citing its 'scary' factor. And, you know, I couldn't fault her that so I walked out of the port-a-john with her and stood there, facing down this newfound nemesis. I needed a different approach and I needed it fast since I knew her bladder wouldn't hold much longer. Already she was starting to cross one knee in front of the other.
With a brave face on, I took her hand and we walked down to stand in front of a different potty. Smiling at her, I said, "Here's what we'll do. We'll go in and....YOU can sit on ME...yes. Yes. I will sit and you sit on my lap and then you can go. Ok?" (Nevermind the logistical nightmare I'd just created for myself...the girl HAD TO GO.) She agreed, so I swung the door open and steeled myself to undertake this task which I was sure would result in a mess on me. But it was a small price to pay for a toddler who would use the port-a-john and not have an accident in her carseat later.
But before I could turn us around and shut the door, she was shaking from head to toe and repeating, "No. No. No. No." So out we went again, leaving the vision of someone's turn floating in blue water behind.
So here we were, two potty missions aborted, a toddler still in need of 'going', and our options exhausted. And then I remembered: I have two kids! (Ok, I mean, I didn't literally JUST THEN remember that....I know it all the time...but you know what I mean.) And one of those kids...the one not currently facing her own personal 7th level of hell...is still in diapers.
So I did what I had to do. I took her by the hand and we marched over to my waiting husband and son. I grabbed a diaper from the bag and, knowing that it would be hopeless to carry out my mission anywhere within 30 yards of the devil potties, I walked Luca behind a group of bushes and crouched down to her level.
"Luca, you need to pee, right?"
"Yes."
"Here's what we will do. You lay down. I will put this diaper on you. You pee in the diaper. I will take it off and put your undies back on. Deal?"
:::grinning::: "Yes!"
So that is what we did. I had her lie down, I snuck the diaper on under her panties, and I sat her up so she could pee. She smiled at me while we did this, my co-conspirator in the plot to avoid the pot. And when she was done she told me so, and I snuck the diaper off and the undies back up and Viola! A Parenting Success!
And then, every once in awhile, something happens and the stars align and you have a moment of Parenting Success.
And, new moms? Here is where I break this down to you: 7 out of 10 times, your parenting success will revolve around a bodily function. Breastfeeding. Baby poop. Diaper changing without getting a stream of pee in your eye at 3 a.m.. Potty training. You get the idea.
So there we were, at the Greek Festival at Tempe Town Lake, and after eating lunch I noticed the telltale holding of the pee from Luca. Every kid does the same damn thing, so anyone with any experience ever being around, or even previously BEING a kid, knows when a potty trained kid needs to 'go'. She also is almost 3, which means the quickest way to get her to NOT use the potty is to say, "Luca, do you need to go potty?" It usually goes a little something like this:
Me: "Luca, do you need to go potty?"
Luca: "No."
Me: "Are you sure, sweetie?"
Luca: "I don't hafta go potty, Mama."
Me: "Ok. If you change your mind and need to go potty, please let Mama know."
Luca: "Please stop asking if I hafta go potty, Mama." (yeah, dude...my almost-3-year-old talks like an almost-13-year-old)
:::14 seconds elapse:::
Luca: "I hafta go potty, Mama!!!" :::grabs self:::
Me: "Oh, you do? :::stifles sarcasm which would surely be lost on an almost-3-year-old::: Well, let's go!"
So it went at the Greek Festival, and in the end I put her on my hip and away we went in search of the potty. And the potty, it turns out, was a line of purple port-a-johns. Don't EVEN get me started on how they USED to have a real restroom but it was closed because of the budget cuts in our state. But nevermind that...here we had multiple potties from which to choose and each one was PURPLE! PURPLE, which also happens to be a favorite color of a certain little girl. So I walked confidently over, swung open a door, and asked her to stand next to me and not touch a thing.
(Have you ever noticed in a public restroom every mom is telling every kid Not To Touch Anything? And every kid will, at some point, touch not just 'anything' but the filthiest spot on the filthiest potty ever and you will only be alerted that he or she did this while you were looking the other way getting out your purse-sized hand sanitizer because he or she will say, "Icky. It's WET!")
Anyhow, I got the toilet seat lined in 4 layers of toilet paper and turned to pick her up, and her eyes were big as saucers.She flat our refused to sit on the potty, citing its 'scary' factor. And, you know, I couldn't fault her that so I walked out of the port-a-john with her and stood there, facing down this newfound nemesis. I needed a different approach and I needed it fast since I knew her bladder wouldn't hold much longer. Already she was starting to cross one knee in front of the other.
With a brave face on, I took her hand and we walked down to stand in front of a different potty. Smiling at her, I said, "Here's what we'll do. We'll go in and....YOU can sit on ME...yes. Yes. I will sit and you sit on my lap and then you can go. Ok?" (Nevermind the logistical nightmare I'd just created for myself...the girl HAD TO GO.) She agreed, so I swung the door open and steeled myself to undertake this task which I was sure would result in a mess on me. But it was a small price to pay for a toddler who would use the port-a-john and not have an accident in her carseat later.
But before I could turn us around and shut the door, she was shaking from head to toe and repeating, "No. No. No. No." So out we went again, leaving the vision of someone's turn floating in blue water behind.
So here we were, two potty missions aborted, a toddler still in need of 'going', and our options exhausted. And then I remembered: I have two kids! (Ok, I mean, I didn't literally JUST THEN remember that....I know it all the time...but you know what I mean.) And one of those kids...the one not currently facing her own personal 7th level of hell...is still in diapers.
So I did what I had to do. I took her by the hand and we marched over to my waiting husband and son. I grabbed a diaper from the bag and, knowing that it would be hopeless to carry out my mission anywhere within 30 yards of the devil potties, I walked Luca behind a group of bushes and crouched down to her level.
"Luca, you need to pee, right?"
"Yes."
"Here's what we will do. You lay down. I will put this diaper on you. You pee in the diaper. I will take it off and put your undies back on. Deal?"
:::grinning::: "Yes!"
So that is what we did. I had her lie down, I snuck the diaper on under her panties, and I sat her up so she could pee. She smiled at me while we did this, my co-conspirator in the plot to avoid the pot. And when she was done she told me so, and I snuck the diaper off and the undies back up and Viola! A Parenting Success!
Thursday, March 25, 2010
I Thought I Had More Time.
Scene: In the car, driving to daycare.
Luca: "Hey mama?"
Me: "Yeah baby?"
"Did you know that Rohan has a penis?"
::silence::
"Yes, I guess I did."
"That's a funny word. Penis."
"I guess it is kind of funny, Lu."
"Penis.....penispenispenis. Penis? Penis. PENIS!"
"Er...."
"Rohan has a penis. And Daddy has a penis. But I don't have a penis. And Mama doesn't have a penis."
"You're right, Luca." :::wonders how many time she can use that word in one 10 minute car ride:::
"We don't. Boys do."
"Well, then what do we have, Luca?"
"We have pee-pees."
:::considers leaving well enough alone, but decides if she knows one she may as well know the other:::
"Yes, but everyone has a pee-pee, Luca. Rohan has a penis, and you have a :::stumbles:::cringes::: vagina."
"Oh! Penis and bagina! Penis and bagina and penis!"
"Well, yes."
"And Mama?"
"Yes, Luca?" :::scared for what is next:::
"Everybody goes pee-pee on the potty and that's ok."
"Darn skippy, Kiddo."
"Ok."
Luca: "Hey mama?"
Me: "Yeah baby?"
"Did you know that Rohan has a penis?"
::silence::
"Yes, I guess I did."
"That's a funny word. Penis."
"I guess it is kind of funny, Lu."
"Penis.....penispenispenis. Penis? Penis. PENIS!"
"Er...."
"Rohan has a penis. And Daddy has a penis. But I don't have a penis. And Mama doesn't have a penis."
"You're right, Luca." :::wonders how many time she can use that word in one 10 minute car ride:::
"We don't. Boys do."
"Well, then what do we have, Luca?"
"We have pee-pees."
:::considers leaving well enough alone, but decides if she knows one she may as well know the other:::
"Yes, but everyone has a pee-pee, Luca. Rohan has a penis, and you have a :::stumbles:::cringes::: vagina."
"Oh! Penis and bagina! Penis and bagina and penis!"
"Well, yes."
"And Mama?"
"Yes, Luca?" :::scared for what is next:::
"Everybody goes pee-pee on the potty and that's ok."
"Darn skippy, Kiddo."
"Ok."
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
It's Not All Sunshine and Roses.
It has not escaped me that most of the things I post on my blog are happy and lovey and full of dancing glitter fairies and little impish children flitting around the room upon clouds spun of gold and crinoline.
And then, there's the other side of being a Mom. And it goes a little something like this:
2:00 a.m. Wake to Luca in her room moaning loudly. Go to her room. Find her writhing around like something terrible is wrong. Ask what is wrong. "I need water." she answers. Point out to her that in her toddler bed and tucked between the headboard and the wall are no less than 7 bottles, each with water in them. "Oh. I lovvvvve you Mama." she says. Kiss her cheeks, cover her with her blankie, stumble back into bed.
5:35 a.m. Luca repeats my name from the other room, "Mamamamamamama. Katie Kahle! Mamamamamamamamammamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamaaaaaaaa."
Drag self out of bed, lift her from her bed (notice her legs are little popsicles because she refuses to sleep with her blanket on and make promise to self to put her in long pants tonight), bring her back in to my bed where I wrap her up with me in my blanket and we fall back asleep.
Alarm goes off. Hit snooze.
Rohan cries from his crib. Get out of bed to retrieve him as I hear the shower turn on in the bathroom and Darrick starts his morning ritual. Open Rohan's bedroom door to find him, pants half off, standing up holding onto his crib rail jumping up and down and smiling like a lunatic. Go to pick him up as he grabs wildly for me, grab his blanket, use toes to retrieve the Bop he's thrown across the room so I don't have to bend over. Return to my bed and lay him next to Luca.
Watch Luca and Rohan tackle each other, giggle, etc. for 10 more minutes while Darrick showers, shaves, dresses.
Get out of bed and pick up Rohan to carry downstairs. "I wanna up-you-go too, mama!"Luca begs. Balance Rohan on left hip, ask Luca to stand up on the bed, lift her onto right hip. Have her grab Rohan's blanket off the bed. Walk into hall. Have Luca hold on tight so I can move my hand and grab the door handle to shut it (doors have to be shut in our house to keep the dogs out of trouble). Turn to see both her door and his open, both fans on. Turn off his fan, close door by pulling handle with tips of fingers. Turn off her fan. Close her door in same manner, almost losing grip on her and dropping Rohan's blanket in process. Use toes to pick up his blanket without bending over.
Turn to go downstairs and see guest bathroom door open. Have spark of genius and stand next to it and say to Luca, "Would you please grab the handle so we can shut that?" She does. MUCH easier. Wish I was smart enough to think to have HER pull the handles of the first 3 doors.
Carry both kids downstairs. Set Luca on couch, where she immediately grabs the throw, pulls it over her, and lies down. She must be related to me if she just woke from a full night's sleep and is already eager to lie on the couch.
Set Rohan on the floor, where he screeches because clearly I have Highly Offended him by daring to set him down. He grabs my pajama pants so that I cannot walk away. I pick him back up. With 1 hand I grab a diaper and clean clothes for Rohan, then set him on the floor to change him. Get the dirty diaper and pants off, and he does an alligator roll away from me and attempts to escape. Grab an ankle and roll him back over. He hollers at me for being so annoying, I laugh at the holler. He wrestles away from me and crawls, half-naked, across the room. I hop up, grab him, lay him back down, and he hollers again. Luca brings a play phone over for Rohan (singsongy voice: "Here you go, Romo. Here! A phone! Look! Awww!")and he bats it away. Finally get the diaper on Twisty Baby and sit him up to change his shirt. Make a game of Peek-A-Boo out of it to keep him from being mad over the shirt changing.
Make coffee while balancing a nearly 26 pound 1 year old on one hip. While still balancing him, get a bowl of cereal for Luca, pour him a sippie of milk, get coffee mugs out and ready.
From the other room as I am doing this, Luca chimes in:
"What are you doing Mama?"
"Making you a bowl of cereal."
"Why?"
"Because it's time for breakfast."
"Why?"
"Because you need to eat before you go to Laura's (daycare)."
"Oh."
Put Rohan in high chair and spread Cheerios on tray. Sit Luca at her table with bowl of cereal.
"I need apple juicy."
"Apple juice?"
"Yeah. Apple juicy."
"You may have some apple juice once you finish your cereal."
"Why?"
"You have to eat before you can have juice, Luca."
"Why?"
Suddenly understand with complete clarity why I heard the phrase 'Because I said so.
so many times as a child.
"Why not?"
"Oh."
Attempt to pour the coffee as Rohan screeches. Apparently he is not amused with dry Cheerios for breakfast, but we are out of bananas, which is what he usually eats. Start to unload clean dishes from dishwasher. Darrick comes downstairs and looks over at Luca.
"Luca, get your feet OFF the table and eat your cereal please."
"Why?"
Darrick puts a bagel in the toaster while Rohan's screeching hits a fever pitch. I look at Darrick. He looks at me. My look wins; he goes to retrieve Rohan from the highchair.
"Luca, get your feet OFF the table. You need to eat your cereal."
"Why?"
"Do it. Now."
I finish unloading the dishwasher and making the coffee. Darrick butters his bagel while balancing Rohan on one hip, then goes to sit down with him and feed him some bagel. Luca tells us she's done with her Cheerios, and brings me the bowl, sloshing milk onto the tile. I hand her a wet paper towel and ask her to clean it.
"Why?"
"We need to clean it up so no one slips in it."
"Oh. Can you carry me?"
"Um. No. Mommy is working right now."
"Why?"
I load the dishwasher as Darrick entertains the kids. My work is interrupted no less than 3 times by Luca, with requests of "Up-you-go?" or "Carry me?". Run out to grab Luca some clean clothes from the dryer (What? You remove your clean clothes immediately from the dryer and hang them? Congratulations on your child-free lifestyle choices.), come back in and toss them to her and ask her to get dressed. Stand in front of our downstairs mirror to apply my make-up. Luca climbs up onto the table below the mirror and plays with the bottles and tubes.
"Do you want this, Mama?" (holding out mascara tube)
"Nope. Not yet sweetie."
"Why not?"
"I'm not ready for that."
"Why not?"
"Because I need to put this stuff (waves hand in direction of make-up) on first."
"Oh."
"What about this? Do you want this, Mama?" (holding out eyeliner)
"Not yet, sweetie."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not ready for it."
"Oh..............are you ready for it now?"
"Not yet sweetie."
"Oh."
It goes on like this until I finish my make-up (which takes less than 4 minutes, a fact that amuses me when I consider how long I used to spend in the leisurely beautifying routine). Then I run upstairs to get changed and Rohan and Luca follow me. I close the toilet lid to keep his hands out, change my clothes as he grabs at my legs and turn to head downstairs. He whines to be picked up, and so does she.
"Carry me, Mama?"
"You can walk sweetie."
"No I'm a baby. I need you to carry me."
Mentally calculate which is worse: giving in to her whims or being late. Choose 'being late' as worse.
Hoist Rohan up on my left hip and Luca on my right, remember to have her pull the door handles shut, and carry them both downstairs again.
"Luca, I need you to put on your shoes please."
"I'm going to wear my sandals."
"Sweetie, you need to wear real shoes. You may bring your sandals in the bag, but it's too cold out this morning for sandals."
"I'm gonna put my sandals in my PINK purse in Rohan's bag."
"Ok. Do you need help?"
"No. I can do it myself. I'm a big girl."
"Ok."
Pack the diaper bag for 0.25 seconds until I hear whining from Luca.
"Luca, what's wrong?"
"HELP!!!!"
"Luca, you need to use your words. Can you ask nicely, and not whine, please?"
"I need help getting my sandals in my PINK purse."
"Ok. I am happy to help you."
"Thank you Mama."
Finish packing diaper bag. Grab comb and barrette and ask Luca to come over so I can do her hair.
"I don't need my hair combed. I'm good. Thank you anyways."
"(stifling laughter) Yes, we need to make your hair look pretty for Laura's house."
"I want apple juicy."
"You may have apple juice after I comb your hair."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
Comb her hair and only have to grab her to keep her from running away twice during the process. Go to get her juice. Remind her that she STILL needs to put her shoes on.
"Why?"
Hand her a pair of shoes. Find car keys. Turn around to see her putting on a different pair of shoes than the ones I handed her (handed her tennies, she's putting on her red dress shoes from Christmas). Decide to pick my battles and that really red dress shoes look fabulous with pink pants and a neon colored shirt anyhow. Pick up Rohan and balance him on left hip. Sling diaper bag over right shoulder. Grab keys and coffee in right hand. Ask Luca to grab her apple juice and follow me.
"Why?"
"It's time to go to Laura's house."
"Oh."
Go into garage. Set down diaper bag next to my door. Open Luca's door, take cup out of her hand and put it on top of car so she doesn't spill it while trying to climb in. Go to other side of car and open door to put Rohan in his seat. Luca has crawled over her seat and is trying to get into his.
"Luca, you need to get in YOUR seat."
"Why?"
"Rohan sits in this one."
"Why?"
"Because it's his seat. Please get in your seat."
"Ok."
She steps on a toy on the car floor, which makes noise. She picks it up. I give her The Look.
"I love you, Mama."
Regain composure.
"I love you too, sweetie."
Buckle Rohan in. Give him his blanket. Close his door. Go back around to buckle Luca in, working around her toy. Hand her the juice cup. Get in the car.
It's now 6:56 a.m.
And then, there's the other side of being a Mom. And it goes a little something like this:
2:00 a.m. Wake to Luca in her room moaning loudly. Go to her room. Find her writhing around like something terrible is wrong. Ask what is wrong. "I need water." she answers. Point out to her that in her toddler bed and tucked between the headboard and the wall are no less than 7 bottles, each with water in them. "Oh. I lovvvvve you Mama." she says. Kiss her cheeks, cover her with her blankie, stumble back into bed.
5:35 a.m. Luca repeats my name from the other room, "Mamamamamamama. Katie Kahle! Mamamamamamamamammamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamamaaaaaaaa."
Drag self out of bed, lift her from her bed (notice her legs are little popsicles because she refuses to sleep with her blanket on and make promise to self to put her in long pants tonight), bring her back in to my bed where I wrap her up with me in my blanket and we fall back asleep.
Alarm goes off. Hit snooze.
Rohan cries from his crib. Get out of bed to retrieve him as I hear the shower turn on in the bathroom and Darrick starts his morning ritual. Open Rohan's bedroom door to find him, pants half off, standing up holding onto his crib rail jumping up and down and smiling like a lunatic. Go to pick him up as he grabs wildly for me, grab his blanket, use toes to retrieve the Bop he's thrown across the room so I don't have to bend over. Return to my bed and lay him next to Luca.
Watch Luca and Rohan tackle each other, giggle, etc. for 10 more minutes while Darrick showers, shaves, dresses.
Get out of bed and pick up Rohan to carry downstairs. "I wanna up-you-go too, mama!"Luca begs. Balance Rohan on left hip, ask Luca to stand up on the bed, lift her onto right hip. Have her grab Rohan's blanket off the bed. Walk into hall. Have Luca hold on tight so I can move my hand and grab the door handle to shut it (doors have to be shut in our house to keep the dogs out of trouble). Turn to see both her door and his open, both fans on. Turn off his fan, close door by pulling handle with tips of fingers. Turn off her fan. Close her door in same manner, almost losing grip on her and dropping Rohan's blanket in process. Use toes to pick up his blanket without bending over.
Turn to go downstairs and see guest bathroom door open. Have spark of genius and stand next to it and say to Luca, "Would you please grab the handle so we can shut that?" She does. MUCH easier. Wish I was smart enough to think to have HER pull the handles of the first 3 doors.
Carry both kids downstairs. Set Luca on couch, where she immediately grabs the throw, pulls it over her, and lies down. She must be related to me if she just woke from a full night's sleep and is already eager to lie on the couch.
Set Rohan on the floor, where he screeches because clearly I have Highly Offended him by daring to set him down. He grabs my pajama pants so that I cannot walk away. I pick him back up. With 1 hand I grab a diaper and clean clothes for Rohan, then set him on the floor to change him. Get the dirty diaper and pants off, and he does an alligator roll away from me and attempts to escape. Grab an ankle and roll him back over. He hollers at me for being so annoying, I laugh at the holler. He wrestles away from me and crawls, half-naked, across the room. I hop up, grab him, lay him back down, and he hollers again. Luca brings a play phone over for Rohan (singsongy voice: "Here you go, Romo. Here! A phone! Look! Awww!")and he bats it away. Finally get the diaper on Twisty Baby and sit him up to change his shirt. Make a game of Peek-A-Boo out of it to keep him from being mad over the shirt changing.
Make coffee while balancing a nearly 26 pound 1 year old on one hip. While still balancing him, get a bowl of cereal for Luca, pour him a sippie of milk, get coffee mugs out and ready.
From the other room as I am doing this, Luca chimes in:
"What are you doing Mama?"
"Making you a bowl of cereal."
"Why?"
"Because it's time for breakfast."
"Why?"
"Because you need to eat before you go to Laura's (daycare)."
"Oh."
Put Rohan in high chair and spread Cheerios on tray. Sit Luca at her table with bowl of cereal.
"I need apple juicy."
"Apple juice?"
"Yeah. Apple juicy."
"You may have some apple juice once you finish your cereal."
"Why?"
"You have to eat before you can have juice, Luca."
"Why?"
Suddenly understand with complete clarity why I heard the phrase 'Because I said so.
so many times as a child.
"Why not?"
"Oh."
Attempt to pour the coffee as Rohan screeches. Apparently he is not amused with dry Cheerios for breakfast, but we are out of bananas, which is what he usually eats. Start to unload clean dishes from dishwasher. Darrick comes downstairs and looks over at Luca.
"Luca, get your feet OFF the table and eat your cereal please."
"Why?"
Darrick puts a bagel in the toaster while Rohan's screeching hits a fever pitch. I look at Darrick. He looks at me. My look wins; he goes to retrieve Rohan from the highchair.
"Luca, get your feet OFF the table. You need to eat your cereal."
"Why?"
"Do it. Now."
I finish unloading the dishwasher and making the coffee. Darrick butters his bagel while balancing Rohan on one hip, then goes to sit down with him and feed him some bagel. Luca tells us she's done with her Cheerios, and brings me the bowl, sloshing milk onto the tile. I hand her a wet paper towel and ask her to clean it.
"Why?"
"We need to clean it up so no one slips in it."
"Oh. Can you carry me?"
"Um. No. Mommy is working right now."
"Why?"
I load the dishwasher as Darrick entertains the kids. My work is interrupted no less than 3 times by Luca, with requests of "Up-you-go?" or "Carry me?". Run out to grab Luca some clean clothes from the dryer (What? You remove your clean clothes immediately from the dryer and hang them? Congratulations on your child-free lifestyle choices.), come back in and toss them to her and ask her to get dressed. Stand in front of our downstairs mirror to apply my make-up. Luca climbs up onto the table below the mirror and plays with the bottles and tubes.
"Do you want this, Mama?" (holding out mascara tube)
"Nope. Not yet sweetie."
"Why not?"
"I'm not ready for that."
"Why not?"
"Because I need to put this stuff (waves hand in direction of make-up) on first."
"Oh."
"What about this? Do you want this, Mama?" (holding out eyeliner)
"Not yet, sweetie."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not ready for it."
"Oh..............are you ready for it now?"
"Not yet sweetie."
"Oh."
It goes on like this until I finish my make-up (which takes less than 4 minutes, a fact that amuses me when I consider how long I used to spend in the leisurely beautifying routine). Then I run upstairs to get changed and Rohan and Luca follow me. I close the toilet lid to keep his hands out, change my clothes as he grabs at my legs and turn to head downstairs. He whines to be picked up, and so does she.
"Carry me, Mama?"
"You can walk sweetie."
"No I'm a baby. I need you to carry me."
Mentally calculate which is worse: giving in to her whims or being late. Choose 'being late' as worse.
Hoist Rohan up on my left hip and Luca on my right, remember to have her pull the door handles shut, and carry them both downstairs again.
"Luca, I need you to put on your shoes please."
"I'm going to wear my sandals."
"Sweetie, you need to wear real shoes. You may bring your sandals in the bag, but it's too cold out this morning for sandals."
"I'm gonna put my sandals in my PINK purse in Rohan's bag."
"Ok. Do you need help?"
"No. I can do it myself. I'm a big girl."
"Ok."
Pack the diaper bag for 0.25 seconds until I hear whining from Luca.
"Luca, what's wrong?"
"HELP!!!!"
"Luca, you need to use your words. Can you ask nicely, and not whine, please?"
"I need help getting my sandals in my PINK purse."
"Ok. I am happy to help you."
"Thank you Mama."
Finish packing diaper bag. Grab comb and barrette and ask Luca to come over so I can do her hair.
"I don't need my hair combed. I'm good. Thank you anyways."
"(stifling laughter) Yes, we need to make your hair look pretty for Laura's house."
"I want apple juicy."
"You may have apple juice after I comb your hair."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
Comb her hair and only have to grab her to keep her from running away twice during the process. Go to get her juice. Remind her that she STILL needs to put her shoes on.
"Why?"
Hand her a pair of shoes. Find car keys. Turn around to see her putting on a different pair of shoes than the ones I handed her (handed her tennies, she's putting on her red dress shoes from Christmas). Decide to pick my battles and that really red dress shoes look fabulous with pink pants and a neon colored shirt anyhow. Pick up Rohan and balance him on left hip. Sling diaper bag over right shoulder. Grab keys and coffee in right hand. Ask Luca to grab her apple juice and follow me.
"Why?"
"It's time to go to Laura's house."
"Oh."
Go into garage. Set down diaper bag next to my door. Open Luca's door, take cup out of her hand and put it on top of car so she doesn't spill it while trying to climb in. Go to other side of car and open door to put Rohan in his seat. Luca has crawled over her seat and is trying to get into his.
"Luca, you need to get in YOUR seat."
"Why?"
"Rohan sits in this one."
"Why?"
"Because it's his seat. Please get in your seat."
"Ok."
She steps on a toy on the car floor, which makes noise. She picks it up. I give her The Look.
"I love you, Mama."
Regain composure.
"I love you too, sweetie."
Buckle Rohan in. Give him his blanket. Close his door. Go back around to buckle Luca in, working around her toy. Hand her the juice cup. Get in the car.
It's now 6:56 a.m.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Dear World,
(I think this should be a new series of blog posts. Dear World being posts aimed at 'them'...the anonymous random people you see day to day but do not know and cannot personally address.)
That thing you're driving? It's still a mini van no matter how ridiculous and boxy you try to make the front end look. Accept that you drive a mini van. Own it. Stop trying to fool yourself and those stuck at the red light with you that what you are driving is anything BUT a family-friendly, kid-toting, "The stroller, cooler, and folding chairs are in the back, now let's hurry so we're not late to soccer!", semi-nerdy but completely functional MINI VAN.
6/30
That thing you're driving? It's still a mini van no matter how ridiculous and boxy you try to make the front end look. Accept that you drive a mini van. Own it. Stop trying to fool yourself and those stuck at the red light with you that what you are driving is anything BUT a family-friendly, kid-toting, "The stroller, cooler, and folding chairs are in the back, now let's hurry so we're not late to soccer!", semi-nerdy but completely functional MINI VAN.
6/30
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Shamrock Shake-Up
Mc Donald's has few menu items I care for. I used to love their breakfast bagels, but they discontinued them. Their fries are delish (cow fat be damned!), as is their ice cream. And I can eat their breakfast, though sometimes it leaves me feeling like I have gut rot.
BUT...the Shamrock Shake. AH the Shamrock Shake. I LOVE this shake like no other. And they only make it around St. Patrick's Day, so as soon as I heard someone mention them a few weeks ago, I had a craving for one.
I put aside my craving for a week, and then one day I decided to hit our local McD's and order one. Sadly, I was informed they 'didn't have them yet'. This was about a week and a half ago.
This past Sunday, after dinner, I made Darrick go through the SAME drive thru to order me one. And this time we were told, "We don't have them anymore." Um....ok....what the crap?!?! 10 days ago you didn't have them YET, and now you don't have them ANYMORE?
Not one to be easily discouraged, I decided I'd try again at another McD's on another day. There's a McD's by the freeway on my way home, so I decided today was that day. I pull up to the order box and ask if they have Shamrock Shakes. "Yes, we do," (ELATION!)., "But the machine is currently broken. Sorry."
Fine. Fine. The universe is CLEARLY trying to tell me something (perhaps, "Isn't your ass fat enough, you pigbitch?"), so I need to give up on this quest, right?
Wrong.
We had dinner with my mom tonight, and after dinner she asked if we wanted to stop by the McDonald's in the parking lot for ice cream. Well who am I to say no to a twist of fate like this?
So into McD's we go. I saunter up (ok, waddle...) and ask, "Do you have Shamrock Shakes?". The evil woman behind the counter mumbles "No." almost incoherently.
"I'm sorry...you do not?"
"No. They are a special item, so we only have them for 2-3 weeks every year."
Now, riddle me this. St. P's Day is NEXT WEEK. Precisely WHICH weeks of the year do you carry them, McDonald's??? Two weeks in February? Perhaps 3 weeks in June?
They are SHAMROCK SHAKES. If you cannot supply me with one in the week prior to St. Paddy's Day, you SUCK AT LIFE.
(If you came to the blog to see if I'm still pregnant, I think the answer is pretty obvious, huh?)
BUT...the Shamrock Shake. AH the Shamrock Shake. I LOVE this shake like no other. And they only make it around St. Patrick's Day, so as soon as I heard someone mention them a few weeks ago, I had a craving for one.
I put aside my craving for a week, and then one day I decided to hit our local McD's and order one. Sadly, I was informed they 'didn't have them yet'. This was about a week and a half ago.
This past Sunday, after dinner, I made Darrick go through the SAME drive thru to order me one. And this time we were told, "We don't have them anymore." Um....ok....what the crap?!?! 10 days ago you didn't have them YET, and now you don't have them ANYMORE?
Not one to be easily discouraged, I decided I'd try again at another McD's on another day. There's a McD's by the freeway on my way home, so I decided today was that day. I pull up to the order box and ask if they have Shamrock Shakes. "Yes, we do," (ELATION!)., "But the machine is currently broken. Sorry."
Fine. Fine. The universe is CLEARLY trying to tell me something (perhaps, "Isn't your ass fat enough, you pigbitch?"), so I need to give up on this quest, right?
Wrong.
We had dinner with my mom tonight, and after dinner she asked if we wanted to stop by the McDonald's in the parking lot for ice cream. Well who am I to say no to a twist of fate like this?
So into McD's we go. I saunter up (ok, waddle...) and ask, "Do you have Shamrock Shakes?". The evil woman behind the counter mumbles "No." almost incoherently.
"I'm sorry...you do not?"
"No. They are a special item, so we only have them for 2-3 weeks every year."
Now, riddle me this. St. P's Day is NEXT WEEK. Precisely WHICH weeks of the year do you carry them, McDonald's??? Two weeks in February? Perhaps 3 weeks in June?
They are SHAMROCK SHAKES. If you cannot supply me with one in the week prior to St. Paddy's Day, you SUCK AT LIFE.
(If you came to the blog to see if I'm still pregnant, I think the answer is pretty obvious, huh?)
Saturday, January 10, 2009
What happens when a 20-something who is 31 weeks pregnant is asked to speak in front of a crowd of 120+ geriatrics?
Preggo: "So, that concludes my presentation. Any questions?"
Old lady in cat sweater vest: "Is this your first baby?"
Preggo: "No, my second."
Gentleman up front, with the light-sensitive glasses that darken in the sun: "When are you due?"
Preggo: "March."
Silver haired firecracker in back: "Is it a boy...or a girl?"
Yeah. This is SO not what I am here for.
Old lady in cat sweater vest: "Is this your first baby?"
Preggo: "No, my second."
Gentleman up front, with the light-sensitive glasses that darken in the sun: "When are you due?"
Preggo: "March."
Silver haired firecracker in back: "Is it a boy...or a girl?"
Yeah. This is SO not what I am here for.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
These things, they happen.
I should preface this with a little Good News/Bad News.
Good news first: Darrick competed in a jiu jitsu tournament this weekend. It was his first in a few years, and he took home two gold medals for the heavyweight class.
Bad news next: He also took home a severely effed up shoulder. He actually injured it in the second competition, the one where they go without their gi (you know, the Karate Kid outfit?) and wrestle in shorts and t-shirts. A giant man landed on his shoulder and - we think - tore a ligament. Of course, being that my husband is more manly than metro, he continued on to wrestle 4 other giant men and jack the shoulder up further. The result is he's practically an invalid who can't move one whole arm, is in pain, and can't even do simple things like put on his shirt or carry Luca.
So all day today, we've been dealing with this injury, meaning he's had to avoid most things he's usually really good about doing: filling Luca's sippy cup (it's a 2-handed job unscrewing the top and cleaning it), putting away dishes, carrying things, taking out the trash, etc. About an hour before Luca's bedtime, he also had to ask me help him record grades for his classes, since sorting through papers and entering scores would not be very efficient one-handed. I agreed to help, but made him take a break about 20 minutes before Luca's bedtime so we could play with her. We checked her diaper before getting her jammies on, and she had a dirty diaper.
****WARNING: If you are offended by talk of baby poop, kindly stop reading here****
So, it's a mom euphamism to refer to a poo-filled diaper as 'dirty'. We all know it's not just dirty, it's also foul smelling, dangerous, and often a very clear reminder of just how balanced - or not - your darling child's diet is. In this case, we were reminded that Luca really likes corn...and that corn essentially looks the same on the way out as it did on the way in. Darrick offered to try to change the diaper, so we both sat on the floor, facing each other, with Luca between us. I had the head end, he had the bum (Which, by they way, happens to be one of her new words: Bum.) end and the wipes. He pulled back her diaper and I did the 'dipe swipe' wherein you attempt to get all poo possible off the bum and into the dipe so you can avoid: (a) having to clean gobs off with a baby wipe, (b) baby getting a foot or hand into the poo, (c) baby rolling away too fast and taking off running with poo bedazzling your floor, and/or (d) poo on your hand. This manuever was successful enough, but with the corn niblets in the mix you can never quite get it all. Regardless, he did the back/booty swipe, also one handed, and moved the diaper to the side.
At this point, it became obvious that Darrick was no longer able to complete the diaper change one handed. I was holding her hands to keep them from wandering into poo-zone, and he couldn't hold her feet and wipe with one good hand. I asked him "Do you need help with the poop?", and that's when Luca decided to chime in by blowing raspberries, mimicking the 'poopy' sound effect her dad loves to make. Laughing, I grabbed a wipe and chipped in, holding her feet with one hand and wiping with the other, all the while my leg being sprayed by Luca's 'raspberry' blowing. I mention to Darrick she's got corn nibs on her bum, and the raspberries stop and are replaced by, "Bum. Bum. Bum. :::rasapberry::: Bum." That kid cracks me up.
So, cleaning done (we nearly had to call in back-ups for that one), we prepared to put her diaper on, which was when she decided to try to make a run for it. This is where my presence REALLY came in handy, as Darrick still had a poopy wipe in hand, and nearly smeared Lu's leg with it as his reflex kicked in and told him to grab her before she took off. I wrestled her back to the ground and we got the diaper on and let her go. Darrick reached across his body to pick up the dirty diaper, and out rolled....a corn niblet....onto my leg...and then onto the floor.
I lost it. There was nothing else to do, so I laughed. And it wasn't just a giggle, but a full on crying, shaking, silent laugh, with Darrick doing the same, and Luca staring at us like she was not sure WHY she had to have such crazy parents. And then, as though startled with the realization of what just happened, our little Sprinkle-Butt pointed to the corn nug on the floor, yelled out "POOP!" and laughed so hard she tipped right over.
Good news first: Darrick competed in a jiu jitsu tournament this weekend. It was his first in a few years, and he took home two gold medals for the heavyweight class.
Bad news next: He also took home a severely effed up shoulder. He actually injured it in the second competition, the one where they go without their gi (you know, the Karate Kid outfit?) and wrestle in shorts and t-shirts. A giant man landed on his shoulder and - we think - tore a ligament. Of course, being that my husband is more manly than metro, he continued on to wrestle 4 other giant men and jack the shoulder up further. The result is he's practically an invalid who can't move one whole arm, is in pain, and can't even do simple things like put on his shirt or carry Luca.
So all day today, we've been dealing with this injury, meaning he's had to avoid most things he's usually really good about doing: filling Luca's sippy cup (it's a 2-handed job unscrewing the top and cleaning it), putting away dishes, carrying things, taking out the trash, etc. About an hour before Luca's bedtime, he also had to ask me help him record grades for his classes, since sorting through papers and entering scores would not be very efficient one-handed. I agreed to help, but made him take a break about 20 minutes before Luca's bedtime so we could play with her. We checked her diaper before getting her jammies on, and she had a dirty diaper.
****WARNING: If you are offended by talk of baby poop, kindly stop reading here****
So, it's a mom euphamism to refer to a poo-filled diaper as 'dirty'. We all know it's not just dirty, it's also foul smelling, dangerous, and often a very clear reminder of just how balanced - or not - your darling child's diet is. In this case, we were reminded that Luca really likes corn...and that corn essentially looks the same on the way out as it did on the way in. Darrick offered to try to change the diaper, so we both sat on the floor, facing each other, with Luca between us. I had the head end, he had the bum (Which, by they way, happens to be one of her new words: Bum.) end and the wipes. He pulled back her diaper and I did the 'dipe swipe' wherein you attempt to get all poo possible off the bum and into the dipe so you can avoid: (a) having to clean gobs off with a baby wipe, (b) baby getting a foot or hand into the poo, (c) baby rolling away too fast and taking off running with poo bedazzling your floor, and/or (d) poo on your hand. This manuever was successful enough, but with the corn niblets in the mix you can never quite get it all. Regardless, he did the back/booty swipe, also one handed, and moved the diaper to the side.
At this point, it became obvious that Darrick was no longer able to complete the diaper change one handed. I was holding her hands to keep them from wandering into poo-zone, and he couldn't hold her feet and wipe with one good hand. I asked him "Do you need help with the poop?", and that's when Luca decided to chime in by blowing raspberries, mimicking the 'poopy' sound effect her dad loves to make. Laughing, I grabbed a wipe and chipped in, holding her feet with one hand and wiping with the other, all the while my leg being sprayed by Luca's 'raspberry' blowing. I mention to Darrick she's got corn nibs on her bum, and the raspberries stop and are replaced by, "Bum. Bum. Bum. :::rasapberry::: Bum." That kid cracks me up.
So, cleaning done (we nearly had to call in back-ups for that one), we prepared to put her diaper on, which was when she decided to try to make a run for it. This is where my presence REALLY came in handy, as Darrick still had a poopy wipe in hand, and nearly smeared Lu's leg with it as his reflex kicked in and told him to grab her before she took off. I wrestled her back to the ground and we got the diaper on and let her go. Darrick reached across his body to pick up the dirty diaper, and out rolled....a corn niblet....onto my leg...and then onto the floor.
I lost it. There was nothing else to do, so I laughed. And it wasn't just a giggle, but a full on crying, shaking, silent laugh, with Darrick doing the same, and Luca staring at us like she was not sure WHY she had to have such crazy parents. And then, as though startled with the realization of what just happened, our little Sprinkle-Butt pointed to the corn nug on the floor, yelled out "POOP!" and laughed so hard she tipped right over.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
A lesson for my readers.
I recently received a comment on a VERY old post about my 'evil pit bulls' and how 'vicious' they are to my baby. You can see the post here.
The comment I received was this: "why give pittbulls a bad name they are just the same as every other dog it is how you treat them, then you will see the inner spirit of a dogs mind"
So, I thought a little eplanation might be in order for my readers who may not know me quite so well. I like to use a little tool, which in the literary world, is referred to as IRONY. Please peruse the definitions of irony below, brought to you by our friends at the American Heritage Dictionary. Adam, this one's for you! And welcome to my blog!
American Heritage Dictionary - Cite This Source - Share This i·ro·ny Audio Help (Ä«'rÉ™-nÄ“, Ä«'É™r-) Pronunciation Key
n. pl. i·ro·nies
1. The use of words to express something different from and often opposite to their literal meaning.
1. An expression or utterance marked by a deliberate contrast between apparent and intended meaning.
3. A literary style employing such contrasts for humorous or rhetorical effect. See Synonyms at wit1.
4. Incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs: "Hyde noted the irony of Ireland's copying the nation she most hated" (Richard Kain).
A5. n occurrence, result, or circumstance notable for such incongruity. See Usage Note at ironic.
The comment I received was this: "why give pittbulls a bad name they are just the same as every other dog it is how you treat them, then you will see the inner spirit of a dogs mind"
So, I thought a little eplanation might be in order for my readers who may not know me quite so well. I like to use a little tool, which in the literary world, is referred to as IRONY. Please peruse the definitions of irony below, brought to you by our friends at the American Heritage Dictionary. Adam, this one's for you! And welcome to my blog!
American Heritage Dictionary - Cite This Source - Share This i·ro·ny Audio Help (Ä«'rÉ™-nÄ“, Ä«'É™r-) Pronunciation Key
n. pl. i·ro·nies
1. The use of words to express something different from and often opposite to their literal meaning.
1. An expression or utterance marked by a deliberate contrast between apparent and intended meaning.
3. A literary style employing such contrasts for humorous or rhetorical effect. See Synonyms at wit1.
4. Incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs: "Hyde noted the irony of Ireland's copying the nation she most hated" (Richard Kain).
A5. n occurrence, result, or circumstance notable for such incongruity. See Usage Note at ironic.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Summertime.
Summertime in Arizona makes me feel mildly insane. It's not just HOT in Arizona, it's fucking disasterous blazing madness. Even more insane is all the silly people who move to Arizona because of out 'beautiful weather'. I have news for these people: 120 degrees is not beautiful weather, it's what I set an oven on to heat up rolls for dinner.
120 degrees is so hot, that standing outside on pavement, you can feel the bottoms of your feet starting to toast and sweat just drizzles down the small of your back.
120 degrees is so hot there's almost no point in even getting ready in the morning, since the walk to your car alone is done at 95 degree temperatures (at 6 am), and by the time your car cools down to comfortable, you have sweat so much you look like you just lost a wrestling match to Chinadoll.
120 degrees is so hot, that at night it never really gets a chance to cool down, so going outside on a breezy evening is akin to stepping in front of a giant blowdryer set on 'hot'.
It never fails to amuse me how 'foreigners' to this desert land tell themselves it's 'not that bad' and 'it's dry heat, so it's fine'. My friend and I were having this conversation today about her parents, and how they are from the midwest, but recently moved to Arizona. This friend lived here for 8-ish years. She knows better than to believe the hype. And yet, her mom insists on telling her 'Oh, 115 is not so bad. We're rather enjoying it. And the WINTER here is beautiful!'
People. PEOPLE! A mild winter (which, really, by midwestern standards could scarce be considered a winter at all) is NOT a fair trade for summers that start in April and last through October...sometimes November. It's not fair trade off for deodorant melting in your car when it falls out of your gym bag (or, in my case, when you slept in too late and tossed it in your work bag, to be applied while driving the madness of the I-10). It's not fair trade for 105 degree midnights and 95 degrees at 6 am. It's not a trade off for needing to drink 8,465 ounces of water a day to stay hydrated, only to discover you should probably be drinking more since you just realized you've only peed once all day. It's just not, people. And it's insanity to pretend it's ok and 'not that bad'.
What puzzles me even MORE is that people move to this hot ass desert, and I cannot figure out the draw. We're 36th in indicators of child wellness. We're 51st in providing summer food to poor children. Our education system is topped in shitiness by only a handful of states (we're one of those states that's always saying 'Thank god for the South!'). We give less money per student to public education than nearly every other state in the union, and we've got the low-wage labor force to show for it. AND, on top of all this, SUMMER HERE LASTS 6 MONTHS AND IS AKIN TO LIVING IN A GODDAMNED KILN!
Midwesterns: heed my warning. Don't move here. Just don't. Cuz I give you 2 summers, 3 max, before you're bitching about the heat like a local. And, on top of it, you people are always the ones lamenting how 'people in Arizona don't know how to drive!' when we all know PEOPLE IN ARIZONA WHO DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE ARE YOU!
120 degrees is so hot, that standing outside on pavement, you can feel the bottoms of your feet starting to toast and sweat just drizzles down the small of your back.
120 degrees is so hot there's almost no point in even getting ready in the morning, since the walk to your car alone is done at 95 degree temperatures (at 6 am), and by the time your car cools down to comfortable, you have sweat so much you look like you just lost a wrestling match to Chinadoll.
120 degrees is so hot, that at night it never really gets a chance to cool down, so going outside on a breezy evening is akin to stepping in front of a giant blowdryer set on 'hot'.
It never fails to amuse me how 'foreigners' to this desert land tell themselves it's 'not that bad' and 'it's dry heat, so it's fine'. My friend and I were having this conversation today about her parents, and how they are from the midwest, but recently moved to Arizona. This friend lived here for 8-ish years. She knows better than to believe the hype. And yet, her mom insists on telling her 'Oh, 115 is not so bad. We're rather enjoying it. And the WINTER here is beautiful!'
People. PEOPLE! A mild winter (which, really, by midwestern standards could scarce be considered a winter at all) is NOT a fair trade for summers that start in April and last through October...sometimes November. It's not fair trade off for deodorant melting in your car when it falls out of your gym bag (or, in my case, when you slept in too late and tossed it in your work bag, to be applied while driving the madness of the I-10). It's not fair trade for 105 degree midnights and 95 degrees at 6 am. It's not a trade off for needing to drink 8,465 ounces of water a day to stay hydrated, only to discover you should probably be drinking more since you just realized you've only peed once all day. It's just not, people. And it's insanity to pretend it's ok and 'not that bad'.
What puzzles me even MORE is that people move to this hot ass desert, and I cannot figure out the draw. We're 36th in indicators of child wellness. We're 51st in providing summer food to poor children. Our education system is topped in shitiness by only a handful of states (we're one of those states that's always saying 'Thank god for the South!'). We give less money per student to public education than nearly every other state in the union, and we've got the low-wage labor force to show for it. AND, on top of all this, SUMMER HERE LASTS 6 MONTHS AND IS AKIN TO LIVING IN A GODDAMNED KILN!
Midwesterns: heed my warning. Don't move here. Just don't. Cuz I give you 2 summers, 3 max, before you're bitching about the heat like a local. And, on top of it, you people are always the ones lamenting how 'people in Arizona don't know how to drive!' when we all know PEOPLE IN ARIZONA WHO DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE ARE YOU!
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Averting Pootastrophe
This is one for the baby book, for sure. I give you, Averting Pootastrophe:
It was Wednesday afternoon, and Darrick had been home with Luca all day. I get home around the time she generally takes her afternoon nap, so I usually come in the front door so the garage opening doesn't wake her. This time, right as I was coming in, Darrick and Luca were standing in the entryway. I walked in and was thumped in the face with the smell of something stinky and musty. Ahhh...that's right dog-owning friends....you know the smell. The dog crapped in the office. It matters not which dog, but for the sake of the story, I'll share that it was Piggy.
Anyhow, I looked at the poo, all 3 piles of it, on our lovely carpet, and asked what happened. Turns out, Darrick and Luca had run out to the store, and returned home moments before I got there, to see poop on the floor. He had kicked the dogs out already, but hadn't had the chance to clean it up.
So, what did I do? Well, I decided to be a nice wife and clean it up so he wouldn't have to. Armed with a plastic bag over my hand (THIS is what those suckers are good for!), I went in and scooped the poop. Hey....it's a glamorous job, but someone's got to do it! Poop in hand (well, in plastic bag OVER hand), I walked out back to toss it in the dumpster. Now, when you come in to our house through the back door, you see straight through the great room and into the office, which is where the offending poop had been left for us. So as I walked in, I see the spot where it had been, and I see Luca about 6.5 seconds from going RIGHT OVER to investigate the still un-cleaned spot.
I choose to blame what happened next on motherly instince to protect, rather than my own lack of grace and balance. From the front door to the entry to the den is about 30 feet or so. Then, it's down 2 steps and another 15-ish feet to the far end, where the poo spots remained. If you hit this running while simulatneously attempting to keep your voice calm and repeating "Luca. Come her baby. Don't go over there.", you can get it in about 6 strides, and leap, and 3 more strides.
Unless, that is, you are me. In which case, it happens more like this:
Seeing the baby 6.5 seconds from pootastrophe, your voice hits panic octive as you talk-screech out, "LUCA! DON'T MOVE!", you run like a fat person, unceremoniously jump over the steps, catch a foot in the loose hem of the opposite pant leg, fly through the air, shoot one leg out in front of you, smash it into a solid wood piece of furniture, wrap your arms around the baby while attempting unsuccessfully to muffle the "FUUUUUUUCKKKK!" that is uncontrollably ejected from your mouth, slam a shoulder into the wall, and grab at your foot just in time to see it rapidly swelling and to feel your middle toe pointing off into never-never land at what you are SURE is not a healthy angle.
Instant blinding pain. Toes unable to move, red and swollen and throbbing. Husband semi-sympathetic but sure I'd just jammed a toe or two. Baby looking at me like I am a crazy person, inwardly saying to herself, "THIS is my MOTHER? I am doomed."
I tried to get up, only to discover I could not walk, because pressure even on my heel shot pain through the whole foot. Darrick retrieved the baby as I hopped over to the steps on one foot. Then he had to help me up the steps and over to the couch, where I propped my foot up and he put some ice on it. We were sure it would be fine, but an hour later I tried to stand and could NOT put any weight on that foot.
I called my mom, a nurse, in the hope that she would have a spare crutch or something in her house, which I could borrow to get around until my foot felt better. Instead, she told me to report to Urgent Care. So, I did. Except, we hadn't had dinner, it was almost 8, and the place was closing in 10 minutes. So Darrick dropped me at the door and took Luca to get some food. I hopped in, and up to the desk, then sat and waited in a chair that was probably covered with more germs than anything I've ever touched in my life. I was called back and, hopping on one leg, tried my hardest not to give the nurse a death glare when she asked if SOMETHING WAS WRONG WITH MY LEG. Really? Really. Where did this woman GET her degree anyhow? Did she mail in box tops from Shredded Wheat and Malt-o-Meal for it?
Resisting the urge to be a smartass, I said, "That's why I'm here." So I was finally offered a wheelchair, which I accepted, and was wheeled back to a room. One very brief exam and 3 x-rays later, another (much funnier) nurse sent the PA in to confirm that I had a broken middle toe. Of course, there's jack you can do, aside from wrap it, ice it, and wear some ridiculous blue contraption made for Fred Flinstone on it. So I was sent home to recover.
And there it is friends. One for the baby book, no doubt. Many moms torture their children with, "I was in labor FORTY SEVEN HOURS with you, and you came out SIDEWAYS!" tales. Not I. Not I, indeed. Instead, when Luca gets older, I plan to tell her how I sacrificed my toe to avert pootastrophe and save her from danger.
It was Wednesday afternoon, and Darrick had been home with Luca all day. I get home around the time she generally takes her afternoon nap, so I usually come in the front door so the garage opening doesn't wake her. This time, right as I was coming in, Darrick and Luca were standing in the entryway. I walked in and was thumped in the face with the smell of something stinky and musty. Ahhh...that's right dog-owning friends....you know the smell. The dog crapped in the office. It matters not which dog, but for the sake of the story, I'll share that it was Piggy.
Anyhow, I looked at the poo, all 3 piles of it, on our lovely carpet, and asked what happened. Turns out, Darrick and Luca had run out to the store, and returned home moments before I got there, to see poop on the floor. He had kicked the dogs out already, but hadn't had the chance to clean it up.
So, what did I do? Well, I decided to be a nice wife and clean it up so he wouldn't have to. Armed with a plastic bag over my hand (THIS is what those suckers are good for!), I went in and scooped the poop. Hey....it's a glamorous job, but someone's got to do it! Poop in hand (well, in plastic bag OVER hand), I walked out back to toss it in the dumpster. Now, when you come in to our house through the back door, you see straight through the great room and into the office, which is where the offending poop had been left for us. So as I walked in, I see the spot where it had been, and I see Luca about 6.5 seconds from going RIGHT OVER to investigate the still un-cleaned spot.
I choose to blame what happened next on motherly instince to protect, rather than my own lack of grace and balance. From the front door to the entry to the den is about 30 feet or so. Then, it's down 2 steps and another 15-ish feet to the far end, where the poo spots remained. If you hit this running while simulatneously attempting to keep your voice calm and repeating "Luca. Come her baby. Don't go over there.", you can get it in about 6 strides, and leap, and 3 more strides.
Unless, that is, you are me. In which case, it happens more like this:
Seeing the baby 6.5 seconds from pootastrophe, your voice hits panic octive as you talk-screech out, "LUCA! DON'T MOVE!", you run like a fat person, unceremoniously jump over the steps, catch a foot in the loose hem of the opposite pant leg, fly through the air, shoot one leg out in front of you, smash it into a solid wood piece of furniture, wrap your arms around the baby while attempting unsuccessfully to muffle the "FUUUUUUUCKKKK!" that is uncontrollably ejected from your mouth, slam a shoulder into the wall, and grab at your foot just in time to see it rapidly swelling and to feel your middle toe pointing off into never-never land at what you are SURE is not a healthy angle.
Instant blinding pain. Toes unable to move, red and swollen and throbbing. Husband semi-sympathetic but sure I'd just jammed a toe or two. Baby looking at me like I am a crazy person, inwardly saying to herself, "THIS is my MOTHER? I am doomed."
I tried to get up, only to discover I could not walk, because pressure even on my heel shot pain through the whole foot. Darrick retrieved the baby as I hopped over to the steps on one foot. Then he had to help me up the steps and over to the couch, where I propped my foot up and he put some ice on it. We were sure it would be fine, but an hour later I tried to stand and could NOT put any weight on that foot.
I called my mom, a nurse, in the hope that she would have a spare crutch or something in her house, which I could borrow to get around until my foot felt better. Instead, she told me to report to Urgent Care. So, I did. Except, we hadn't had dinner, it was almost 8, and the place was closing in 10 minutes. So Darrick dropped me at the door and took Luca to get some food. I hopped in, and up to the desk, then sat and waited in a chair that was probably covered with more germs than anything I've ever touched in my life. I was called back and, hopping on one leg, tried my hardest not to give the nurse a death glare when she asked if SOMETHING WAS WRONG WITH MY LEG. Really? Really. Where did this woman GET her degree anyhow? Did she mail in box tops from Shredded Wheat and Malt-o-Meal for it?
Resisting the urge to be a smartass, I said, "That's why I'm here." So I was finally offered a wheelchair, which I accepted, and was wheeled back to a room. One very brief exam and 3 x-rays later, another (much funnier) nurse sent the PA in to confirm that I had a broken middle toe. Of course, there's jack you can do, aside from wrap it, ice it, and wear some ridiculous blue contraption made for Fred Flinstone on it. So I was sent home to recover.
And there it is friends. One for the baby book, no doubt. Many moms torture their children with, "I was in labor FORTY SEVEN HOURS with you, and you came out SIDEWAYS!" tales. Not I. Not I, indeed. Instead, when Luca gets older, I plan to tell her how I sacrificed my toe to avert pootastrophe and save her from danger.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
I Edited This Title.
*Note: This post used to be titled differently, until I got sick of all the random blog hits I got from questions about women and whether or not they are able to whistle.*
I had a funny experience today. I'm widely recognized in my office (ok, as widely as you can be in an office of 5) as 'The Human iPod' because, essentially, I annoy the crap out of co-workers by humming and singing everything from oldies to lullabies to current Top 40s to my favorites (Dylan, Grateful Dead, etc.). ALL DAY LONG. So, it should come as no surprise that I bust out the ocassional whistle as well.
Or, should it?
I was in my office today, amusing myself with a little bit of 'If You're Happy and You Know It', whistled as I worked. My office is at one end of the hall, and at the other end is one of my fabulous co-workers, who moved to the U.S. in the 90s from Jordan. English is his 2nd (perhaps 3rd?) language, so things like our other co-worker's catchphrases ("Goad a sleeping bear", "Bird-dog it.") sometimes have to be explained in layman's terms. One day, he even came into my office with a peach yogurt, and told me it was "Peach for the peachy." Upon further exploration of this statement, I realized he was complimenting my typically sunny demeanor (here is where my husband laughs his ass off).
So you can see why, when I walked by his office whistling merrily, his comment may have taken me off guard. For, when I heard him say to me, "You whistle like a man, Katie.", my first thought was "Well, clearly he didn't mean that."
I stopped abruptly, pivoted on one foot, and said, "I whistle like a what?". He repeated his statement, and I stood there, still and unsure what to say next. Did I ask for clarification? Smile and keep walking? Pretend to understand?
Just then, my other co-worker, another girl, piped in, "I can't whistle at all. You're really quite good."
"Yes," assured Mr. Jordan, "that is what I meant. Everytime you start to whistle I think it is insert name of other male co-worker, but then I realize it is you. Most women do not whistle so well. You whistle like a man."
Huh. I was still not sure how to take this piece of...news?...so I just started to laugh. I suppose maybe that sort of behavior earned me the peachy moniker. Mr. J then assured me that it was a compiment, a good thing indeed that a woman should whistle like a man, for most women, it seems, cannot whistle much at all.
Later, insert name of other male co-worker here came into my office and handed me a sticky note. "Google this man." he said. And google I did. It seems I was now being compared to Ron McCroby, a famous jazz whistler. Observe, and then nod your head and smile, pretenging all along that I could possibly be anywhere NEAR as happening as this cool cat ::snap, snap::
:::jazz hands:::
I had a funny experience today. I'm widely recognized in my office (ok, as widely as you can be in an office of 5) as 'The Human iPod' because, essentially, I annoy the crap out of co-workers by humming and singing everything from oldies to lullabies to current Top 40s to my favorites (Dylan, Grateful Dead, etc.). ALL DAY LONG. So, it should come as no surprise that I bust out the ocassional whistle as well.
Or, should it?
I was in my office today, amusing myself with a little bit of 'If You're Happy and You Know It', whistled as I worked. My office is at one end of the hall, and at the other end is one of my fabulous co-workers, who moved to the U.S. in the 90s from Jordan. English is his 2nd (perhaps 3rd?) language, so things like our other co-worker's catchphrases ("Goad a sleeping bear", "Bird-dog it.") sometimes have to be explained in layman's terms. One day, he even came into my office with a peach yogurt, and told me it was "Peach for the peachy." Upon further exploration of this statement, I realized he was complimenting my typically sunny demeanor (here is where my husband laughs his ass off).
So you can see why, when I walked by his office whistling merrily, his comment may have taken me off guard. For, when I heard him say to me, "You whistle like a man, Katie.", my first thought was "Well, clearly he didn't mean that."
I stopped abruptly, pivoted on one foot, and said, "I whistle like a what?". He repeated his statement, and I stood there, still and unsure what to say next. Did I ask for clarification? Smile and keep walking? Pretend to understand?
Just then, my other co-worker, another girl, piped in, "I can't whistle at all. You're really quite good."
"Yes," assured Mr. Jordan, "that is what I meant. Everytime you start to whistle I think it is insert name of other male co-worker, but then I realize it is you. Most women do not whistle so well. You whistle like a man."
Huh. I was still not sure how to take this piece of...news?...so I just started to laugh. I suppose maybe that sort of behavior earned me the peachy moniker. Mr. J then assured me that it was a compiment, a good thing indeed that a woman should whistle like a man, for most women, it seems, cannot whistle much at all.
Later, insert name of other male co-worker here came into my office and handed me a sticky note. "Google this man." he said. And google I did. It seems I was now being compared to Ron McCroby, a famous jazz whistler. Observe, and then nod your head and smile, pretenging all along that I could possibly be anywhere NEAR as happening as this cool cat ::snap, snap::
:::jazz hands:::
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