Flex Work Schedule
Today, I worked from home. It's one of new "alternative/flexible work schedule" options now offered by my employer (thanks to me, of course, for pushing the matter). It was heavenly. Aside from the fact that I spent most of the day with a brown nose as I begged (in the most professional manner) for sponsorship dollars, it was nice not to have to get up at 5:00 a.m., debate about what to wear, apply make-up, blow dry hair, feed lil J, rush to drop her off at day care by 6:50, then sit in traffic for over an hour....just to end up sitting behind my computer and on the phone for 8 hours.... something I can certainly do from the comfort of my own home, with no regard to mascara and mousse and heels and TRAFFIC. Being at the office when there are no meetings or other obligations is entirely overrated. I vote we work from home at least 2 days a week! Think of all the gas money we'll save... and how the stress will just melt away... and the money we'll save on dry cleaning... and how we'll be close to our families. If only it would also make us skinny... now that would be perfection.
Summer Lovin'
Well, Summer is officially here. Which means we are faced with a very tough decision. To vacation or not to vacation. That is the question. Ok, so Summer actually started two weeks ago, making us fashionably late on making a decision...but that's how we roll. Gone are the days when we planned trips and took a week to pack for said trips. These days, we fly by the seat of our pants. It took me exactly 1 hour and 23 minutes to pack for a 7-day road trip to Mt. Rushmore last March. Aren't you proud? I attribute this new found lack of planning to the fact that I'm getting old and lazy. Plus, it makes things more exciting! (And it keeps Hubber on his toes.)
So...first we decided to go to Destin. Then, no, we can't go to Destin, we must, must, must go to Disney World. Then, think again, given the price of gas these days, a road trip to Disney World would be way too expensive...looks like it's going to be Destin. Then, BAM. Turns out we can go to Disney for super cheap if we stay at some shady hotel, eat bread and drink water for 4 days and 4 nights. So, Disney it is! Not.
Last week, as Hubber was staring up at the big oak tree in the back yard, he decided that the 263 limbs that have been hanging over the roof of the house since time began MUST come down at once! No ifs ands or buts about it. It's hurricane season for crying out loud! So, the trip is off again. And our bank account is about to have a stroke. And my plans to buy new vacation shoes and handbags have vanished into thin air...all that's left are deep, empty holes in my heart where images of pretty little shoes and fabulous bags used to be.
We will be taking some vacation time, though. Where will we go, you ask? Well, right outside to our backyard. We'll save on gas... and packing... and unpacking... and listening to The Wiggles ad nauseum... and all the other hassles of taking two children on a road trip. I may not get to buy new shoes and handbags, but I'll certainly be stocking up on on Malibu Rum and Tequila Rose. Hey, a girl's got to get her kicks somehow!
Well, Summer is officially here. Which means we are faced with a very tough decision. To vacation or not to vacation. That is the question. Ok, so Summer actually started two weeks ago, making us fashionably late on making a decision...but that's how we roll. Gone are the days when we planned trips and took a week to pack for said trips. These days, we fly by the seat of our pants. It took me exactly 1 hour and 23 minutes to pack for a 7-day road trip to Mt. Rushmore last March. Aren't you proud? I attribute this new found lack of planning to the fact that I'm getting old and lazy. Plus, it makes things more exciting! (And it keeps Hubber on his toes.)
So...first we decided to go to Destin. Then, no, we can't go to Destin, we must, must, must go to Disney World. Then, think again, given the price of gas these days, a road trip to Disney World would be way too expensive...looks like it's going to be Destin. Then, BAM. Turns out we can go to Disney for super cheap if we stay at some shady hotel, eat bread and drink water for 4 days and 4 nights. So, Disney it is! Not.
Last week, as Hubber was staring up at the big oak tree in the back yard, he decided that the 263 limbs that have been hanging over the roof of the house since time began MUST come down at once! No ifs ands or buts about it. It's hurricane season for crying out loud! So, the trip is off again. And our bank account is about to have a stroke. And my plans to buy new vacation shoes and handbags have vanished into thin air...all that's left are deep, empty holes in my heart where images of pretty little shoes and fabulous bags used to be.
We will be taking some vacation time, though. Where will we go, you ask? Well, right outside to our backyard. We'll save on gas... and packing... and unpacking... and listening to The Wiggles ad nauseum... and all the other hassles of taking two children on a road trip. I may not get to buy new shoes and handbags, but I'll certainly be stocking up on on Malibu Rum and Tequila Rose. Hey, a girl's got to get her kicks somehow!
Beauty and the Beast
I'm not as beautiful as I was Pre-lil J and it isn't because I've gotten older and fatter and lazier, either. It's due to lack of beauty sleep. I don't think there is anyone I hate more than the parent who BRAGS about how their 6 month old baby sleeps through the night... as a matter of fact, this is usually a parent whose freak child even sleeps 10-12 hours without waking up once...not one time. Meanwhile, lil J has not slept more than 3 hours straight for the past TWO YEARS. Even when highly medicated (which she NEVER is unless she is very, VERY ill, of course), she refuses to sleep like a regular human being. She wakes up several times a night with requests for such things as a cup of juice, someone to help her put her blanket back on her, a diaper change, or a larger bed in which to sleep in - one which already contains two not-so-small people. Her new favorite request is to go sleep on the couch. Which makes me wonder if maybe she's some sort of alien being. Some sort of beast from another planet - sent here to make my life a LIVING HELL.
Let me break it down for ya. The following is a typical night in my Honeymoon Suite:
9:00 p.m.: lil J goes down for the night. She is placed, ever so gently into her crib, the covers are tucked up around her and the tag of the blanket is placed into her cute, little hand. A sippy cup is placed near the rail, within baby reach should she feel parched within the hour.
10:00 p.m.: Sippy cup is empty, lil J is stirring. Both Hubber and I are fumbling around as fast as we can to fill up the cup before she wakes up for good.
10:13 p.m.: The second cup is empty and I am worried that she's probably got a full diaper by now. I reach in...and sure enough, the diaper is about to explode.
10:14 p.m.: I change the diaper while J sleeps.
10:30 p.m.: I finally fall asleep and begin dreaming of blue coconut slushies and baskets full of chili cheese french fries and money, and lots and lots of money...
11:18 p.m.: The beast is awake. Hubber tries to soothe her so that I don't have to get up (he's my hero!), but it doesn't work. I'm up, too. First she wants a new cup. Then, she wants Daddy to carry her. Then, she wants to lay in bed with Mommy and Daddy. Then, she wants more "juice" (watered down pedialyte). Then, she needs another diaper change. Then, she wants to go back to her bed (thank the lord).
11:50 p.m.: Hubber puts her back in her bed.
12:00 a.m.: Hubber crawls into bed with me.
3:00 a.m.: "MY CUUUUP.....MY CUUUUUP??!!" the beast screams in horror from her crib when she awakens and realizes her cup is not within baby's reach. Both Hubber and I wait, motionless in bed. Each hoping that the other will handle the panicky beast. Each praying that the next words that come out of the beast's mouth are the name of the other parent.
3:03 a.m.: "DAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDDYYYYYY!!!" I win! I win, I win, I win! Hubber has to get up. Poor thing. Foul words pour out of his mouth like poetry....taking me back to dream land...while he gets up to tend to the beast.
3:20 a.m.: The beast has had a drink and is now asleep again.
5:00 a.m.: TWENTY MINUTES from the time my alarm clock is set to go off, the beast is awake again! This time, she's wet and needs a diaper change. "Just a minute," I beg her....I MUST get my 20 minutes of sleep in before getting up for work. But, she's relentless. Her pleads for a diaper turn into screams for her cup again.
5:10 a.m.: I'm tired and I'm pissed. I change her diaper and put her back into her crib with a fresh cup of pedialyte/water. David is snoring.
Fun, huh? Yeah, we love it.
I'm convinced that God is punishing me for all the bad things I ever did in my life....Hubber is just an innocent victim being dragged along in my punishment because he was crazy enough to marry me. That's what he gets.
I'm not as beautiful as I was Pre-lil J and it isn't because I've gotten older and fatter and lazier, either. It's due to lack of beauty sleep. I don't think there is anyone I hate more than the parent who BRAGS about how their 6 month old baby sleeps through the night... as a matter of fact, this is usually a parent whose freak child even sleeps 10-12 hours without waking up once...not one time. Meanwhile, lil J has not slept more than 3 hours straight for the past TWO YEARS. Even when highly medicated (which she NEVER is unless she is very, VERY ill, of course), she refuses to sleep like a regular human being. She wakes up several times a night with requests for such things as a cup of juice, someone to help her put her blanket back on her, a diaper change, or a larger bed in which to sleep in - one which already contains two not-so-small people. Her new favorite request is to go sleep on the couch. Which makes me wonder if maybe she's some sort of alien being. Some sort of beast from another planet - sent here to make my life a LIVING HELL.
Let me break it down for ya. The following is a typical night in my Honeymoon Suite:
9:00 p.m.: lil J goes down for the night. She is placed, ever so gently into her crib, the covers are tucked up around her and the tag of the blanket is placed into her cute, little hand. A sippy cup is placed near the rail, within baby reach should she feel parched within the hour.
10:00 p.m.: Sippy cup is empty, lil J is stirring. Both Hubber and I are fumbling around as fast as we can to fill up the cup before she wakes up for good.
10:13 p.m.: The second cup is empty and I am worried that she's probably got a full diaper by now. I reach in...and sure enough, the diaper is about to explode.
10:14 p.m.: I change the diaper while J sleeps.
10:30 p.m.: I finally fall asleep and begin dreaming of blue coconut slushies and baskets full of chili cheese french fries and money, and lots and lots of money...
11:18 p.m.: The beast is awake. Hubber tries to soothe her so that I don't have to get up (he's my hero!), but it doesn't work. I'm up, too. First she wants a new cup. Then, she wants Daddy to carry her. Then, she wants to lay in bed with Mommy and Daddy. Then, she wants more "juice" (watered down pedialyte). Then, she needs another diaper change. Then, she wants to go back to her bed (thank the lord).
11:50 p.m.: Hubber puts her back in her bed.
12:00 a.m.: Hubber crawls into bed with me.
3:00 a.m.: "MY CUUUUP.....MY CUUUUUP??!!" the beast screams in horror from her crib when she awakens and realizes her cup is not within baby's reach. Both Hubber and I wait, motionless in bed. Each hoping that the other will handle the panicky beast. Each praying that the next words that come out of the beast's mouth are the name of the other parent.
3:03 a.m.: "DAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDDYYYYYY!!!" I win! I win, I win, I win! Hubber has to get up. Poor thing. Foul words pour out of his mouth like poetry....taking me back to dream land...while he gets up to tend to the beast.
3:20 a.m.: The beast has had a drink and is now asleep again.
5:00 a.m.: TWENTY MINUTES from the time my alarm clock is set to go off, the beast is awake again! This time, she's wet and needs a diaper change. "Just a minute," I beg her....I MUST get my 20 minutes of sleep in before getting up for work. But, she's relentless. Her pleads for a diaper turn into screams for her cup again.
5:10 a.m.: I'm tired and I'm pissed. I change her diaper and put her back into her crib with a fresh cup of pedialyte/water. David is snoring.
Fun, huh? Yeah, we love it.
I'm convinced that God is punishing me for all the bad things I ever did in my life....Hubber is just an innocent victim being dragged along in my punishment because he was crazy enough to marry me. That's what he gets.
Remember Me?
It's hard to believe that two years of my life have passed since I last updated my blog. A lot has happened since then. Most importantly, we've subtracted two members of our family and replaced them with one, very colorful member. In short, lil J came and Kali and Rosie left (turns out the new kid was allergic to cats -- we should have realized then that our lives were about to get turned upside down). Yep, lil J in all her glorious toddler-ness has livened up things around here. Our home will never be the same again. I'll fill you in on lil J stories later, but suffice it to say, she is not yet 2 years old and she's already speaking in complete sentences, singing songs, counting from 1 to 10, and keeping us all on our toes (that's nice for "driving us nuts"). As for little, innocent J? Well, she's pre-teen now. We're going through terrible two's and teenage hormones all at the same time.
Don't let these cute faces fool ya! They're out to get us...they would like to see us dead....they would like to suck all the life from our souls...then stomp on our heads until they explode. That's right.
I probably don't have to tell you that Hubber's hair is really turning gray. Poor thing. Me? I've really learned how to get my drink on. I've replaced water in my diet with Malibu Rum and diet coke. It's lovely....especially when downed with Xanex. Just kidding, I don't take Xanex - Errrr, much. But, it's only a matter of time.
It's hard to believe that two years of my life have passed since I last updated my blog. A lot has happened since then. Most importantly, we've subtracted two members of our family and replaced them with one, very colorful member. In short, lil J came and Kali and Rosie left (turns out the new kid was allergic to cats -- we should have realized then that our lives were about to get turned upside down). Yep, lil J in all her glorious toddler-ness has livened up things around here. Our home will never be the same again. I'll fill you in on lil J stories later, but suffice it to say, she is not yet 2 years old and she's already speaking in complete sentences, singing songs, counting from 1 to 10, and keeping us all on our toes (that's nice for "driving us nuts"). As for little, innocent J? Well, she's pre-teen now. We're going through terrible two's and teenage hormones all at the same time.
Don't let these cute faces fool ya! They're out to get us...they would like to see us dead....they would like to suck all the life from our souls...then stomp on our heads until they explode. That's right.I probably don't have to tell you that Hubber's hair is really turning gray. Poor thing. Me? I've really learned how to get my drink on. I've replaced water in my diet with Malibu Rum and diet coke. It's lovely....especially when downed with Xanex. Just kidding, I don't take Xanex - Errrr, much. But, it's only a matter of time.
Klump...Klump...Klump...
Hubber calls them Klump feet (you know, like Sherman Klump), I call them Flintstone feet and J calls them Chubby feet. It doesn’t matter what you call them, though, they’re huge. Youuge, huge! I’ve got some big ass swollen feet, ya’ll! And with the right shoes, my ankles just kinda flap over the sides. It’s disgusting, actually. There is no good remedy besides 24-7 bed rest to get the swelling down, either. No Epson salt foot soak. No degree of elevation. No honey/cinnamon scrub. No cold compress. Nothing. Ya hear me? NOT A DANG THING! And as if the need for size 12W shoes wasn’t bad enough, I’ve got some seriously raunchy belches. It doesn’t matter what I eat. Popsicle = squished, old cherry belch. Cereal = rotten milk belch. Salad = wilted, molded, dog run grass belch. We won’t even getting into fish or burgers or Sonic blue coconut slushies for crying out loud! Speaking of which…ya’ll. The bladder has gotten smaller. I’m like a granny…going to pee every 2 hours…including in the middle of the night.
Here’s how I spend most nights (and the baby ain’t even born yet!!):
1. toss and turn
2. finally decide to start the night on the left side
3. stuff squishy, long pillow under belly
4. stretch same said pillow to reach knees
5. stuff squishy, long pillow between knees
6. pull and tug blankets up to neck
7. be sure to leave airways for toes to breathe
8. breathe sigh of relief
9. sleep for 1 hour
10. wake up with sudden, violently serious need to pee
11. roll over to back
12. breathe
13. roll over to right side
14. breathe
15. sit up and dangle legs over the side of the bed
16. breathe
17. stand up slowly
18. almost pee on self
19. wobble to the restroom while trying hard to keep legs as close together as possible so as not to pee on self
20. find the toilet
21. pee
22. wobble back to bed
Rinse and repeat.
How do I not remember all of the ailments of pregnancy? Ten years wasn’t that long ago. I think there’s a little trigger in women’s brains that makes us forget what pregnancy and delivery is all about and tricks us into thinking it’ll be fun to do it all again.
On the flip side, though…my finger nails are growing beautifully! And my belly, ya’ll! My belly is the best thing of all! It hides the fact that I’m a fatass! I love it! Also, I lost 8 pounds in the first trimester…gained nothing in the second…and started the third with only a 2.5 pound gain! And 2.5 pounds is what the baby is supposed to be weighing right about now…which means…it’s all baby weight! Even the elephant feet don’t weigh an ounce! With J I gained 30 pounds! With this gorgeous, wonderful hunk of baby, I’ve only gained 2.5 pounds so far! Yay me! This pregnancy thing is the best diet ever! I keep stuffing my face and I don’t gain any weight! Maybe I should have 3 or 4 more. Or, maybe not.
Speaking of skinny people. Sis, too! She’s due in November…which means our kids will only be 5 months apart (or so). I told my mom to quit praying for grandkids…God’s granting prayers by the butt-load right now! What she oughta do is start praying for some lottery winnings!
Hubber calls them Klump feet (you know, like Sherman Klump), I call them Flintstone feet and J calls them Chubby feet. It doesn’t matter what you call them, though, they’re huge. Youuge, huge! I’ve got some big ass swollen feet, ya’ll! And with the right shoes, my ankles just kinda flap over the sides. It’s disgusting, actually. There is no good remedy besides 24-7 bed rest to get the swelling down, either. No Epson salt foot soak. No degree of elevation. No honey/cinnamon scrub. No cold compress. Nothing. Ya hear me? NOT A DANG THING! And as if the need for size 12W shoes wasn’t bad enough, I’ve got some seriously raunchy belches. It doesn’t matter what I eat. Popsicle = squished, old cherry belch. Cereal = rotten milk belch. Salad = wilted, molded, dog run grass belch. We won’t even getting into fish or burgers or Sonic blue coconut slushies for crying out loud! Speaking of which…ya’ll. The bladder has gotten smaller. I’m like a granny…going to pee every 2 hours…including in the middle of the night.
Here’s how I spend most nights (and the baby ain’t even born yet!!):
1. toss and turn
2. finally decide to start the night on the left side
3. stuff squishy, long pillow under belly
4. stretch same said pillow to reach knees
5. stuff squishy, long pillow between knees
6. pull and tug blankets up to neck
7. be sure to leave airways for toes to breathe
8. breathe sigh of relief
9. sleep for 1 hour
10. wake up with sudden, violently serious need to pee
11. roll over to back
12. breathe
13. roll over to right side
14. breathe
15. sit up and dangle legs over the side of the bed
16. breathe
17. stand up slowly
18. almost pee on self
19. wobble to the restroom while trying hard to keep legs as close together as possible so as not to pee on self
20. find the toilet
21. pee
22. wobble back to bed
Rinse and repeat.
How do I not remember all of the ailments of pregnancy? Ten years wasn’t that long ago. I think there’s a little trigger in women’s brains that makes us forget what pregnancy and delivery is all about and tricks us into thinking it’ll be fun to do it all again.
On the flip side, though…my finger nails are growing beautifully! And my belly, ya’ll! My belly is the best thing of all! It hides the fact that I’m a fatass! I love it! Also, I lost 8 pounds in the first trimester…gained nothing in the second…and started the third with only a 2.5 pound gain! And 2.5 pounds is what the baby is supposed to be weighing right about now…which means…it’s all baby weight! Even the elephant feet don’t weigh an ounce! With J I gained 30 pounds! With this gorgeous, wonderful hunk of baby, I’ve only gained 2.5 pounds so far! Yay me! This pregnancy thing is the best diet ever! I keep stuffing my face and I don’t gain any weight! Maybe I should have 3 or 4 more. Or, maybe not.
Speaking of skinny people. Sis, too! She’s due in November…which means our kids will only be 5 months apart (or so). I told my mom to quit praying for grandkids…God’s granting prayers by the butt-load right now! What she oughta do is start praying for some lottery winnings!
Well, Hello Stranger!
Ok, so I come back to my blogger after a little hiatus and what do I find? Comments! Actual, live, real comments! You would not believe my excitement when I logged on and saw 14 COMMENTS! I was thinking --- finally! someone's actually reading this crap! I'm so popular! I'm the queen of blogger world! But. Then I read them. And people! They were not comments. They were advertisments! Did you hear me? ADVERTISEMENTS. My blogger is getting spammed! Ok, now listen here all you jerks that are leaving comments and not really reading my....my....poetry! Quit leaving me advertisements! It's rude. It does not make me want to visit your stupid sites on beauty tips and such nonsense! You are wasting your time on this here gal.
So, now I'm kinda bummed that really, no one is listening to me. No one cares about me. I'm all alone in my own blogger world. Sad.
My current life in a nutshell...
Well...let's see....my last entry was back in April. Back when our house was still new and fresh. Back when we were rich in love and cash. Back when we only had one kid to worry about. Did you catch that? ONE kid. Yep! You guessed it. I'm pregnant! 15 weeks to be exact. Did you catch the "cash" thing, too? No, I'm still working. It's hubber. He's been a house-husband since mid-September. In a way, it's been nice having him around all the time. But, we're starting to miss the moolah associated with actually having him go to work to collect a paycheck. Hey --if someone's actually reading this, you can help! Go here: www.cyfairhomeinventory.com and give his new company a little business. Or better yet - forward the site to all your friends...and all your friends' blogs...and to stranger's blogs, even. Or...I've got something better! Just send cash!
How's that for advertising?
Ok, so I come back to my blogger after a little hiatus and what do I find? Comments! Actual, live, real comments! You would not believe my excitement when I logged on and saw 14 COMMENTS! I was thinking --- finally! someone's actually reading this crap! I'm so popular! I'm the queen of blogger world! But. Then I read them. And people! They were not comments. They were advertisments! Did you hear me? ADVERTISEMENTS. My blogger is getting spammed! Ok, now listen here all you jerks that are leaving comments and not really reading my....my....poetry! Quit leaving me advertisements! It's rude. It does not make me want to visit your stupid sites on beauty tips and such nonsense! You are wasting your time on this here gal.
So, now I'm kinda bummed that really, no one is listening to me. No one cares about me. I'm all alone in my own blogger world. Sad.
My current life in a nutshell...
Well...let's see....my last entry was back in April. Back when our house was still new and fresh. Back when we were rich in love and cash. Back when we only had one kid to worry about. Did you catch that? ONE kid. Yep! You guessed it. I'm pregnant! 15 weeks to be exact. Did you catch the "cash" thing, too? No, I'm still working. It's hubber. He's been a house-husband since mid-September. In a way, it's been nice having him around all the time. But, we're starting to miss the moolah associated with actually having him go to work to collect a paycheck. Hey --if someone's actually reading this, you can help! Go here: www.cyfairhomeinventory.com and give his new company a little business. Or better yet - forward the site to all your friends...and all your friends' blogs...and to stranger's blogs, even. Or...I've got something better! Just send cash!
How's that for advertising?
Getting Into The Groove...
Now that I'm a homeowner, there seems to be less hours in the day. When my eyes are open and I'm floating through what's supposed to be my real life (not a dream), I sometimes find myself on some bizarre and strict schedule which includes driving for THREE. HOURS. A. DAY. Not all at once - but pretty damn close. When it first started I thought I was going to drive myself right over the side of a bridge and end it all. Who ever heard of driving THREE. HOURS. A. DAY. to get to and from work? Even when the hubber helps with the carpooling and cuts about an hour off my time, we're still talking TWO. HOURS. A. DAY. And who'da thunk the simple act of buying a home would cause such nonsense?
Then, I got to thinking. I'm the dumbass that asked for this.
Moving to the country comes with certain inherent responsibilities. One being yard work. And lots of it. Another being driving. And lots of it. After a few weeks of swearing, honking and bashing my forehead against the steering wheel, I decided I'd better calm my ass down if I wanted to live a life free of migrains and ulcers.
So, I caved. I became a commuter. And a serious one, at that. I've learned how to apply makeup while in traffic. I've learned to quiz my kid on spelling words while in traffic. I've learned to allow people to merge in front of me even after they skipped to the front of the line while in traffic. I've learned to catch up on phone calls to family while in traffic. I've learned not to shoot the bird when other drivers won't let me merge after I've skipped to the front of the line while in traffic. Now, if I could just learn to send text messages without taking my eyes off the road like my sister does, I'll be all set!
Things that make it all worth while...
Sometimes, when I'm not behind the wheel, I find myself floating through life in a sparkling pool located in the best backyard EVER. Or piddling away in my greenhouse. Or walking J up the stairs while she says "good night" to Hubber 25 kazillion different ways. Or sipping on a Cruzan & Coke while Hubber's outside flipping Pappa burgers. Or staring in amazement at this huge thing I own - of this new, wonderful life I'm a part of. Those are the hours I lose track of. So, maybe they make up for all the time I spend driving.
Now that I'm a homeowner, there seems to be less hours in the day. When my eyes are open and I'm floating through what's supposed to be my real life (not a dream), I sometimes find myself on some bizarre and strict schedule which includes driving for THREE. HOURS. A. DAY. Not all at once - but pretty damn close. When it first started I thought I was going to drive myself right over the side of a bridge and end it all. Who ever heard of driving THREE. HOURS. A. DAY. to get to and from work? Even when the hubber helps with the carpooling and cuts about an hour off my time, we're still talking TWO. HOURS. A. DAY. And who'da thunk the simple act of buying a home would cause such nonsense?
Then, I got to thinking. I'm the dumbass that asked for this.
Moving to the country comes with certain inherent responsibilities. One being yard work. And lots of it. Another being driving. And lots of it. After a few weeks of swearing, honking and bashing my forehead against the steering wheel, I decided I'd better calm my ass down if I wanted to live a life free of migrains and ulcers.
So, I caved. I became a commuter. And a serious one, at that. I've learned how to apply makeup while in traffic. I've learned to quiz my kid on spelling words while in traffic. I've learned to allow people to merge in front of me even after they skipped to the front of the line while in traffic. I've learned to catch up on phone calls to family while in traffic. I've learned not to shoot the bird when other drivers won't let me merge after I've skipped to the front of the line while in traffic. Now, if I could just learn to send text messages without taking my eyes off the road like my sister does, I'll be all set!
Things that make it all worth while...
Sometimes, when I'm not behind the wheel, I find myself floating through life in a sparkling pool located in the best backyard EVER. Or piddling away in my greenhouse. Or walking J up the stairs while she says "good night" to Hubber 25 kazillion different ways. Or sipping on a Cruzan & Coke while Hubber's outside flipping Pappa burgers. Or staring in amazement at this huge thing I own - of this new, wonderful life I'm a part of. Those are the hours I lose track of. So, maybe they make up for all the time I spend driving.
1st Time Homebuyers
Back in December, when the Hubber and I first began our search for a house, we were so nervous and timid and unsure of ourselves. Back then, we didn't know what to expect....from realtors and lendors to inspectors and insurance agents...the thought of going through this process made us ill. Back then, we were clueless. We thought that once we found THE house, we'd be spending hours and hours in stuffy banks and offices with agents in power suits and ties. We thought it was the stuff we'd seen on TV.
Boy, were we shocked to realize that people are handling business right from their own homes. They actually work a 9-5 job and sell houses in their free time! They sit around at home in their underwear, scratching their asses with one hand and typing our financial info into their computer with the other. All the while, the dog is barking, the kid is crying and the TV is blaring. It's kinda hard to talk business with someone over the phone when you hear "Daddy...Daddy...Daddy" in the background on the other end of the line.
The other day, I listened to a voice message that went something like this: "Hello Mrs. Hancock. This is [So-and-So] Ward. I'm with [So-and-So] loan company and have been assigned your file. There are a few items I need clarification on. Please call me at your earliest convenience so that we can expedite your loan. *BARK*BARK*BARK*. I can be *BARK* reached at *BARK* [blah, blah number] until *BARK* 5:00 p.m."
There was a little yapper in the background. So, I'm thinking...hey, that's cool...they let them take their pets to work! Then, I started thinking a little more clearly...this "WARD" person....could she be related to our loan officer? Why, I wonder if she's his wife? The other day when we met him at his office [Starbucks], he said something about his wife helping out with the business. Hmmmmmm.
So, I call her back and I ask her if she is by chance [So-and-So's] wife. And she said she was! I thanked her kindly for the very professional message she left me and let her know that I thought the dog barking in the background was a nice touch. She laughed a little, but I could tell she was embarrassed. That's when the baby started crying. Well, I'll be.
Later Hubber and I share notes. Apparently this lovely lady called him today, too. She called him on his CELL PHONE....
Hubber: This is Hubber with [So-and-So] company.
Lovely Lady: Can you transfer me to HR please?
Hubber: Uhm. This is my cell phone. I can't TRANSFER calls.
Lovely Lady: This is [So-and-So] Ward calling to verify employment for Hubber.
Hubber: Well, this is Hubber and I verify that I work there.
Lovely Lady: I'll need to speak to someone in HR.
Hubber: Well call this #: [blah blah number]
Lovely Lady: Thank you. *BARK*BARK*CRY*CRY*
Click.
Very strange that one. Very strange. With a dog and kid like that, I'd probably lock those loud little heffers up in a sound proof room while I was on the phone CONDUCTING BUSINESS.
Maybe I'm in the wrong business. Is there money in processing loans from home? This is something I need to look into. My ideal job would be sitting my fat ass in a hot tub, clicking away on a lap top and yammering on the phone about hundreds of thousands of dollars each day....while people are sweating bullets and signing their lives away.
Back in December, when the Hubber and I first began our search for a house, we were so nervous and timid and unsure of ourselves. Back then, we didn't know what to expect....from realtors and lendors to inspectors and insurance agents...the thought of going through this process made us ill. Back then, we were clueless. We thought that once we found THE house, we'd be spending hours and hours in stuffy banks and offices with agents in power suits and ties. We thought it was the stuff we'd seen on TV.
Boy, were we shocked to realize that people are handling business right from their own homes. They actually work a 9-5 job and sell houses in their free time! They sit around at home in their underwear, scratching their asses with one hand and typing our financial info into their computer with the other. All the while, the dog is barking, the kid is crying and the TV is blaring. It's kinda hard to talk business with someone over the phone when you hear "Daddy...Daddy...Daddy" in the background on the other end of the line.
The other day, I listened to a voice message that went something like this: "Hello Mrs. Hancock. This is [So-and-So] Ward. I'm with [So-and-So] loan company and have been assigned your file. There are a few items I need clarification on. Please call me at your earliest convenience so that we can expedite your loan. *BARK*BARK*BARK*. I can be *BARK* reached at *BARK* [blah, blah number] until *BARK* 5:00 p.m."
There was a little yapper in the background. So, I'm thinking...hey, that's cool...they let them take their pets to work! Then, I started thinking a little more clearly...this "WARD" person....could she be related to our loan officer? Why, I wonder if she's his wife? The other day when we met him at his office [Starbucks], he said something about his wife helping out with the business. Hmmmmmm.
So, I call her back and I ask her if she is by chance [So-and-So's] wife. And she said she was! I thanked her kindly for the very professional message she left me and let her know that I thought the dog barking in the background was a nice touch. She laughed a little, but I could tell she was embarrassed. That's when the baby started crying. Well, I'll be.
Later Hubber and I share notes. Apparently this lovely lady called him today, too. She called him on his CELL PHONE....
Hubber: This is Hubber with [So-and-So] company.
Lovely Lady: Can you transfer me to HR please?
Hubber: Uhm. This is my cell phone. I can't TRANSFER calls.
Lovely Lady: This is [So-and-So] Ward calling to verify employment for Hubber.
Hubber: Well, this is Hubber and I verify that I work there.
Lovely Lady: I'll need to speak to someone in HR.
Hubber: Well call this #: [blah blah number]
Lovely Lady: Thank you. *BARK*BARK*CRY*CRY*
Click.
Very strange that one. Very strange. With a dog and kid like that, I'd probably lock those loud little heffers up in a sound proof room while I was on the phone CONDUCTING BUSINESS.
Maybe I'm in the wrong business. Is there money in processing loans from home? This is something I need to look into. My ideal job would be sitting my fat ass in a hot tub, clicking away on a lap top and yammering on the phone about hundreds of thousands of dollars each day....while people are sweating bullets and signing their lives away.
Claw...
That's our new nickname for Rosie, the hell cat. At first we called her Stitch. Because she reminded of us Stitch...you know...from Lilo and Stitch? "Ohana means family and family means nobody gets left behind." We hated her. But we loved her.
Since we got her declawed, though, we haven't hated her so much. She's been pretty docile. And the thing I like best about the new Rosie is that she lets me manhandle her. I grab her up...I rub her down....I carry her like a baby....and she doesn't fight to get away from me (like Kali does when I show her too much attention). Rosie turned into a dog. And I love her for that. Because I love dogs. She's our new cat-dog. (I watch way too many kid shows). Anyway. My point? Yes. Well. As you know, Rosie's been recuperating from declaw-surgery. Which was a traumatic experience for the entire family. We've finally gotten our household back to normal. No more antibiotics to force down a cat's throat. No more fake (paper-type) stinky-ass kitty litter to endure. No more shit-stained leg bandages. Just plain ol' normal-ness. Or so we thought. First J noticed something odd.
Ju: Rosie's still got claws!
Me: That's absurd.
J: Seriously! Something on her paw got stuck to my shirt.
Me: Maybe it's poop.
J: MOOOOM! it's a CLAW!
Me: Can't be a claw. Maybe it's just the stitch. It probably got hooked onto your shirt somehow.
J: Nope it's a claw.
Me: Whatever. Go take a bath.
And that was the end of that conversation. I mean, seriously! It made no sense that a declawed cat would have a claw. My kid was obviously nuts.
So, then a few days later, Hubber notices the same thing.
Hubber: I think Rosie still has a claw.
Me: Not you, too!!
Hubber: Something sharp just poked me in the balls!
Me: Uhm. What?!
Hubber: I'm serious! (he said as he attemped to inspect each and every cat toe for a possible claw.)
Sure enough...Rosie had one claw...her middle finger on her left paw. Maybe it was her way of shooting the finger at us! That little heffer reserved the last laugh!
Me: How can she have a claw?!
Hubber: They must have missed one?
Me: They don't miss CLAWS when they declaw!
Hubber: Maybe they miscounted.
Me: How can she have a claw?!
So I call the vet. And I talk to a person named Kimberly who was no help at all. I explained the situation.
Kim: What do you mean she has a claw?
Me: SHE HAS ONE CLAW. She got declawed. But we found a CLAW!
Kim: I've never heard of that.
Me: Well, neither have I!
Kim: So, you say she still has one claw?
Me: (pounding my head against a wall) Yes. So, how do we handle this situation? Does she have to have surgery again? Do I get reimbursed for the one claw? Do I get free vet visits for life? What?!
Kim: I don't know. Declawed cats aren't supposed to have claws. (well duh!!) You'll have to bring her in so the Dr. can look at her.
Me: (very tired of this conversation) Ok.
Then later that night Hubber suggested we demand our $260 back so we can take Rosie to a vet who knows how to count to 20. Or that we demand free claw-clipping for life. But I don't want to take that heffer to the vet every week for a clipping!! He thinks that once a week is better than enduring the hellish-3-week-post-surgery lifestyle.
If anyone's reading this and you have advice regarding the demands I should make...email me, quick!
Maybe I'll just leave the claw there and let her poke people with it. It's actually kinda cute.
That's our new nickname for Rosie, the hell cat. At first we called her Stitch. Because she reminded of us Stitch...you know...from Lilo and Stitch? "Ohana means family and family means nobody gets left behind." We hated her. But we loved her.
Since we got her declawed, though, we haven't hated her so much. She's been pretty docile. And the thing I like best about the new Rosie is that she lets me manhandle her. I grab her up...I rub her down....I carry her like a baby....and she doesn't fight to get away from me (like Kali does when I show her too much attention). Rosie turned into a dog. And I love her for that. Because I love dogs. She's our new cat-dog. (I watch way too many kid shows). Anyway. My point? Yes. Well. As you know, Rosie's been recuperating from declaw-surgery. Which was a traumatic experience for the entire family. We've finally gotten our household back to normal. No more antibiotics to force down a cat's throat. No more fake (paper-type) stinky-ass kitty litter to endure. No more shit-stained leg bandages. Just plain ol' normal-ness. Or so we thought. First J noticed something odd.
Ju: Rosie's still got claws!
Me: That's absurd.
J: Seriously! Something on her paw got stuck to my shirt.
Me: Maybe it's poop.
J: MOOOOM! it's a CLAW!
Me: Can't be a claw. Maybe it's just the stitch. It probably got hooked onto your shirt somehow.
J: Nope it's a claw.
Me: Whatever. Go take a bath.
And that was the end of that conversation. I mean, seriously! It made no sense that a declawed cat would have a claw. My kid was obviously nuts.
So, then a few days later, Hubber notices the same thing.
Hubber: I think Rosie still has a claw.
Me: Not you, too!!
Hubber: Something sharp just poked me in the balls!
Me: Uhm. What?!
Hubber: I'm serious! (he said as he attemped to inspect each and every cat toe for a possible claw.)
Sure enough...Rosie had one claw...her middle finger on her left paw. Maybe it was her way of shooting the finger at us! That little heffer reserved the last laugh!
Me: How can she have a claw?!
Hubber: They must have missed one?
Me: They don't miss CLAWS when they declaw!
Hubber: Maybe they miscounted.
Me: How can she have a claw?!
So I call the vet. And I talk to a person named Kimberly who was no help at all. I explained the situation.
Kim: What do you mean she has a claw?
Me: SHE HAS ONE CLAW. She got declawed. But we found a CLAW!
Kim: I've never heard of that.
Me: Well, neither have I!
Kim: So, you say she still has one claw?
Me: (pounding my head against a wall) Yes. So, how do we handle this situation? Does she have to have surgery again? Do I get reimbursed for the one claw? Do I get free vet visits for life? What?!
Kim: I don't know. Declawed cats aren't supposed to have claws. (well duh!!) You'll have to bring her in so the Dr. can look at her.
Me: (very tired of this conversation) Ok.
Then later that night Hubber suggested we demand our $260 back so we can take Rosie to a vet who knows how to count to 20. Or that we demand free claw-clipping for life. But I don't want to take that heffer to the vet every week for a clipping!! He thinks that once a week is better than enduring the hellish-3-week-post-surgery lifestyle.
If anyone's reading this and you have advice regarding the demands I should make...email me, quick!
Maybe I'll just leave the claw there and let her poke people with it. It's actually kinda cute.
Adventures During J's First Week of Winter Break
Since J's out of school for more than two weeks, this month, the plan was that she'd spend the first week with Momo (my mom). The day before her trip there, we got an email from J's teacher saying that she was chosen as the lucky kid with the great fortune of taking the class pet home for the holidays! YAY! So, off I go to school to pick up Crush, the turtle. I'm expecting a little, tiny turtle in a cute little hand held carrier type thingy full of leaves and rocks. I was wrong to expect such things. As it turns out, Crush is not tiny and Crush does not live in a cute tiny home. Crush is a medium-sized box turtle (about 8 inches long or so) and lives in a 3 foot AQUARIUM. Uh huh. Not so simple. So, anyway, I go pick Crush up, right? And I stare at the science teacher as she's spouting out instructions and rules and a bunch of other important mumbo-jumbo while in my mind, I'm thinking, "What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?!" There's heating pads to be left on and lights to be on and off and water to be de-clorinated and food to be sprinkled...and something about apples are good and plain iceburg lettuce is not. And probably other important crap I can't remember anymore. Plus, the turtle came with a book. To read. Over the holidays. About turtles. What?! So, we go home and set the turtle up on J's desk. And J starts going on and on about 78 degrees and sunshine and other such nonsense about turtles. And I'm thinking, "how the hell can you remember all these facts and instructions when you can't remember to wipe your own ass?!" I didn't say it out loud, though - didn't want to discourage her from learning about...turtles. Ugh. Anyway...
At this precise time in our world, Rosie, the hell cat, was waiting at the vet's for us to pick her up after being declawed. Finally! So, I drop J at Momo's. Then I pick Rosie up. I'll have to remember to post a picture here of how she looked all bandaged up! She was a puss in boots! Cuuuuutie Pie!! Anyway, Rosie had miraculously turned into the cutest, sweetest, most nicest kitty in all the whole world! Seriously, ya'll! Hu and I couldn't bebberlieve it. She was a whole new person...Errrr...cat. And we loved her more than life.
Cats and turtles were living in perfect harmony until Monday, the day Rosie's bandages came off. The hell cat was back! The moment hubber opened her cage, she sprang out, over the kitchen counter, through the window into the dining room, behind the sofa, under the christmas tree and finally under J's bed. Jesus. Then Huber notices little red paw prints everywhere. Hmmmm. What could that mean? So, he picks Rosie up to inspect her. The little heffer had busted several stitches!! So, he put her back in her cage. And that's where she stayed until I got home - an hour later. I'm like, "Hubber, what's Rosie doing in her cage with a bloody towel??" Then he proceeds to explain what happened and how he called the vet and they said he could bandage her back up himself if he wanted. Uhm. I don't think so. So we took her back. And had the vet people bandage her back up. And guess what, people? She became a little angel again. So, now we're thinking how nifty it would be just to leave her bandaged for the REST OF HER DAMN LIFE. What could possibly be wrong with that?! There was one other dramatic event that involved a bandaged cat paw covered with stinky, mushy cat shit. But, I won't go there now. That's one image I would like to forever erase from my memory.
On a lighter note: Every day while J's been gone, she's been leaving really cute messages on the answering machine at home. "Hi Mom. Hi Dad. It's me, J (as if we didn't know). I'm having fun at Momo's. I have so much to tell ya'll! Today I ate CRAB for the first time, ever! It was really good! And there's something else I wanted to tell ya'll....(long pause)hmmm...I forgot. Anyway, I love you, I miss you, Bye!" BEEEEEP.... "Hi Mom. Hi Dad. It's me, J (CUUUUTE!!!). I'm still at Momo's. Popo just came back from the store. He found a wet dollar in the parking lot and said I could have it. He also said he didn't want it because someone probably spit and pee-ed all over it. Momo says he's lying. Ok. I love ya'll. Bye!" BEEEEEP.... "Hi Mom. Hi Dad. It's me, J. Why haven't ya'll called me back? Ok. That's all. Bye!"
So, now it's Thursday. Cat is still bandaged. Turtle is still alive. And Julie comes back home today! It's been interesting. The End.
Since J's out of school for more than two weeks, this month, the plan was that she'd spend the first week with Momo (my mom). The day before her trip there, we got an email from J's teacher saying that she was chosen as the lucky kid with the great fortune of taking the class pet home for the holidays! YAY! So, off I go to school to pick up Crush, the turtle. I'm expecting a little, tiny turtle in a cute little hand held carrier type thingy full of leaves and rocks. I was wrong to expect such things. As it turns out, Crush is not tiny and Crush does not live in a cute tiny home. Crush is a medium-sized box turtle (about 8 inches long or so) and lives in a 3 foot AQUARIUM. Uh huh. Not so simple. So, anyway, I go pick Crush up, right? And I stare at the science teacher as she's spouting out instructions and rules and a bunch of other important mumbo-jumbo while in my mind, I'm thinking, "What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?!" There's heating pads to be left on and lights to be on and off and water to be de-clorinated and food to be sprinkled...and something about apples are good and plain iceburg lettuce is not. And probably other important crap I can't remember anymore. Plus, the turtle came with a book. To read. Over the holidays. About turtles. What?! So, we go home and set the turtle up on J's desk. And J starts going on and on about 78 degrees and sunshine and other such nonsense about turtles. And I'm thinking, "how the hell can you remember all these facts and instructions when you can't remember to wipe your own ass?!" I didn't say it out loud, though - didn't want to discourage her from learning about...turtles. Ugh. Anyway...
At this precise time in our world, Rosie, the hell cat, was waiting at the vet's for us to pick her up after being declawed. Finally! So, I drop J at Momo's. Then I pick Rosie up. I'll have to remember to post a picture here of how she looked all bandaged up! She was a puss in boots! Cuuuuutie Pie!! Anyway, Rosie had miraculously turned into the cutest, sweetest, most nicest kitty in all the whole world! Seriously, ya'll! Hu and I couldn't bebberlieve it. She was a whole new person...Errrr...cat. And we loved her more than life.
Cats and turtles were living in perfect harmony until Monday, the day Rosie's bandages came off. The hell cat was back! The moment hubber opened her cage, she sprang out, over the kitchen counter, through the window into the dining room, behind the sofa, under the christmas tree and finally under J's bed. Jesus. Then Huber notices little red paw prints everywhere. Hmmmm. What could that mean? So, he picks Rosie up to inspect her. The little heffer had busted several stitches!! So, he put her back in her cage. And that's where she stayed until I got home - an hour later. I'm like, "Hubber, what's Rosie doing in her cage with a bloody towel??" Then he proceeds to explain what happened and how he called the vet and they said he could bandage her back up himself if he wanted. Uhm. I don't think so. So we took her back. And had the vet people bandage her back up. And guess what, people? She became a little angel again. So, now we're thinking how nifty it would be just to leave her bandaged for the REST OF HER DAMN LIFE. What could possibly be wrong with that?! There was one other dramatic event that involved a bandaged cat paw covered with stinky, mushy cat shit. But, I won't go there now. That's one image I would like to forever erase from my memory.
On a lighter note: Every day while J's been gone, she's been leaving really cute messages on the answering machine at home. "Hi Mom. Hi Dad. It's me, J (as if we didn't know). I'm having fun at Momo's. I have so much to tell ya'll! Today I ate CRAB for the first time, ever! It was really good! And there's something else I wanted to tell ya'll....(long pause)hmmm...I forgot. Anyway, I love you, I miss you, Bye!" BEEEEEP.... "Hi Mom. Hi Dad. It's me, J (CUUUUTE!!!). I'm still at Momo's. Popo just came back from the store. He found a wet dollar in the parking lot and said I could have it. He also said he didn't want it because someone probably spit and pee-ed all over it. Momo says he's lying. Ok. I love ya'll. Bye!" BEEEEEP.... "Hi Mom. Hi Dad. It's me, J. Why haven't ya'll called me back? Ok. That's all. Bye!"
So, now it's Thursday. Cat is still bandaged. Turtle is still alive. And Julie comes back home today! It's been interesting. The End.
NUTcracker...
So, this year, Hubber and I decided to start a new family tradition. Seeing the Nutcracker ballet. Since we don't have enough crap going on during the holidays, we figured, what the hell, let's throw in 3 $60 seats to support the Houston Ballet. We have some extra cash...and we're high-roller-wannabes, so it was the perfect plan! That is, the perfect plan that turned into 2 hours of hellish torture. It wasn't the performance that nearly drove us to a murderous rage. It wasn't the children, laughing, talking, crying, running around, bumping our seats, either. It was the lady sitting directly behind us. She hummed every fucking song...loudly and OFF KEY! We didn't blow nearly $200 on tickets to hear this beyotch ruin christmas, we spent money to listen to the orchestra and watch a goshdarned BALLET! It took every ounce of patience I could muster not to turn around and smack the shit out of that lady. What the hell was she trying to prove, anyway? Did she want us all to know that she KNEW those tunes? EVERYBODY knows those damn tunes - they've been pounded in our heads every holiday season since we were babies! I hate that lady. I hate her for ruining our first annual trip to the Nutcracker. I hate her for being the one clear memory I'll ever have of that event. But I hate her even more because now every time I hear a Nutcracker song, I'll think of HER! She was ugly, too. I think she even stunk. Like shit. Baking in the hot, hot sun.
So, this year, Hubber and I decided to start a new family tradition. Seeing the Nutcracker ballet. Since we don't have enough crap going on during the holidays, we figured, what the hell, let's throw in 3 $60 seats to support the Houston Ballet. We have some extra cash...and we're high-roller-wannabes, so it was the perfect plan! That is, the perfect plan that turned into 2 hours of hellish torture. It wasn't the performance that nearly drove us to a murderous rage. It wasn't the children, laughing, talking, crying, running around, bumping our seats, either. It was the lady sitting directly behind us. She hummed every fucking song...loudly and OFF KEY! We didn't blow nearly $200 on tickets to hear this beyotch ruin christmas, we spent money to listen to the orchestra and watch a goshdarned BALLET! It took every ounce of patience I could muster not to turn around and smack the shit out of that lady. What the hell was she trying to prove, anyway? Did she want us all to know that she KNEW those tunes? EVERYBODY knows those damn tunes - they've been pounded in our heads every holiday season since we were babies! I hate that lady. I hate her for ruining our first annual trip to the Nutcracker. I hate her for being the one clear memory I'll ever have of that event. But I hate her even more because now every time I hear a Nutcracker song, I'll think of HER! She was ugly, too. I think she even stunk. Like shit. Baking in the hot, hot sun.
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