Category Archives for "Randomness"
all things random
all things random
Wished I lived in Hawaii.
Wished I lived in California.
Wished I lived in Fiji.
Wished I lived someplace that had lots of i’s and no snow.
Shoveled more snow.
Took off snow soaked jeans and sweat soaked underwear in the powder room before realizing I had forgotten clean pairs of each on the kitchen island.
Swore some more.
Yelled for Zoe or Helena to throw me the clean pairs.
Remembered they were both at school.
Wished I homeschooled.
Came back to my senses.
Said a prayer, ran out of the powder room commando.
Grabbed the clean pairs off the island.
Shocked, blinded and traumatized the UPS guy standing at the front door, ringing a broken doorbell.
Made a mental note to buy the UPS guy some eye bleach for Christmas.
Continued shoveling snow.
Went against everything I believe in and bought Oliver a little wool sweater but only because I thought he’d be more apt to potty outside if he wasn’t shivering.
Stood outside and froze while begging Oliver to potty in the snow.
Yelled IT’S SNOW! NOT ANTHRAX! IT WON’T KILL YOU.
Yelled FINE! IT’S ANTHRAX! STOP EATING IT OR *I’LL* KILL YOU.
Yelled FOR THE LOVE OF JESUS, POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP too many times to count.
Yelled I MEANT OUTSIDE, NOT INSIDE, NUMNUTS! Also too many times to count.
Made up new swear words.
Went Christmas shopping.
Returned 75% of everything I bought.
Wrapped Uncle Pat’s gift and placed it under the tree.
Found Uncle Pat’s gift in the middle of the floor.
Yelled STOP IT, OLIVER.
Re-wrapped Uncle Pat’s gift and placed it under the tree.
Shoveled and swore.
Found Uncle Pat’s gift on the stairs.
Yelled I MEAN IT, OLLIE. KNOCK IF OFF.
Re-wrapped Uncle Pat’s gift and placed it under the tree.
Swore my head off.
Shoveled my guts out.
Found Uncle Pat’s gift in Ollie’s mouth.
Put all wrapped gifts in the basement.
Put Ollie in his crate.
Gathered up my guts, found my head and took them all with me to Home Depot.
Bought a new shovel. And eye bleach.
The girls’ bathroom remains in transition. The new tub is in and the tile has been grouted but the floor is torn up and the vanity looks like that dead sperm whale that spontaneously exploded in Taiwan a few years ago. I want Nate to replace the vanity, remove the soffit above it and cover the wall with big pieces of broken tile butted up against two large pieces of mirror in the shape of trapezoids. Nate wants me to go far away.
In the meantime, we’re all sharing the master bathroom which means Nate gets to shower in the company of 53 various bottles of girly body wash, shaving gel, shampoo and conditioner, all of which he avoids like the clap because he doesn’t feel like explaining to his boss why he’s walking around smelling like fruit salad.
Remember the $140 juicer Nate bought? It was delivered, opened and promptly stowed away in our hall closet until such time as WHO THE HELL KNOWS?
If this photo could talk, it would be screaming I TOLD YOU SO.
A long time ago, I posted about Bar Keepers Friend.
Can I just say again how much I love this stuff?
Why yes, yes I can.
I have a small skillet that apparently suffers from Ethnic Identity Disorder – it was born 100% stainless steel but insists that it is half Black.
This is the skillet after soaking it for thirty minutes in hot, sudsy Dawn water, rubbing it raw with a brillo pad and Soft Scrub and having it go a few rounds with the power washer Nate uses to clean our deck.
I also yelled at it for twenty minutes straight but that seemed to have no effect whatsoever.
Kind of like my kids.
This is the skillet after five minutes of hanky panky with Bar Keepers Friend.
No, I am not a paid spokesman for Bar Keepers Friend. Although wouldn’t that be nice? If it works this well on a skillet, can you imagine what buckets of the stuff could do for my putrid, shitty, scorched bladder?
I want a shiny bladder for Christmas.
Heads up, Santa.
Zoe is walking around with $600 stuck onto her eyeballs. That’s because she came down with a particularly nasty eye infection from contacts last year, necessitating new glasses and a frequent flier pass to the opthamologist so this year, it was highly recommended for us to try Acuvue TruEye which goes for approximately six zillion times the cost of regular contacts.
I about had a heart attack when we purchased these damn things from 1-800-Contacts at Walmart. I about had two more when my $100 rebate form was rejected by Acuvue because apparently, Walmart does not participate in their rebate program, a little fact that the manager of the Walmart optical department neglected to tell me.
Reason #1,366,349 why I despite Walmart.
Also, item #749 in my arsenal that I like to call STUFF I CAN YELL OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD TO REMIND MY KIDS WHY IT’S KIND OF SHITTY OF THEM TO STICK ME IN AN OLD AGE HOME WHEN I TURN FIFTY.
This is a jar of hot pepper jelly from my friend Barb who was nice enough to post her recipe here. It came in the mail yesterday and I loved the color so much, I ran right out to my driveway to take a shot of it and make my neighbors call each other up and whisper She’s at it again. Poor thing.
Isn’t it gorgeous? I don’t want to open it. I want to keep it by my kitchen window and let the morning sunlight filter through it so I can stare at it instead of at confused skillets. But I’m married to man who can sense hot, spicy things across three time zones and he called me from the airport in Chicago and yelled I’M SO EATING THAT WHEN I GET HOME and then hung up.
It took me a second to realize he was referring to the pepper jelly and not me.
Because apparently, my own hotness and spiceness is not detectable past eastern standard time.
So, what’s going on in your life lately?
Zoe is learning how to drive. It took her ten minutes to back out of our garage, down our driveway and into the road only to wind up facing in the wrong direction. It took another ten minutes to pull forward and back out again, this time facing in the right direction. As Nate sat in the passenger seat and calmly guided her, I played the part of backseat driver by calling out THAT’S OK, ZOE, WE DIDN’T NEED THAT MAILBOX ANYWAY. NEITHER DID OUR NEIGHBOR.
In the midst of our city, we have a public market that’s been going on two weeks shy of forever but I only just recently discovered it. Apparently, it’s one of those things people just know about because they’re “in the loop.” I never know about these things as I am not in the loop since I can’t find the damn loop without a GPS because they keep moving it on me. Also, the market happens to be located in the dirty, smelly, hairy armpit of our city and I happen to be a big, fat, chicken who hates armpits. But I was assured that the area was perfectly safe during daylight hours and that if I ventured out there right after breakfast, I wasn’t likely to wind up as a chalk outline on an episode of Law & Order. But I wasn’t taking any chances so I dragged my nine year old with me, just in case, because she knows karate.
While there, I bought myself this Jimmy Choo knock off purse. It’s the first purse that I have ever owned that looks both (1) stylish; and (2) not black. As soon as I brought it home, I had second thoughts which grew exponentially until I was grappling with the potential for my $35 purchase to infringe on Jimmy Choo’s copyright, compromise the sanctity of intellectual property in general and possibly violate who knows how many child labor laws in the process. All so that I can walk around carrying a gold billboard on my arm to announce to the world that I am too cheap to buy the real thing.
On the plus side, the gold color is growing on me.
I also bought this. It has kosher salt, garlic, onion, pepper, dill seed, mustard seed, rosemary, rice flour, cayenne and something called natural smoke flavor, which hello? If I had known that people actually wanted smokey flavors in their food, I would have invited everyone I know over for dinner for three straight months after having created my own version. The secret? Inadvertently roasting gloppy grilled cheese sandwiches at 550° for an hour and a half while you watch a few episodes of Real Housewives of New York on your DVR.
I bought this stuff so that the next time I ask everyone what they want for dinner fifty-two times and they respond We don’t know fifty-two times and I wind up yelling ONE OF THESE DAYS, I’M JUST GOING TO SERVE YOU ROAD KILL, I SWEAR TO GOD, I won’t actually be lying to God.
It’s not nice to lie to God. I’m pretty sure She keeps track of that sort of stuff on Her laptop.
We went out for ice cream the other day and Oliver got his own serving which, at first, he eyed suspiciously, then sniffed a few hundred times before sticking his entire face in the bowl without managing to actually touch any of the doggie treats that adorned it. GOD FORBID.
How did I wind up with a puppy who snubs his nose to every doggie treat known to man? Aren’t dogs supposed to eat everything, no matter how disgusting it is? Like poop and stuff? Not that Oliver eats his own poop. I nipped that in the bud because I don’t put up with that sort of thing. My kids never did it which went a long way in my decision to keep them.
I love writing my blog and putting myself and my life out there. I really do. But if I’m being completely honest here, sometimes, sometimes, I wish I had started this blog anonymously. Because sometimes, I don’t want to be the bigger person and take the high road. Sometimes, I want to be petty and small and take the road straight to hell by ripping someone a new asshole on this blog. You know … a good ol’ bitch fest with lots of vitriolic castigation, swear words and some spitting. But I can’t because actions like that have repercussions in real life. Maybe the object of my hissy fit reads this blog and in his/her spare time, grades my kids’ math tests or fills my kids’ cavities or fixes the brake lines in my car, or has marital relations with me or cuts my hair? Is two minutes of going apeshit on someone’s ass worth my kids failing school or me walking around with an asymmetrical mullet?
Eve, a blogging acquaintance of mine, started a new site called Letters to Breathe and there, you can post your anonymous, unsent letters and say what you can’t say anywhere else. You can get the weight off your chest and the monkey off your back and finally tell your neighbor that if he wasn’t being such a bitter turd about the property line, you’d be more than happy to inform him that his wife is banging the UPS guy. You can do it without fear of discovery or consequence or a big oak tree plunging through your roof.
By the way, if you ever see a letter posted there addressed to AssHat Douchebag in which some guy gets verbally castrated and has his balls theoretically shoved down his throat because he once humiliated a shy, young, naive underclassman in front of all his friends in the middle of the senior corridor of a high school over twenty-five years ago, I didn’t write it.
Just a few of the thoughts spinning out of control in my head this morning:
For the love of God, somebody send me some cows. I simply cannot keep going to Wegmans to buy milk every other day and I’m too stressed out to lactate.
What am I supposed to feed cows? Do they eat spaghetti?
I met with a personal trainer yesterday.
My bank account says I can’t afford a personal trainer. Loud and clear! With enunciation! And inflection! And rampant use of extraneous exclamation points!
My weight and BMI both say I can’t not afford a personal trainer. I know this because they were screaming at me in unison and I think the personal trainer heard them because right at that moment, he whipped out one of those Are You Healthy charts and with his finger, pointed to my optimal healthy zone. Then he ran across the room and pointed out the window to my current zone which apparently resides somewhere over the horizon. The exact distance between the two zones was difficult to determine because he didn’t have his GPS on him and I forgot to bring my globe from home.
Part of my brain says I need to get off my ass, suck it up and hire the personal trainer already.
Another part says I need to hit the gym on my own because who the hell do I think I am, Oprah? What’s next, a personal chef?
A teeny tiny little part of my brain is squealing Oooooooh, I always wanted a personal chef! Let’s be Oprah! Come on, it’ll be fun! Who’s with me?
And finally, one last part of my brain is telling all the other parts to shut the hell up so it can mull it over some Dove chocolate.
Just to keep you in suspense, I won’t tell you which part won.
The last part won.
Courtesy of the teeny tiny part of my brain which can’t keep a secret and thinks suspense is highly overrated.
I have come to the conclusion that I am waging psychological warfare upon myself and I am losing for a variety of reasons, not the least of which being that I am ill equipped to go into battle.
My husband is complaining that Planters is getting stingy lately with the cashews in their Mixed Nuts.
I don’t know what to tell him. *burp*
You learn something new everyday. Except last Tuesday. Not sure what happened.
Summer TV is abysmal. Never did I think I would see the day when my husband, the National Geographic, Science Channel and History Channel aficionado, would willingly watch obese, tattooed, pierced, freaks of nature with stunted vocabulary and severe pepper spray issues repossess cars and wrestle the occasional jacked up dwarf. And know all their names.
I have reviewed my schedule and managed to carve out thirteen minutes next Thursday in which to be spontaneous. Haven’t decided what I will do yet.
I took this photo well over a year ago.
It is still applicable today.
So is this one, except that the bath mat is green.
I live in a constant state of deja vu and surprisingly enough, it’s not all its cracked up to be.
Why does my brother return my call just to tell me he can’t talk?
I want Steve Perry and Journey to kiss and make up.
I’d settle for kissing Anderson Cooper myself, even though he has nothing to do with either Steve Perry or Journey.
Staples had packs of paper on sale for $0.01 each last week. I bought enough to write War and Peace by hand fifty-two times.
I would never write War and Peace by hand fifty-two times. That’s what I have kids for.
Staples has one-subject notebooks on sale this week for a penny. If my kids ever take 1,769 subjects in school, they’ll be ready. Twice.
I believe this firmly cements my status as a bargain hunter whore.
The other week, I was waiting for my car to be serviced at the Honda dealership when I noticed a woman three seats down from me eating ice cream. With a real spoon. From a ceramic bowl.
What the hell did she do, bring it from home? Who does that?
Why didn’t she bring enough for everyone? That is just rude, if you ask me.
No one ever asks me.
Why would anyone take their two year old child to play miniature golf? Why not throw him outside with a plastic golf club and a wiffle ball and a sprinkler and just let him be happy? Because I don’t think crawling under a wind mill and getting stuck and you yelling NOW YOU’VE DONE IT. HAPPY NOW? COVER YOUR FACE, IT’S MY TURN is making anyone happy, to be honest.
As long as we’re being honest, a premenopausal hormonal woman allergic to outdoors has no business playing miniature golf either, especially when it’s a sunny 102° out and the only source of shade is currently inhabited by the aforementioned little human in a pull-up who refuses to budge no matter how many times she pokes him with her putter.
So I’ve heard.
I am putting off renting Helena’s violin. I like my ears. They work perfectly well and they look pretty and I’m not ready to rip them off my head yet. I’d tell you to ask me how I feel come November but chances are I won’t hear you because of the two gaping holes on either side of my face.
That’s it! Anyone else want to roll?