Category Archives for "Sunday regurgitation"
My weekly “best of” post
My weekly “best of” post
I feel like ick.
Like some distant, inbred cousin of the tooth fairy, ostracized from Mythical Creature Land for pulling the eyelashes off of baby unicorns, visited me during the night and shoved some cement up my nose, scraped my throat raw with sand paper and is now sitting atop my head, using it as her own personal thigh master.
Luckily, we’re going to my mother-in-law’s house today to eat and then going to my former mother-in-law’s house to see her new furbaby. Nothing takes the edge off a bad case of ick like having someone else cook dinner followed up by a brand new shiny puppy nuzzling your neck.
Speaking of ick, I leave you with a post I wrote last year about filing our income tax return. Apropos, no?
I wish you a happy ick-free Sunday.
Let’s play Russian Roulette with an IRS audit!
(originally published March, 2010)
Because I have raised nagging to an art form, we filed our taxes back in February and have already received a much needed refund which was spent before it even hit our checking account. As I sit here perusing our census form, I am convinced that had we thought a little more out of the box, we could have done even better on our taxes and I’d be typing this while fondling my brand spanking new Nikon D90.
For instance, we could have written off that box as a second residence.
And we forgot to claim a whole slew of dependents, like:
“IT WASN’T ME” who likes to eat all the Skinny Cow truffle bars before I even have one and who leaves empty boxes of Weight Watchers peanut butter cookies and FiberPlus Dark Chocolate bars in the pantry, just to screw with me.
“IT’S NOT MY TURN” who is allergic to clearing the table, cleaning the shower, rinsing a plate and taking Oliver out to potty.
“I DON’T KNOW” who spits gobs of toothpaste in the bathroom sink and nicks the kitchen granite countertop by dropping something heavy on it when no one is looking.
“I DID IT LAST TIME” who refuses to move laundry baskets from the downstairs to the upstairs because they are presumably made out of gravity.
“IN A MINUTE” who tells time by charting the stars and thusly, only moves from the couch once every nine days.
“HOW SHOULD I KNOW” who gets her jollies by hiding the cordless phone inside the couch and watching everyone else scramble around for it when it rings and when I say “everyone” I mean me, since I am the only one who ever answers the phone around here even though 99.99% of the time, it’s not for me.
“I’LL DO IT LATER” who looks suspiciously like a teenager.
Next year, by golly, we’re going to be a bit more creative. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get a chance to take a portrait of our very own personal IRS auditor with my brand spanking new Nikon D90.
It’s late at night as I’m typing this because I completely forgot that it was Saturday night and I hadn’t yet written anything for my weekend regurgitation. In my defense, I was preoccupied with two things:
I leave you with a post I wrote about my girls last year. Honestly, if I could have only one super power, I’d choose the ability to make time stand still.
Happy Sunday, everyone!
Sometimes she literally makes me see red
(originally published March, 2010)
The other day, Zoe decided that she was tired of being Greek so she decided to switch it up a little for St. Patrick’s Day and become Irish. This is Zoe with red hair, courtesy of one box of Nice ‘n Easy and thirty minutes away from my supervision. I’ve become accustomed to it and actually like it now but at the time I was all HEY, WHATTUP, PIPPI LONGSTOCKING?
By the way, don’ t you just love how I blow out all the highlights in my photos? I do that on purpose so that you don’t come to expect a filet mignon caliber of photography from me when I know my efforts are Hamburger Helper at best.
Let’s hear it for lowering those expectations!
Be careful you don’t trip over the bar there, lying on the ground.
Zoe with red hair from a box and Helena with brown hair from God. This photo was immediately after I encouraged them to act naturally.
At this point, I think my own expectations were digging themselves straight to China.
By the way, Helena now wants to color her hair because hey, her sister and her mom do it so why can’t she? And after she continued to ask me 467 times, I was all Fine! Fine! Go color your hair! I suppose you’ll be wanting your period now too, as well? Great! Be my guest! We can all color our hair together and then compare our bloated stomachs! Then we’ll eat cheese covered with chocolate sprinkles all day every day for a week! Then we’ll bitch at each other over nothing! AND THEN WE’LL BLEED ALL OVER OUR UNDERWEAR TOGETHER! IT’LL BE FUN!
She hasn’t asked me again.
Zoe’s hair seemed to get redder and redder the longer we stayed outside.
See? I had to hurry it up lest she became a beacon for incoming arrivals at the county airport.
Is “incoming arrivals” redundant and unnecessary?
Is “redundant and unnecessary” redundant and unnecessary?
It’s not often that my girls allow themselves to enjoy one another’s company. There are usually too many obstacles in the way, like their 6½ year age difference, their friends, and fights over the computer, TV and bathroom. Oh! And who can forget their raging battles over who can set and clear the table the fastest, who can keep their bedroom the cleanest and who can love Mom the bestest?
Me. That’s who. It’s hard to remember something that never happened.
I know that they love each other.
But I’m constantly surprised when, amidst all of the YOU ARE SUCH A BIG BUTT and the YOU’RE A BIG HAIRY BUTT and the YOU’RE THE BIGGEST HAIRIEST BUTT FREAK THERE IS and the MOM, SHE CALLED ME A BIG HAIRY BUTT FREAK moments, they seem to genuinely like each other as well.
I genuinely like them too.
In the past few weeks, I have done all of the following, some of them more than once:
I leave you with a post I wrote last year about a midlife crisis. Time’s a wastin’ and pretty soon, I’ll have to request a three-quarter life crisis instead.
Happy Sunday, everyone!
I’d like a midlife crisis soon, please. While I’m still young enough to enjoy it.
(originally published March 11, 2010)
I am writing to inquire as to the status of my application for an Official Midlife Crisis. I believe I am deserved of such an event and have previously provided your staff with all of the documentation required, including but not limited to the following:
It is my hope that the foregoing meets all your criteria for batshit crazy and that you approve my application for Official Midlife Crisis status as soon as possible, before perimenopause sucks my will to live. Should you need proof of purchase of a boob job/tummy tuck/Botox/complete overhaul, please advise as soon as possible as time is of the essence. The local plastic surgeon has a waiting list a mile long and I might not get in before full onset menopause at which point, I will be too busy shaving my face and drowning in boob sweat to enjoy a crisis of any other kind.
Thank you for any and all consideration.
We brought Oliver home to live with us when he was eight weeks old which was almost exactly one year ago today. Our lives have never been the same. Nor have our carpets.
I did not know how much I could adore an animal until we got Ollie. I had never considered myself a dog person and even today, dog slobber still makes my skin crawl right off my body and hide under the sink. I thought I’d simply be tolerating a dog for the kids’ sake but holy flippin’ jeebers, I love this little guy. It’s just the two of us together five days out of seven and he spends his time sleeping on my lap or on my feet or following me all around the house, so much so that I have to be careful not to stop in mid-stride lest he bonk his nose on my ankle.
Unfortunately, he has developed a Pavlovian response to couches in that, when he sees one, he automatically poops behind it. Just yesterday, while on one of my routine couch checks, I was all SHIT SHIT SHIT! Somebody get me some tiger blood, Adonis DNA and the drug called Charlie Sheen. YOU’RE GOING TO KICK THIS HABIT, OLIVER, AND BE A WINNER. No ifs, ands or buts about it. Everything after “but” is dial tone anyway.
And Oliver was all Would you mind sitting down while you’re having a psychotic break? I need a lap. I’m exhausted.
I leave you with the post I wrote soon after we brought Ollie home, about my first impressions on raising a puppy.
Happy Sunday, everyone!
First impressions on raising a puppy
(originally published March 9, 2010)
What in God’s name was I smoking when I agreed to this?
Whatever it was? I’d like some more, please.
Having a puppy is almost like having a newborn baby, except that my boobs are not engorged and I can’t shoot my uterus across the room by sneezing.
A newborn baby is easier than a puppy because newborn babies come with diapers.
Puppy diapers are truly an excellent idea. Someone go invent them. Thank you.
I’m worried people are going to think I shrunk a real dog in the dryer.
You can turn a tiny, happy puppy into a furious, demented hyena simply by placing him in a crate.
If you’d prefer a screeching, rabid, pissed-off, psychotic hyena instead, one who acts as if his testicles are being french braided and then pureed in a Cuisinart, place that tiny, happy puppy in a crate and then walk out of the room.
I will never take another shower in peace and quiet.
I don’t remember what peace and quiet sounds like.
Puppies keep your feet warmer than fleece slippers.
There is something to be said for unconditional love that doesn’t come equipped with an I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO DO LAUNDRY? OH MY GOD, I CAN’T WEAR THIS! MY LIFE SUCKS gene.
Puppy breath smells like ass. With infected hemorrhoids.
Dog food and treats don’t smell much better.
I thought I’d never meet another mammal who could produce ten times its weight in pee within a 24 hour period without benefit of a raging bladder infection.
Puppies are mammals, right?
Puppies are softer than clouds.
Puppy poop looks like milk chocolate covered pretzels.
Puppy poop on cream carpet looks like dark chocolate covered pretzels.
My carpet is scared.
I am scared.
I now know what it feels like to have my own personal stalker.
I did not think it was possible to love any living thing like I do my own kids.
Both kids were sleeping elsewhere last night so Nate and I had a date night.
And by “date night” I don’t mean we took in a movie or went to an expensive restaurant or listened to a band or went dancing, horizontal or otherwise.
No, I mean we hit Lowes in search of mirrors of the upstairs bathroom and Nate actually waited for me to get out of the Durango so that we could walk into the store together and I didn’t have to pull a groin muscle by chasing after him.
And then after we walked in the store together, we actually walked around the store together and I didn’t have to send any texts saying I’m in the tile section. Did you see this mosaic? Nate? Are you there? Did you forget and leave without me again?
And then we agreed not to buy something because we both didn’t like it instead of one person buying something and the other silently telling herself she’ll learn to love it, all while mentally re-calculating the color-coded, alphabetized, spread-sheet of grievances she keeps in her head and pulls out of her ass whenever the situation warrants.
And then we drove to a small diner and he held the door open for me.
And then while we were waiting too long for our meals, he didn’t ask me accusingly What did you order?
And then we actually talked during dinner and, if I’m not mistaken, we had an actual, bonafide conversation. With complete sentences and everything.
And I didn’t even burp.
We may have even held hands. On purpose.
It was nice.
And I’m still a bit giddy.
In honor of this momentous occasion, I leave you with the very first post I ever wrote on this blog, about how Nate and I met almost fourteen years ago, long before the phrase “chia pet” would make me drop into a fetal position and cry for my mama.
Happy Sunday, everyone!
I married my tall, dark, handsome rebound guy
(originally published May 2008)
It was May, 1997. I was about six months into a separation from my husband of six years, the man who had promised to love and cherish me until death do us part or, apparently as he understood it, until he got a better offer. I must have missed that in our vows.
So I had spent the last six months gathering my wits about me, trying to scratch my way to a surface where I could breathe normally again. My co-worker MaryAnn decided that what I really needed was an adventure and what better way to get the blood pumping again than to go white water rafting down the Black River Gorge? I couldn’t think of anything better to do that Saturday so I said yes.
I met Nate (a/k/a MaryAnn’s nephew a/k/a tall, dark, handsome, soon-to-be rebound guy a/k/a my destiny) in the parking lot of the mall where we all gathered to figure out car pooling. Well, actually “met” is a bit of an overstatement. So is “said HI to.” I wasn’t paying attention to anything other than my own thoughts running amuck. How did I get myself into this situation? White water rafting was as ludicrous as climbing Mount Everest. The only sport I had ever played was golf and there was nothing extreme about it. It was no big secret that I was athletically challenged so what the hell was I doing with these people?
After arriving at the gorge, all of us ran in different directions … some to pay, some to change outfits, some to just hang out until the rest of us were ready. When we finally all came together it became immediately apparent that one of us thought pretty highly of himself. Specifically, my destiny was wearing his very own three quarter length wet suit. He looked ridiculous amongst the rest of us normal people who didn’t own our own wet suits and were therefore outfitted in the glamorous, fluorescent orange, musty smelling, one-size-fits-all full body wet suits supplied by the rafting company.
Did you know that it’s possible for a wet suit to fit so snug across your chest that it sucks the soul right out of your body while at the same time leaving enough wiggle room in your nether regions to hide a bowling ball?
I paid no attention to my destiny all decked out in shiny black and blue down to his knees. I hitched up my sagging wet suit, trying in vain to get the crotch somewhere in the vicinity above my knees and waddled my blazing neon orange droopy ass over to my co-workers who were waiting by the rafts and proceeded to listen to our guide’s survival instructions. And really, the only instruction that seemed to resonate with me was DO NOT FALL OUT OF THE RAFT. That one seemed pretty important.
We hopped into our rafts and as it turned out I wound up in a different raft than my destiny. I was in the raft with my boss and my boss’s husband, a very athletic, strapping specimen of a man who gave me his solemn vow that he would personally ensure my safety at all times. I expressed my concern to him that I NOT FALL OUT OF THE RAFT BECAUSE I COULD DIE AND I DID NOT WANT TO DIE IN THIS SUIT. He patted me on the shoulder, told me to not worry and to stick by him.
About 1/2 hour into the trip down the gorge, things were going pretty well and I started to relax a little, thinking that I might actually live to see what we were having for dinner afterward when we hit a strong set of rapids. Our guide hollered instructions at us left and right and we feverishly tried to keep our raft afloat. I turned to my boss’s husband for assurance only to catch sight of his ass AS HE WENT FLYING OVER BACKWARDS OUT OF THE RAFT. Hello? Are you kidding me? You can just go find yourself someone else to protect, Mr. Manly Man.
So, what does all of this have to do with a tall, dark, handsome guy in a ridiculous wet suit? Not much, but we had met. At a pivotal time in both of our lives. We knew the other existed. And that was all MaryAnn needed as she became the social director of my pathetic excuse of a life. She organized activities for her family and friends and one volleyball night later, my destiny emailed me at work. A very short email in which he briefly commented on the volleyball, asked about an upcoming soccer game and wished me a nice day. Having been out of the dating game for awhile, MaryAnn and my boss sought to ease my way back in by helping me draft an appropriate response – polite but not too forward, leaving the door open but not yanking him inside: yes, volleyball was fun; yes, we would all be at the soccer game and hey, you have a nice day too.
Eventually, we got better at composing interesting emails.
And then at a soccer game, I committed a major faux pas by making the first move and asking him out on an actual date – drinks after the game. From the expressions on MaryAnn’s and my boss’s faces, you would have thought that I propositioned the pope. WHAT IN GOD’S NAME WAS I THINKING? DID I NOT REALIZE HOW THE GAME IS PLAYED?
Everyone was happy that I had a transitional man.
But then we fell in love.
I was breaking rules all over the place and MaryAnn was just beside herself. Just what in the hell did I think I was doing? Did I not know anything? YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO FALL IN LOVE WITH YOUR TRANSITIONAL MAN. THEY ARE CALLED TRANSITIONAL FOR A REASON. GET A GRIP ON YOURSELF.
We married almost 2 years later.
We’ve been married just about 9 years now.
The tall, dark, handsome, soon-to-be rebound guy wearing the shiny blue and black three quarter length wet suit was my soul mate in disguise.