Am out of town. Will give details later. Have been on six planes this week and am not finished yet. This week I have also seen:
* 4 year old puke in her own bed.
* 4 year old puke in her grandparents' car.
* Grandmother puke in sympathy to 4 year old puke.
* Car filled with vomit getting rear-ended.
* 4 year old crap her pants on an airplane.
* 2 year old puke on a plane.
* 2 year old continue to puke on a plane and her mother, every 30 minutes for 6 hours.
* 2 year old puke in a hotel bed.
* 2 year old puke in the other hotel bed.
* 2 year old spray poop all over hotel bathroom.
* Hotel housekeeper gag and try and hide tears.
Not only do I think I am banned from flying Southwest airlines ever again, but our current hotel room smells like the inside of an 80 year old's ass. Not a pretty picture. Pray for me people- this week ain't over yet.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Confucious Say....
Busy week here folks. Busy, busy, busy. I hope to have more to say soon, but at least tonight's dinner left us some good omens.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
I Wanna Be Sedated
Not a lot of new things happening here folks- just some stress, thrown in with a bit more stress, and a little more stress for added fun. We're in the process of selling one house, renting another one and researching another one to buy that just may be in one of 3 different states. (How's that for fun!) I don't have the kids on any lists for preschools, and this whole moving thing still seems surreal- until my beloved SD house officially hit the market today.
I'm trying to think of something witty and funny- and the best I can come up with is my nervous breakdown at the pediatrician's today. It's not witty, nor funny- but so typical of my life right now. Lucy woke up this morning complaining that "her ear hurt." Couple that with her fever on Monday and I thought we had a nice ear infection. I thought a quick trip to the doc was in order, and quickly secured a 3:15pm appointment.
There is something about a pediatrician's office that is like entering another dimension. Instead of preparing myself for the expected delay, and doing something smart like packing snacks, stickers and other various distractions- yours truly arrived 6 minutes late, with kids that barely had their shoes on and nothing but the gum in my purse to entertain 2 bored anklebiters for AN HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES. The books in the waiting room are either covered in vomit, pooh or influenza, and they are so ripped and torn beyond understanding that Annie thinks Curious George is Cur-- eorg.
They do this bait and switch thing- where they make you wait outside until you are ready to stab your eye out with a pen left by some pharmaceutical rep and then, just when you think you can't take any more, the nurse appears, calls your name and ushers you to a waiting room. AND THEN YOU WAIT SOME MORE. Only this time, there aren't other kids to distract your kids with, or other parents to roll your eyes with, or poopie covered books to infect. I'm convinced they make you wait on purpose, and that they hide behind 2 way mirrors and get all snarky about your parenting skills.
"Look at this one, her kids barely have their shoes on and she looks like she's wearing pajamas."
"Yeah, she's now made them sing Old MacDonald for the fourteenth time."
"How many pieces of gum can that kid chew? That's ridiculous."
"OOH! She's stooped to a new low. She just threatened that four year old with shots. Look! She's pretending to call the nurse to give her shots! The audacity!"
And then, after the doctor pronounces that my Lucy doesn't have an ear infection, she looks quizzically at my response of "Oh Damn." Because, Dear Reader, I was truly hoping a course of antibiotics would make my girl sleep through the night once again. Instead, the doctor laughed and said "Sorry my dear, you've been played. By a two year old." Nice.
I'm trying to think of something witty and funny- and the best I can come up with is my nervous breakdown at the pediatrician's today. It's not witty, nor funny- but so typical of my life right now. Lucy woke up this morning complaining that "her ear hurt." Couple that with her fever on Monday and I thought we had a nice ear infection. I thought a quick trip to the doc was in order, and quickly secured a 3:15pm appointment.
There is something about a pediatrician's office that is like entering another dimension. Instead of preparing myself for the expected delay, and doing something smart like packing snacks, stickers and other various distractions- yours truly arrived 6 minutes late, with kids that barely had their shoes on and nothing but the gum in my purse to entertain 2 bored anklebiters for AN HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES. The books in the waiting room are either covered in vomit, pooh or influenza, and they are so ripped and torn beyond understanding that Annie thinks Curious George is Cur-- eorg.
They do this bait and switch thing- where they make you wait outside until you are ready to stab your eye out with a pen left by some pharmaceutical rep and then, just when you think you can't take any more, the nurse appears, calls your name and ushers you to a waiting room. AND THEN YOU WAIT SOME MORE. Only this time, there aren't other kids to distract your kids with, or other parents to roll your eyes with, or poopie covered books to infect. I'm convinced they make you wait on purpose, and that they hide behind 2 way mirrors and get all snarky about your parenting skills.
"Look at this one, her kids barely have their shoes on and she looks like she's wearing pajamas."
"Yeah, she's now made them sing Old MacDonald for the fourteenth time."
"How many pieces of gum can that kid chew? That's ridiculous."
"OOH! She's stooped to a new low. She just threatened that four year old with shots. Look! She's pretending to call the nurse to give her shots! The audacity!"
And then, after the doctor pronounces that my Lucy doesn't have an ear infection, she looks quizzically at my response of "Oh Damn." Because, Dear Reader, I was truly hoping a course of antibiotics would make my girl sleep through the night once again. Instead, the doctor laughed and said "Sorry my dear, you've been played. By a two year old." Nice.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Talking Heads
Yesterday I ripped the heads off of about 60 of these and had myself a good ol' Southern good time. We went to our first crawfish boil! It was very cool. Our friends built a table on their deck, perfect for propping your beer up against, and it had a big ol' hole in the middle with a trashcan underneath. After the crawfish were given last rites with cayenne pepper, they went to the big old jacuzzi in the sky (along with some corn on the cob, mushrooms and kielbasa sausage). They eventually made their way on top of the hole-in-the-middle table where partygoers scurried around to rip their heads off and break off their tails and eat their yummy meat. Not a good day to be a crawfish, but a very good day to be a partygoer.
Some guy named Ward (who I later found out was from New Jersey) taught Matt and I the proper way to shell one. Rip their heads off, while snapping off their tails, then squeeze their puny legs together until the shell cracks and you can then remove the meat and the intestine in one swoop. Hungry, anyone? Actually, they taste really good. I couldn't get the hang of the ripping off the head thing, and everyone laughed when I would cover one up with a paper towel and quietly apologize before I ripped the f*&cker to shreds.
After a few beers, we cooerced Ward into sucking on one of the heads. It's a bit disturbing, but also entertaining. Matt had just returned from an interview in New Orleans, so perhaps I will be sucking my own crawfish heads in a bit. You never know.
Some guy named Ward (who I later found out was from New Jersey) taught Matt and I the proper way to shell one. Rip their heads off, while snapping off their tails, then squeeze their puny legs together until the shell cracks and you can then remove the meat and the intestine in one swoop. Hungry, anyone? Actually, they taste really good. I couldn't get the hang of the ripping off the head thing, and everyone laughed when I would cover one up with a paper towel and quietly apologize before I ripped the f*&cker to shreds.
After a few beers, we cooerced Ward into sucking on one of the heads. It's a bit disturbing, but also entertaining. Matt had just returned from an interview in New Orleans, so perhaps I will be sucking my own crawfish heads in a bit. You never know.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
I'll Be Back
This week I tried a new type of class at the gym. It's called Body Pump and it is a weightlifting class on steroids (pardon the pun).
The music during the class is AWESOME. Kanye West, REO Speedwagon mixes, Jewel- lots of stuff to keep your mind off the fact that every muscle in your body is screaming in agony and you have suddenly entered some black hole of time that makes every minute feel like a hundred years. The last time I felt like that, I was pushing an 8lb 7oz bundle of joy out my hooha and ready to curse my anesthesiologist.
There must be some prerequisite on my gym application that all instructors must fit some sort of stereotype. Remember the other class I took with the senior citizen Barbie? Today's class was taught by her cousin, Jack McFarland. My girlfriend nicknamed him this after he started having us do these dramatic flourishes and poses at the end of songs. She put her barbell down and turned around and waved her hands in front of her face and mouthed "Just Jack." I would have peed my pants if there was any liquid left in my body, but it was now seeping out of every pore and puddling into a pool of stank on the communal gym mat.
I now hurt. R-E-A-L-L-Y hurt. After the first class, I felt like an extra on the set of Cocoon- only there was no swimming pool of elixir that would convince this senior citizen to go get her thang on. My knees creaked anytime I sat down, my thighs were rebelling from the time continuum spent doing lunges and my granny flaps? They were now sufficiently freaked out and punish me with twinges for interrupting their fat spreading.
But I do like it. I like the way my body feels afterwards, and the muscle twinges are continual reminders that I shouldn't be eating more crap. I'm a bit of a results junkie though- and figure that after 2 classes, if I keep checking the mirror- my ass will now have raised 2 inches on the JLO scale and I should be looking hot. So NOT true- it will take much longer than that. But I'll be there, singing along to Love Shack with Jack and practicing my dramatic bench press poses at home.
The music during the class is AWESOME. Kanye West, REO Speedwagon mixes, Jewel- lots of stuff to keep your mind off the fact that every muscle in your body is screaming in agony and you have suddenly entered some black hole of time that makes every minute feel like a hundred years. The last time I felt like that, I was pushing an 8lb 7oz bundle of joy out my hooha and ready to curse my anesthesiologist.
There must be some prerequisite on my gym application that all instructors must fit some sort of stereotype. Remember the other class I took with the senior citizen Barbie? Today's class was taught by her cousin, Jack McFarland. My girlfriend nicknamed him this after he started having us do these dramatic flourishes and poses at the end of songs. She put her barbell down and turned around and waved her hands in front of her face and mouthed "Just Jack." I would have peed my pants if there was any liquid left in my body, but it was now seeping out of every pore and puddling into a pool of stank on the communal gym mat.
I now hurt. R-E-A-L-L-Y hurt. After the first class, I felt like an extra on the set of Cocoon- only there was no swimming pool of elixir that would convince this senior citizen to go get her thang on. My knees creaked anytime I sat down, my thighs were rebelling from the time continuum spent doing lunges and my granny flaps? They were now sufficiently freaked out and punish me with twinges for interrupting their fat spreading.
But I do like it. I like the way my body feels afterwards, and the muscle twinges are continual reminders that I shouldn't be eating more crap. I'm a bit of a results junkie though- and figure that after 2 classes, if I keep checking the mirror- my ass will now have raised 2 inches on the JLO scale and I should be looking hot. So NOT true- it will take much longer than that. But I'll be there, singing along to Love Shack with Jack and practicing my dramatic bench press poses at home.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Baby Love
Baby fever is sweeping the city. At the gym this morning, one friend confessed she's fighting the bug, and my other friend laughs and points to a bag in her backseat. It's a bag of maternity clothes that she just got back from a friend.
Baby Fever. I suffer from it too- from time to time. A lot of date nights, Matt and I will talk about the possibility of having another kid. Annie and Lucy constantly ask for more babies. I love babies. I love their smell, their routine, their softness. I love how other people melt around them. I love how easily they can be soothed.
But it's hard to think of going back. I've given away all of my baby things. All of them. Every last onesie, exersaucer, sling. Gone. I've got about six more months of diapers. But there is something so powerful- so addicting to see the newness of life. To see a person unfold, and discover. When I really get honest, I think this is where my baby fever stems from. And until we're a bit more settled, I have to content myself with feeding my addiction in other ways.
So, that's my new goal. To find and appreciate the beauty that surrounds me. Without sounding too Yani-new-agey, I'm going to do a better job of reveling in the small moments. Like when my Lucy lays her head down on my shoulder. Or when my girls belly laugh while jumping on my bed. Or when my husband calls from his crazy job just to hear my voice.
Happy Valentines Day- I hope you fill your day with love.
Baby Fever. I suffer from it too- from time to time. A lot of date nights, Matt and I will talk about the possibility of having another kid. Annie and Lucy constantly ask for more babies. I love babies. I love their smell, their routine, their softness. I love how other people melt around them. I love how easily they can be soothed.
But it's hard to think of going back. I've given away all of my baby things. All of them. Every last onesie, exersaucer, sling. Gone. I've got about six more months of diapers. But there is something so powerful- so addicting to see the newness of life. To see a person unfold, and discover. When I really get honest, I think this is where my baby fever stems from. And until we're a bit more settled, I have to content myself with feeding my addiction in other ways.
So, that's my new goal. To find and appreciate the beauty that surrounds me. Without sounding too Yani-new-agey, I'm going to do a better job of reveling in the small moments. Like when my Lucy lays her head down on my shoulder. Or when my girls belly laugh while jumping on my bed. Or when my husband calls from his crazy job just to hear my voice.
Happy Valentines Day- I hope you fill your day with love.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Love Letter
I am an extremely emotional person. For those that know me, this goes without saying. For those that don't- just know that most of my decisions in life are "gut based" as opposed to logical, well thought out, rational decisions. Sometimes this serves me well, sometimes it doesn't. Today, it made my head explode.
Today, I got a very disturbing letter from the tenant that occupies my house in San Diego. It appears she is a little peeved at all of the ruckus involved with putting our house on the market. To her credit, we did have the outside of the house painted, and some minor repairs (drive by San Diego friends! It looks great!). To compensate, our property manager recommended we give her a rent credit- and he suggested an amount that has worked in the past.
Apparently, this must have insulted her. Not only did she scoff at our peace offering, she wrote a 3 page diatribe that basically says she will sabotage the showing of my house, and listed in great detail why she finds my housekeeping skills lacking. (Note to self: do not pay to have your house cleaned after moving out unless you can be there to inspect the work. Also, do not let your husband close up a house all by his lonesome while you are crying about moving and tending to a six month old and 2 year old. Said husband will leave 2 boxes and a bicycle in the backyard and you will forever hear from your tenant that you are likely related to Miss Havisham).
Are you guys bored with this yet? I guess my point is this: my house, that I am renting in Texas was hit by lightening last fall. It sucked. I lost my computer, and didn't have a working oven or washing machine for 2 weeks. Did I complain? Oh yes. Did I expect to be financially compensated? No. It's life, people. I handled the repairs, paid for them- and then got reimbursed from the owners of the house. Life went on. I didn't insult anyone, or write nasty letters, or badmouth anybody to their former neighbors.
My only compensation is this: I only have to deal with this snarky, small-minded person for a few more months. She is stuck being her for the rest of her life. I guess I'm lucky then.
p.s- Back to the whole "gut based" decision making? I called my property manager and told him to take the rent credit and shove it up the tenant's ass.
Today, I got a very disturbing letter from the tenant that occupies my house in San Diego. It appears she is a little peeved at all of the ruckus involved with putting our house on the market. To her credit, we did have the outside of the house painted, and some minor repairs (drive by San Diego friends! It looks great!). To compensate, our property manager recommended we give her a rent credit- and he suggested an amount that has worked in the past.
Apparently, this must have insulted her. Not only did she scoff at our peace offering, she wrote a 3 page diatribe that basically says she will sabotage the showing of my house, and listed in great detail why she finds my housekeeping skills lacking. (Note to self: do not pay to have your house cleaned after moving out unless you can be there to inspect the work. Also, do not let your husband close up a house all by his lonesome while you are crying about moving and tending to a six month old and 2 year old. Said husband will leave 2 boxes and a bicycle in the backyard and you will forever hear from your tenant that you are likely related to Miss Havisham).
Are you guys bored with this yet? I guess my point is this: my house, that I am renting in Texas was hit by lightening last fall. It sucked. I lost my computer, and didn't have a working oven or washing machine for 2 weeks. Did I complain? Oh yes. Did I expect to be financially compensated? No. It's life, people. I handled the repairs, paid for them- and then got reimbursed from the owners of the house. Life went on. I didn't insult anyone, or write nasty letters, or badmouth anybody to their former neighbors.
My only compensation is this: I only have to deal with this snarky, small-minded person for a few more months. She is stuck being her for the rest of her life. I guess I'm lucky then.
p.s- Back to the whole "gut based" decision making? I called my property manager and told him to take the rent credit and shove it up the tenant's ass.
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