Ready, set, shop!

I loaded the kids up and headed to Target this afternoon. I needed a few last-minute things for AR. And new shoes for Big D. And a new shirt for myself. And they make travel-size packages of Clorox wipes! I can clean a whole hotel room with a Clorox wipe! Oooh, and three new board books for Boobers for the car ride!

So I can't leave a Target for less than $50. I'VE TRIED.

What's really impressive is that I took all three kids with me shopping, something I try never, never to do. But I'm an expert Targeter (I've been training for years) and can manage to rack up $50 in under ten minutes. I could kick ASS at one of those five-minute shopping sprees.

Because my children? Not so much into shopping. Okay, Boobers doesn't mind, but give him a few months, and he'll be just as irritating. Unfortunately, Big D is too long-legged to shove into a cart, so he bounces and runs around like he's JUST smoked crack in the backseat of the car. Smella rides in the basket, continuously whining that's she's thirsty. Or she wants that hat. Or ohmigawd, I know you just didn't put something in this shopping cart where I'm trying to lay back and get my whine on.

Boobers sits quietly in the front of the cart. He occasionally points at something that catches his eye and grunts. I try to interact with him, but between reigning in Big D and loudly whispering to Smella to SHUT IT, I tend to forget about him. He's fine with that, because it gives him ample opportunity to suck on the disease-infested cart handle, his favorite shopping past time. And when he's gotten his fill of Target germs and virus, he likes to dig through my purse, eating stray morsels he finds and dialing Cambodia on my cell phone.

A shopping excursion usually ends with a couple of kids crying, a white-knuckled drive home with lots of deep breathing, and nap time as soon as we hit the front door.

But in theory, taking the kids with me saves money. Do you know what kind of damage I could do by myself in an hour? Whoo. I think I just heard the husband pass out.

Preparing to vacate

I have a list a mile long of shit to do before we leave for Arkansas on Friday. I know I'm going to forget something. I keep referring to my five or six lists, but I still feel panicky. And the funniest part of the whole thing? The kids are most excited about the fact that the hotel we're staying at has a pool.

I've reminded the husband several times of the money would could save if we just stayed in an Indianapolis Super 8 or something. We wouldn't even use that much gas! No ten-hour car rides! I could afford the digital SLR I've always wanted! And the best part? His parents wouldn't be there!

He isn't amused.

Customer of the Day

A middle-aged couple stopped in last night, one of the busiest nights I've witnessed since around the holidays. I took their orders, and as I handed their finished drinks to them, the man said, "There are a bunch of kids sitting outside, talking on their cell phones."

"Oookay," I replied, waiting for the big revelation like, ...and they're being loud or ...and they're throwing spitballs or ...and they're humping like crazed rabbits on the tabletops.

I stared at them dully, clearly not understanding what the problem was. The woman stepped up and whispered, "They're like, loitering." And her husband gave me a knowing, solemn nod.

I somehow refrained from screaming and foaming at the mouth at them.

HELLO? It's a coffee shop, people. It's the whole purpose of a damn coffee shop. To get a coffee and then loiter about. There isn't a time limit, and as long as the kids are being polite and orderly, I can't make them leave! It was a lovely night, and I'm sure you wanted to sit outside and enjoy your mocha choco latta ya ya while you talked stocks and bonds and played old people footsie with each other, but seats are a first-come, first serve basis here. You know, how like most places in the fucking free world are.

No, I didn't scream that. I wanted to. What I really did was blink a couple of times and say, "Oh. Oookay. I see."

They looked slightly annoyed with the whole situation, but they grabbed their drinks and left, walking past the thugs sitting out on the patio, who were probably texting Satan himself while guzzling white mochas.

Fuckin' kids.

Listy McListerson

1. I took my mini-SUV to the Suzuki dealership to have a wheel bearing replaced yesterday. They couldn't finish it but assured me it would be done today. Supposedly it's covered under warranty, so I shouldn't owe anything. I'll still be bringing Astroglide though, because you just know a screwing will probably happen.

2. C turned 29 yesterday, and then proceeded to bitch and whine about just how old it was. And I was all, ahem, I've been 29 for six months and everything is just fine and I'll be 30 this year, and MAN am I excited about it so PLEASE shut up.

3. The husband loves to make fun of this little state we live in. And for the most part, I agree with him, but there's still this fierce need to protect this dumb state. I can't explain it. I think it may stem from the fact that he's from ARKANSAS. Has it been so long that he's forgotten? Forgotten that people have fewer teeth there and call shopping carts "buggies"? That their unofficial mascot is a hairy warthog of a pig with fangs? That they like to yell "SOOWEE!" to each other? How the hell do you forget that?

4. I think in order to distract me from the fact that he talks mad smack about Hoosierville, the husband bought me Wolf Parade's first album. It's so good that I mostly forgive him. Mostly.

5. I got nothin' for 5. So how about one of my most favorite pictures of all time? Boobers really embodied the whole clown spirit.

Customer of the Day

On Sunday nights, a church youth group comes to visit our store. I like to lovingly refer to them as The GodSquad. There's usually anywhere from four to ten of them, and they're just the most wholesome kids you'd ever want to meet. They sweetly order hot chocolates and teas, and then sit out in the lobby and braid friendship bracelets. No lie. Isn't that just so syrupy sweet you could gag a little?

However, child of the big G or not, it's never cute to order a "mocha choca lotta ya ya" at a coffee shop. I do not think it's funny. In fact, it may annoy me so much that I can't even crack a smile when I reply that we JUST ran out of mocha choca lotta ya ya. No, I might looked pained and slightly irritated. Which in turn makes the remaining members of the GodSquad feel embarrassed and awkward for you, and how are they supposed to braid bracelets with that kind of vibe?

Freakin' Usher

I've had this song in my head ALL. DAY. LONG. The dumbest song in creation, but dammit, it's catchy.



My favorite part, and perhaps the most beautiful lyrics ever written:

Let's both get undressed right here

Keep it up girl I swear

Imma give it to you non stop

And I don't care who's watchin, watchin, watchin

As for Usher, that man has the WEIRDEST hairline ever and sticky-outy ears. He's just not very cute at all. For the record, I would not make love to him in a club. On the bar or floor. Definitely not in a bathroom. Okay, maybe in a bathroom. But he'd so have to wear a bag over his big ear/weird hairline head. Because Usher from the neck down? Deliciousness.

I'm in love with a city

The husband surprised me with a trip to New York for our sixth wedding anniversary about four years ago. It was the best surprise anyone's ever given me, and I'm sure I'll never be able to trump it.

It also was the best vacation of my life, and I'm also pretty sure it will never be trumped either.

We were there only about four days, and we tried to pack in as much as we could. The Empire State Building at night, the Staten Island Ferry to pass by the Statue of Liberty, the Museum of Natural History. It was all breathtaking and inspiring. We walked miles and miles through that city, occasionally hopping on the subway. But while the subway was entertaining and quick, you missed so much by not treading the streets.

By the time we left, I was in love. Madly, deeply in love with a truly alive city. If it weren't for the fact that we had left my Big D back home, I would've stayed. I could've pitched a tent in the middle of Times Square and lived harmoniously with the Naked Cowboy and been completely happy. As the plane touched down back home in Indy, I was literally homesick for a city I'd only visited for a handful of days.

As I plan and research this upcoming trip we're taking, I can't help but veer my searches to New York occasionally, browsing flights and hotels, just counting down the days until we can go back sometime. I miss the honking and then the "no honking" signs on 5th Avenue, central park, the hotdog carts, the little lapdogs in Saks. I yearn for all of it.

I know we'll go back sometime, and I know Arkansas in a few weeks will be fun for us and the kids, but I wish my chest wouldn't tighten and my eyes get teary every time I think of it.

It's probably none of my business

I think it's finally been long enough that I can say what the most common phrase people Google to get to my blog. The same thing has been searched for by different people several times now, and boy, is it interesting. Are you ready?

nude coworker

Okay, so a couple of things here. One, you're probably highly disappointed when you do click on my link, because um, I'm not really about nude coworkers here, and there are definitely no pictures. Sorry. And two, whose nude coworker? Mine? Yours? Just some random weirdo's coworker? WHY? I don't know about your place of employment, but I don't want to see any of the people I work with sans clothing.

Most of the other things people search are mundane, normal things. However, there was one search a few days ago that was, I don't know, noteworthy? Scary? Really, really disturbing?

asshole pump

I've heard of pumping things up. Tires come to mind. Lips, okay. But why in the hell would you ever need that part of your anatomy pumped? I just...can't even fathom. And how sad were you when you found that I was just talking about pumps of vanilla syrup?

So all freaks take note: I'm making an effort from here on out to write about puppies, flowers, and rainbows.

I highly recommend torture to overcome your fears

Ever have one of those "What the fuckity fuck was I thinking?" moments? Oh, come now, everyone's had them. I think my very first one with regards to the kids was the first Chuck E. Cheese birthday party. As Big D clung to my leg in sheer terror from the large, slightly musty-smelling rat that came to wish him birthday cheer, as the token-sucking game machines chirped and whistled, as the hundred or so children shrieked and screamed and ran around the restaurant, I thought to myself, "What the fuckity FUCK?"

Another one of my favorite moments was some time last summer. Boobers was only a few weeks old, and even though I was as sleep deprived as I've ever been in my life, I needed to clean the house. So when the Boobers went down for his nap, I dragged out my vacuum. Big D wasn't a fan of the vacuum from about birth up until age three. Smella never really seemed to mind it, and I don't know if it was just a phase or having a new baby brother that upset her little world, but she was acting scared every time I ran it. So as she sat on the couch, clutching her blankie, whimpering, I had my brilliant idea.

"Look, Smella! It's okay! It's just the vacuum. Look!" And I proceeded to take the hose attachment and vacuum my shirt a little. "See how funny? Here! Let's try it on you!"

SERIOUSLY? No, I can't believe the awe-inspiring stupidity either, people.

Smella screamed and then began sobbing hysterically. In a last ditch effort to salvage any trust she ever had in me, I turned to Big D.

"No, sweetie! It's fun! Look, Big D likes it!" As I turned to Big D, he ran in circles as I tried to catch him and just, you know, suck up his shirt a little in the vacuum. "No, Big D! C'mon, let me try it on you!"

My plan didn't work so well. It's lucky Boobers was asleep, or else I would have probably tried it on him. I was that desperate to prove the Smella the vacuum wasn't this scary loud device of torment. No, it was just a little Hoover looking for a good time. It cleans up crumbs and is great for parties!

Luckily, I don't think I scarred my baby girl for life. Smella's mostly over her hatred of the Hoover.

Although she still eyes me warily when I whip out the hose attachment.

Tips on how not to be an asshole. Again.

Unless you're having some major kind of crisis, like you have a major head wound or are being chased by rabid monkeys, don't walk into a coffee shop one minute before the store closes. And then order four hand-crafted beverages. (Yeah, I said "hand-crafted." WHAT?)

And then, as I make your drinks, don't eye the pastry case longingly for a donut. Because those donuts are already wrapped up, ready for the next morning. The light is off in the case, the glass is all clean and sparkly. Get a clue.

And DEFINITELY don't say, "Awww, we caught you right at closing time." Because then I might have to grit my teeth and smile and nod pleasantly when I really want to jab you in the eye. EVERYTHING WAS CLEAN, dumbass. Because we were closing in ONE MINUTE.

This is why restaurant workers spit in other people's food.* Because for the lovagawd, that's rude.

*I wouldn't do this. I've never done this. BUT I'M JUST SAYING.

He just wishes

The husband has decided to start his very own blog. I think he's witty enough, but I won't blogroll him until he proves himself to me. That means regular, funny, insightful updates, buddy. And despite what he says, there won't be any "sick competition" between us.

That's because you can't compete with me at all, suckah!

Ahem.

So yeah, okay, there may be a little competition. It's why I got married: so I could compete with someone worthwhile on a regular basis. Oh, that and the insurance savings. You know, whatever.

We know how to party hard

While standing in line last night at Target with K and C, giggling like mad loons because we were free, free, FREE of children and husbands, the cashier says, "Looks like a girls night out."

K says, "Yep, that's exactly right."

Cashier smiles. "Everyone needs one of those now and then."

C, completely dry and stone-faced, "We do this every day."

We erupted into another fit of giggles while the cashier looked at us like we had been snorting lines of coke in the shoe aisle.

(We hadn't. We had been trying on all the highest heels we could find though and then testing out our "model walks." Dangerous shit, man.)

I suh-WEAR

If it doesn't stop raining on the poor Indianapolisians (and southern Indianans. And maybe the northern and eastern ones too) that someone is going to have to build a damn ark and paddle us to the Sahara so we can all dry out.

As I drove home from work tonight, the lightning was actually distracting. And a little blinding. And just slightly scary, dammit.

Planning

In about a month, the husband, my three kids, and I will embark on a little roadtrip. We're heading down south to Arkansas to visit the husband's family. It's about a ten-hour trip, and I've already developed an eye-twitch every time I think about it. Ten hours. In one vehicle. Three children. Woooo, there it goes again.

I've already begun making lists. I've never packed for this many people for as long as we'll be gone. Five people, five days, a newly potty trained Smella, a one-year-old. It's quite possible I'll need a u-Haul.

And there's another issue. I drive a Suzuki XL-7. That thing adores gas like a drunken frat girl adores a kegger. We're estimating $400 in gas for the trip. (I try not to remember back when the husband and I were first dating and gas was only 99¢ a gallon.) We've considered renting a smaller (but still big enough to squish two car seats and a seven-year-old in the backseat) car. It looks like with a higher mpg plus the cost of rental, it'd be about the same.

So I'm stressing. Adding things to my four or five lists and stressing. I'm looking forward to the vacation, but I swear the work it takes to get ready for one is unbelievable. I need a vacation from planning the vacation.

Anyone have any tips or advice? Any good ideas on keeping the kids occupied? Anyone have a script for an anti-anxiety med they'd like to share? I could use alllll the help I can get.

Customer of the Day

I haven't tested it before, but I'm almost positive that most restaurants frown upon patrons leaving the store and then coming back in four or five times a day for a drink refill. So it should be no surprise to you, Miss But-That-Other-Location-Said-I-Could!, that we don't allow it either. You can get your drink, hang out in the cafe, and then come get a refill before you head back out to your car, but that's the extent of refill time.

And really. Do you think we'll bend the rules for you if curse at us? Really? Your "I can't believe this shit!" is not going to warm the cockles of our hearts and change our policy. In fact, it'll probably cause us to bitch about you incessantly and try to get you banned from the whole damn store, stupid. And then where will you get your large iced tea with four Splendas? Hmm?

Top secret blog and oh yeah, the husband's a butthead

So I think this blogging thing is going okay. I mean, I'm having fun most of the time. It's gotten tedious once or twice, where I've sat down at the computer, completely overwhelmed with OMG! WTF do I write about?! I think I even have a regular reader or two (hi you guys!). The husband also reads daily and LOVES pointing out spelling or grammar errors. Helpful, that guy.

But he's it as far as friends and family goes. I haven't told anyone about this blog. And from reading others' blogs, that seems a common theme. I don't know why I don't want to tell them. I don't really write anything bad about anyone (save for that co-worker or two, but even that hasn't been awful). The thought just squicks me out a little. I guess eventually I'll spill it, but I'm not quite ready to just yet. There will be a time when it's right, and I'll want to, I'm sure. Or not. And they can just stumble upon it themselves. Whatever.

The husband is fully aware that I don't want to share this little blog yet. We've talked about it. But since he's 32 going on, I don't know, TWELVE, he likes to drop little references to past posts around my parents. The best one? We were hanging out at with my mom the other day while Big D and Smella shared a package of fruit snacks. My mom pointed out how they do loooove some fruit snacks. The husband agreed, saying, "Yeah, it's like kid crack, huh? Ice cream is my crack."

YEAH, I CAUGHT THAT, THE HUSBAND.

It didn't even register on my mom's radar. I refused to make eye-contact with the husband, so I'm not even sure if the jerkface was smirking or not.

All I know is that I know a whole lot about the husband. Like, those kinds of secrets only whispered to each other in the dark while lying in bed together. And we're going next month to Arkansas to visit his parents. I'd hate to have some non-sequitur tidbits slip out of my mouth around his mama. I mean I'd really, really hate for that to happen.

How I met the husband, The Finale

Part I here.
Part II here.
Part III here.
Part IV here.
Part V here.

After leaving my parents house again after Christmas, I probably didn't stop crying until Missouri. When they came to visit us in Arkansas the following March, I was a weepy mess for weeks. And on one of the nights that the husband was consoling me while I sobbed into my pillow from the homesickness, he mentioned the idea of us both moving back to Indiana. Permanently.

Here's where I gush. This man, whom I had known for a little over a year at this point, was willing to give up his family, his state, his comfort. For me. This is why I agreed to marry him.

We wound up moving back in July. I had stayed in Arkansas for a whole year. The husband's parents were crushed, and I'm pretty sure his mom was more than a little irked at me for stealing her baby boy away, but I didn't force the boy at gunpoint. It was his idea, dammit.

We moved in with my parents. I got the job I had before I moved, and the husband found work shortly after. We saved up enough money to buy a used car in September.

And here's where I admit we kind of decided to get married when we did so that we could save on car insurance.

When I called to get quotes, the agent admitted that there would be an obscene amount of money saved if we were married. This still makes no sense to me. Do people become suddenly become awesome, responsible drivers as soon as the marriage license is signed? I'm here to tell you Internet and Allstate that it's not true in the husband's case. Woo boy. Still a crazy driver.

Since the husband and I weren't (and still aren't) very religious and had no want for spending ungodly amounts of our or our parents' money on a huge wedding, we decided to head down to the city county building to visit a justice of the peace. We got the marriage license on Monday, and on Saturday September 19, 1998, we were married. My parents, sister, K and her fiance were there. It was quick and simple, but I meant every word of those vows I said. Despite being urged a little at the thought of saving on insurance, it was the exact right time. I still don't regret it.

The husband and I moved out a few weeks later. My mother-in-law was tickled pink that we were A-OK in the eyes of the Lawd and were no longer living in sin. She was still a whackadoodle, but at least she wasn't calling every so often spouting bible verses.

The husband and I will celebrate ten years this year. We've had ups and downs, of course, but I don't think there's anyone else in the world I could be married to. In a lot of ways, the husband is my exact opposite. He's the quiet one. I'm not. He's great at math. Um, I struggle with that. He tends to be easy-going, and I enjoy a good freak-out from time to time. How we met and ultimately got married was perfect.

And really, could a story be any better to blog about and tell our grandchildren? I think not.

Can't you just smell the cow poo?

C and I made it back from our trip to K's new house on Friday. The drive is as every bit as awful as I expected. There will be no more drop-ins to K's house with an hour and ten minute drive. C and I helped paint K's son's room, and hey, I hate painting. It was the first time I'd actually painted a wall, and I think it pretty much sucks. So there. I've learned something new about myself.


I also ruined a perfectly good shirt because I'm a total dumbass who paints in nice shirts. I really thought, "Painting doesn't have to be messy! I'll just make sure I'm careful." I'm still picking off tiny blue specks of paint from random spots on my body. Duh.

K's neighbors? Really real Amish peoples. Horse and buggy, no electricity Amish. I felt like a total whore sitting on her porch what with my v-neck shirt and Diet Coke, but they were friendly enough to just wave and not smite thee.

I will say that why I'd never pick to live out in the middle of NOWHERE, it is gorgeous and open. Neighbors aren't piled up on one another. It's quieter. Complete strangers wave at you when you drive past. It's quaint and charming. I just really, really, really like Target.

74 Days. I can DO this.

1. First day off of school. I've broken up fourteen fights, said "please quit yelling" nine hundred times, and already cracked open that bottle of tequila I was saving for something special. I type surprisingly well drunk off my ass, no?

2. C and I are making the road trip to K's new house tomorrow. 54 miles. A little over an hour. I told her I'd drive if she'd bring yummy road trip snacks. What? No one wants their blood sugar to drop on such. a. long. drive.

3. My mom will be keeping the kids while I go tomorrow. I feel for her a little. Just a little.

4. Big D lost a lens to his glasses sometime in a bouncehouse last night. And since he didn't tell anyone until this morning, it's gonzo. Ossip would be pleased to replace it for $76. Isn't that swell of them?

5. 74 days left until school starts. About an hour until nap time. Five hours until I get to leave for work. Hey, everyone needs a coping mechanism.

Can I get a 12-step program in here?

I just finished up a bowl of ice cream for lunch. I got to eat it all by myself since the babies are down for naps and the husband is at work.

The husband? He may have a addiction problem. I've never seen any human scarf down the ice cream that the husband can. I bought two half gallons of Breyer's on Friday; one's gone and the other has a huge dent in it. Today's lunch was the first bowl I've seen.

I like ice cream just fine, but I probably wouldn't buy it but every few weeks or so if it were just me. I like a bowl here and there, but the husband would die without it. Literally curl up into a corner, fetal-style, and wither away. There have been days (DAYS) where we've been out of ice cream, and he's whined and had to make a special trip just for a half-gallon.

My sister bought him a gift card for his birthday to Cold Stone Creamery in April. He did share it with his family begrudgingly.

I guess we all have our vices. I can't keep this house stocked in enough Goldfish crackers. I could buy vats of guacamole and never feel satisfied myself. And did you know that fruit snacks might as well be labeled "Fruity-Flavored Kid Crack"? The things I could get my kids to do for those colorful chewy plastic-like bits are endless.

Wanna clean up your room? I have fruit snacks!

Can you fold your laundry? Fruit snacks!

Go to college, become doctors and support your parents' ice cream and guacamole habits? I've got TWO packages of fruit snacks that say you can do it.

So yeah. The husband likes ice cream. I'm sure he'll be eyeing the container tonight to make sure I didn't get more than my fair share. Which is fine, because I occasionally count Diet Cokes to make sure none were stolen and abused. I guess I'll leave that addiction for another post.

Thank god he didn't get my math gene

We attended Big D's school today for a little end-of-year awards ceremony. Big D is a bright kid. He won an award for straight A's for the entire year and one for all A's in citizenship. I'm pretty proud of him and constantly amazed that I produced that. It seems he excels and is brilliant in spite of me.

After tomorrow, Big D will be a second grader.

People, if you ever need to urge time on, are impatient for life to fly by right before your eyes, go ahead and get yourself a baby. Because in no time flat, they go from squishy fat baby thighs to intermittently toothless, gangly second graders (in slight need of a haircut).

Congrats, Big D.

How I met the husband, Part V

Part I here.
Part II here.
Part III here.
Part IV here.

We stayed in the husband and his roommate's apartment until October, when the husband and I got our own apartment together. In the meantime, I scrubbed that little two bedroom, one bath within an inch of its life. I cooked dinner for the both of them. I made it homey, and I'm pretty sure the roommate was a little wistful when I left.

Back in the day, I wasn't big on keeping jobs for very long. I suppose if I sat down and really counted, I could give you the number of jobs I've had since age 15. In Arkansas, I worked as a telemarketer twice, I was hired on at a assisted living facility but never went, and I worked at Wal*Mart. It was a sad day when I was hired on there. And it was every bit as bad as you can imagine.

Looking back on it now, I liked the little town of Conway. It was a college town, it was quaint, mostly quiet, clean. But oh wow, I missed my people back home. The parents, who up until that point I usually looked down on in disdain, my dork of a baby sister, my best friend, K. I cried myself to sleep most nights from homesickness while the husband patted my back and whispered soothingly.

The facts that we were dirt poor and his mom was STILL a whackadoodle helped nothing. We barely had reliable transportation half of the time, and his parents just insisted on dropping by unannounced all. the. time. It's hard to hump like rabbits when you're constantly on the lookout for company popping in, and now that I write that, THAT WAS PROBABLY THE WHOLE IDEA.

But things between the husband and I couldn't have been better. We really got along well, and the relationship grew. We meshed.

That Christmas, we saved up enough money to drive back to Indiana for the holiday. We stayed with my parents, and it really hit home how much I missed them. We had an absolute blast those few days.

And on Christmas morning, after everyone had opened all of their presents, there was one small box left. For me. The husband, shy and quiet and generally not good at being center stage, got down on one knee in front of my immediate family and proposed marriage.

I obviously, without a doubt, said yes.

Vroom

It may surprise you to know that I've never been to the Indianapolis Speedway. I've lived on the west side of Indianapolis for 28 of my 29 years and have driven by it hundreds of times, but I've never actually visited it. That also means that I've never seen the Indy 500 in person. I've always lived close enough that I can hear the cars whine as they race around the track. And when they release the hundreds of balloons on race morning, I've had a stray one float into my yard. We can see the jets fly over on their way from the track. And it's always fun to drive around Speedway, Indiana over Memorial Day weekend at night and watch the drunks and loons stumble around.

The hilarious part of all this though? The husband got two free tickets through his job. So he's thinking of taking Big D this Sunday. That means that my seven-year-old and transplant husband will have seen the track before I have, a native Indianapolisian (I just made that up. I like it better than "Hoosier.")

Meh. I should probably visit the track sometime in my life. But on Sunday, I'll just stay at home and listen to the scratchy radio broadcast. (Did you know they won't televise the race here until 7 PM that night? Is that our punishment for not buying a ticket and seeing it in person? I refuse to be manipulated!)I also won't have to fight crowds, find parking, and deal with any drunken loons.

I'm sure Big D will have a blast. And hopefully, he won't see more than a couple pairs of boobs.

Listy McListerson

1. Smella's home. Let the screaming reconvene.

2. I have a shift supervisor meeting at work tonight. I can't tell you how annoying it is to have a day off of work during the week (rare), and I still have to go to work for an hour to discuss things like, "Make sure you mop the back room really, really well."

3. I took Boobers to JC Penney's portrait studio today. Do all photographers have to make stupid noises while they shoot? The high-pitched squeals and clicks and kissy sounds? They drive me insane and they make Boobers pout and almost cry. None of this would be an issue if someone would step up to the plate already and buy me a digital SLR. I'M TALKING TO YOU, THE HUSBAND.

4. The babies fell asleep in their carseats on the way home for approximately three and a half minutes. Now they're both convinced that was all the nap they needed and are messing around in their bedroom not sleeping. Man, I hate that.

5. UGH. I have nothing for number five. And I hate even-numbered things. There's nothing worse than even-numbered lists. So there you go. I have a touch of OCD about even numbers. There's a little tidbit for you.

Over the river and through the woods

My mom came to pick up Smella this morning. Smella will be spending the night there, eating tons of junk food, and will be lavished with attention. She was so excited to go and talked nonstop about it. This will be the first time she's ever spent a night by herself at my parents'.

And Boobers? This is maybe the first time he and I have been alone this long together. It's been fun; we can actually sit down to play without Smella coming over and butting her way in. He's gotten to play with all the toys all by himself. There's been no screaming or fighting. And since Boober's vocabulary is limited right now, it's been pretty quiet.

I think we miss her.

Boobers kept walking up to me like, "Soooo, yeah. Uh, where's the blond screamy one? And could you wrench this block out of my hand so it doesn't seem so weird without her?"

Luckily, Big D will be home from school soon and the noise level will rise a little. I'll be interested in seeing how the husband handles tonight without Smella. And I may have to call her on my break tonight to make sure she's okay.

I guess it's good to know that breaks from the babies are good, but I don't think I'm ready to give any of them up permanently. Yet.

How I met the husband, Part IV

Part I here.
Part II here.
Part III here.

Over the 4th of July, the husband drove up. He spent the weekend. We hung out with my friends, saw fireworks. When he left that Sunday afternoon to drive back, it wasn't nearly as sad though. We had made a plan.

Our plan was for me to get my crap together, he would fly up at the end of July, we'd go to Lollapalooza (I'm not sure why this was in the plan, but it was fun) and then he'd drive me, himself, and my crap back to Arkansas in a UHaul where I would live with him and his sweet roommate until we could get our own apartment.

Yeah, it was fucking insane.

The parents thought so. You've never seen four people lose their minds like that. Understandably so.

But it was the only way he and I would be able to work. To know if we were meant for each other. To know if we could get married so his mom would FINALLY shut up about the freaking premarital sex (that was kind of pushed aside once I moved down though. Because then all she talked about was LIVING IN SIN.)

The next few weeks I spent getting all my ducks in a row. Packing, reserving a truck, saving money like mad. I know at one point my parents called the husband behind my back (score one for mom!) and talked in depth about me moving down there with him. I'm not sure what the husband said exactly, but apparently it was good enough to ease my parent's minds a little.

We left on a Sunday afternoon. I'm pretty sure my dad threatened the husband's life if he didn't take care of me. My mom and younger sister sobbed uncontrollably while we tried to say goodbye.

As much as I adored the husband, and as much as I wanted to be with him, I don't think I quit crying until halfway through Illinois.

First Birthday

We partied hard yesterday. The weather was gorgeous, the kids had fun, and I have officially thrown my last first birthday party. Unless I get to help with one of my grandkid's. But I can barely handle the fact that I have a one-year-old, so let's not go there.

Pictures? Okay!


The Cake. The dark specks? That's what happens when you don't do a crumb coat first.

Boober's very own little cake.

First taste. The warm up. The red splotches are Fifth Disease. Nice for your birthday, no?

He enjoyed the cake. Pretty much that whole piece. We stopped him before he exploded blue everywhere.

He's cute, no?

So it's done. I have a lovely brown-eyed toddler now. Excuse me while I shuffle off to bathroom to sniffle a little.

I isn't as big a dummy as I thought

I retook the math placement test this morning and passed! No remedial math for me!

Now I get to figure out when to take anatomy and physiology. Apparently it's a popular class and fills up quickly. The Saturday morning and late evening classes are filled. This does not jibe with my plan, people. (Spellcheck just caught that I spelled physiology wrong. Maybe it's a damn sign.)

In the meantime, I have to figure out how to carve a cake into the shape of a cowboy boot. Wish me luck and send cake decorating vibes.

Dear Boobers,

In two days, you'll be one year old. I'm writing this now, because the next few days will be a flurry of baking cake, decorations, and hopefully tons of pictures of you devouring said cake.

You were a bit of a surprise. I hadn't really gotten comfortable in my role as a mom of two when you came along. But then as you grew, and then I grew, and we found out you were another boy, I came to grips with having a third. And as you squirmed, kicked, and hiccoughed over nine months, I came to adore you.

And then I actually had you. And then all the worries and fears vanished with your squishy face and only baby of mine with brown eyes.


You wound up being such a snuggler. You were the only baby I coslept with, and you made me regret that I didn't with the older two. Waking up in the morning and getting to nuzzle your warm baby head first thing in the morning was a highlight. When we eventually moved you out of our bedroom into the room you share with Smella, I was a little devastated. I missed your soft baby snores and your wiggling in the middle of the night.

You're also the most easy-going kid I know. And although lately, you've been hollering with things don't go your way, for the most part, you're go-with-the-flow.

You've already got quite the sense of humor. I walk into a room and you exclaim, "Dada!" And when corrected, you grin slyly and say it again. When I ask if you want to go bye bye, you haul your little butt as fast as you can to the door, waving the whole time. When I leave for work and ask for kisses, you run up to me and grab my legs, waiting for me to kiss your cheeks.

You are my little buddy. And while you were a huge surprise and a bit of a shocker, I wouldn't change anything. You are worth every worry and stretched dollar. You're my boobers, my chicken butt, my youngest baby boy. I can not believe this year is already over, but I can't wait to hang out with you next year.

I love you bunches,

Mama*

*I'll accept Dada for now though.

A Bug's Life

We have ants. The big ants and the small ones. The big ones seem to just wander around endlessly, looking for something. Occasionally, if I don't keep the bag tightly sealed, I find them taking up residence in the brown sugar. The little ones come from a certain spot and trail all the way to a small food source. Usually a drop of juice or a speck of cereal because I keep my kitchen OCD clean. Another favorite hangout is the cat's food bowl.

Needless to say, they are really grossing me out, and we're losing the battle. We keep Raid on hand for spot killing. I bought some (more) of those stupid ant bait trap things. And we smoosh one any time we see one. And since we have, I don't know, 400 gabillion, the kids have gotten in on the ant homicide. Because all creatures are lovely and deserve to live. Unless you're on my carpet, and then you're toast.

The other day, one of those huge ants was meandering by Big D. He reached out and smacked it a few times. "Did you get it?" I asked.

He looks down at the ant still trying to stumble away. He smacked it again. "Not yet. I think I just made him sore."

Happy Mutha's Day

I spent my Mother's Day at K's nephew's birthday party. This was after I'd opened my presents though: a box of chocolates from Big D (He offered to eat the raspberry cream ones for me because he knows I hate raspberry. Selfless, that kid.); a cake from Smella (She wanted to buy me party hats, but the husband steered her a little.); a CD from the husband (Spoon. The album title cracks me up.); and slobbery kisses and probably a poopy diaper from Boobers (What? He's only 11 ¾ months old.).

My mom? I baked her a cherry pie. And the sister and I went in on a gift card together so the mom could buy lots and lots of cookbooks. The mom adores pies and cookbooks.

It rained and was cold all day Mother's Day, but we had fun. I mean, who doesn't love a good face-slamming cake fight amongst adults during a seven-year-old's birthday party? And during musical chairs when a dad yells out to his five-year-old who can't find an empty chair, "You're out, ya loser!"? I mean, that's what makes parties for me.

K's family? A little whacked.

I got lots of good ideas to use for Boober's party coming up this Sunday. Like after you've grilled your hotdogs, make sure you put them on the styrofoam tray that the raw hamburger meat came in. Yum-O! Birthday cake, ice cream, and a touch of E. coli!

I'm still sorry I forgot the camera.

How I met the husband, Part III

Part I here.
Part II here.

Around the second week of June, I flew down to Arkansas. It was only the second time I'd been on a plane, and the first time I'd done it by myself. My mom took me to the airport early Sunday morning and waited with me until I boarded. Um, if you ask my mom now, she remembers none of that. Not driving me to the airport, not the week I was gone, not the time they picked me up afterwards. Nothing. It scares me how the mind can totally erase things it wants to.

I checked into a motel, I met his roommate, and then we drove to meet his parents for the first time. I guess this is where I mention that his mother, my now mother-in-law, is a total whackadoodle. Even now, eleven years later, I still think so. She insisted that I not stay with him at his apartment. She insisted it wouldn't be prudent. My parents said that yeah, you're 18 and 21, but be prudent too, sure. But more on that later.

We had dinner at his parents house, and for the most part, it was uncomfy. His mom talked a lot about sin and God, woo-boy, the sin, and I was young enough to ignore most of it. I didn't get warm, snuggly vibes from her, but she didn't out-and-out call me names, so it was okay, I guess. In the car, I told the husband that I wasn't so sure his mom dug me all that much. He grabbed my hand and said, "Yeah, it's okay though, I still love you." (Yes, that was the FIRST time. But you know what? The husband doesn't remember it!)

Okay, so yeah, I suppose it looks a little bad to have a sleepover with a boy in his apartment when you've just met, blah, blah. So I did get a motel room. His mom thought it'd only be right. My mom sort of agreed. But no one said anything about him spending the night with me! Specifics, people! They change everything! So sometime that night, around 3 in the morning, while we were honestly sleeping, the phone rings in my motel room. I answer in my sleepy voice, and it's his MOTHER. (Just to clarify again, I'm 18 at this point and he's 21. That's 18 plus 3.) I really can't remember exactly what she said, but it was something along the lines of "Don't be a whore. You're being a whore! SIN SIN SIN! Premarital sex WHORE!" Then she asked that I pass the phone to the husband where I imagine he heard something like, "She's a whore. You may be a whore PREMARITAL sex WHORE sin sin." You know, something like that.

She actually wound up calling my mom the next day and asking her if there was anything they could dooooo to stop all this sinny whoring around. Dude, we were of legal age. Legally, there wasn't anything stopping us from getting our whore on. That didn't stop the mother-in-law from trying to break us me down mentally though. She tried several times just that week to talk us out of...I don't know what she wanted us to stop doing. I mean, from what I gather, she was just really worried about us boning without a marriage license.

Despite his mother, I still liked him. A lot. So much so that I sobbed all the way home on the plane. And at my layover in St. Louis, I called him. Because I had forgotten to tell him at the airport that I loved him.

Listy McListerson

1. It isn't really helping when my two-year-old is being a complete and utter butthead in Target and you cluck your tongue and say, "They're a handful at this age, aren't they?"

2. I hate magicians. And magic shows. You know it's fake, I know it's fake, so therefore it isn't all that impressive. And why can't you just tell me HOW IT'S DONE?

3. In a week and one day, I'll have a one-year-old. While I don't want anymore children, it still majorly bums me out that he's my very last one-year-old.

4. Our stimulus refund check dohickey came today. We have to go out later and buy a lawnmower. I hate buying unfun, practical things with free money. I also hate doing what George Bush wants. But I DO like saying "stimulate the economy." It sounds dirty.

5. Did I ever follow-up on Operation Potty Train Smella? She's completely trained. Pee, poop, day and night. I can't believe how quickly she caught on and how proud I am of her. But then she runs around like a total maniac in the shoe aisle (see #1), and I figure something ought to be easy.

Coworker of the Day

So this isn't about one of my coworkers, it's one of the husband's. And maybe I should say "Former Coworker of the Day."

The phone rings at the husband's work, and it's for L. After he finishes the call, he tells T the manager that he has to go pick up his stepdaughter at school because she's sick. T tells him that's fine. But before L leaves, he picks up the phone and from what T could hear on his end, sounds like he calls his mom, "I have to go pick her up. You can't do it? Okay, okay, I'll go. Yeah, no problem, love you, bye." Except something happens when he hangs up the phone, and it rings again. The secretary answers, and it's the local time and temperature number playing its recording. She redials the number he just dialed to make sure, and yes, he called the local time and temperature line. LIAH!

I guess that he's had to leave work early several times before, and everyone at the husband's work is pretty tired of it, so they let him go but call the temp agency he works for to let them know they won't be needing him anymore. The temp agency handles the rest of it for them.

This should be the end of the story, but no. L calls the office later and talks to T the manager. He had called to apologize for leaving work like that, but hey, man to man, "I pooped my pants and really had to go home."

T, because he is the manager and he's Very Professional says, "Well, thanks for calling me, L, and I thank you for your honesty."

But dude. You still don't have a job. You a) lied, and then b) lied about pooping your pants, or c) ACTUALLY pooped your pants.

What does Obama, aluminum foil, and the Heimlich Maneuver have in common?

I took two babies to vote in the Indiana primary today. Our precinct votes at a retirement home, so we were delayed several times for little old ladies telling Smella that they loved her pigtails and to pinch Boober's cheeks. Luckily, the babies took it in stride, I filled in the bubbles, fed the ballot machine, and finished my civic duty.

When we got home, I checked some email and picked up the house a little. Boobers wandered by, gnawing on a ball of aluminum foil that I'd put in the trash a bit before. Did I mention that Boobers is a Dumpster diver? He usually gets three squares plus a snack or two a day, but he apparently can't resist crumpled aluminum foil, bits of leftover breakfast and a slurp or two of Diet Coke left in a bottle.

So as he mosied by, I snatched the foil from him and removed the small piece he had ripped off from his mouth. Then I noticed that he was coughing and gagging, like he still had a piece in there. I scooped him up, checked his mouth again, and couldn't see anything. I sat him on my lap and patted his back a little, and he started really coughing and gagging. Checked again, and there was a little piece waaaay back in his throat. I knew better than to try to reach in there and get it, so I had that baby flipped upside down faster than you could blink while I pounded on his back. The small piece finally fell out, and I up righted him and calmed him down. He was rather upset by being flopped upside down and beat on a little.

I haven't been that scared since Big D tried to eat one of those black ant traps when he was about that age (Poison Control says there's not enough poison to hurt anyone in there). I'm still amazed with how in control I am when that kind of shit happens. Oh, I curse like a drunken sailor while it's happening, and I fall apart later, but in the moment I actually remember what to do without being hysterical. But also really helpful? Smella stood by the whole time this was going on asking, "Does he need a dwink? Does he need a dwink, mommy?"

Give your babies sloppy smooches and for thelovagawd, hide your foil balls, will ya?

How I met the husband, Part II

Woo! Part II! You can read Part I here.

I skipped school that Friday, because well, I skipped school a lot back then, and it was prom night later. My mom wasn't okay with it, but went along anyway (and yes, I'm fully aware and thankful and even apologetic for the heartburn I caused my parents back then. I wasn't a complete hellion, but I sure did give them a run for their money). I picked up the husband the next morning, and we made a day of doing last minute things. Picking up his tux, getting corsages, picking up my paycheck at work, that kind of stuff. By then, some of the awkwardness had worn off, and it was really pretty comfortable just hanging out all day.

We drove my 1986 Ford F-150 to the prom. Well, I let the husband drive it. I hated that truck with a passion, but the husband thought it was great. If I have any regrets, it's that we didn't dance nearly enough at prom. He wasn't really drunk enough to dance, and I wasn't nearly forceful enough to make him, so we kind of just sat around looking pretty and chatting. I have my prom dress still, and I think I could still fit in it. I want a re-prom.

After prom, we grabbed Taco Bell and headed back to his motel room. I know, right? But it was okay, I promise. Yes, there was that first kiss and some making out, but really, we just sat and talked and watched TV. Until 5 AM. I didn't really have a clear cut curfew that night, but I'm thinking 5 AM wasn't it. It was almost daylight when I tried to sneak back in the house. My mom was waiting up. I think I may have told her hi before slinking back to my room. I don't remember her saying anything.

We spent Saturday and Sunday morning together. By Sunday afternoon, when I had to drive him to the airport, I was hooked. I knew I loved him, I knew he was as sweet and intelligent and funny as he was online. I knew I didn't want him to go, and I knew that I would miss him. He promised to call me as soon as he landed, and I went home cry.

Luckily, I had enough to keep me busy. I graduated a couple of weeks later, and we had a huge graduation party to plan. The husband and I still chatted online and called whenever possible. And then I had to plan when I would leave Indiana to visit him in Arkansas.

I is dummy

Look. I've never been great at math. It all got a little hairy after pre-algebra. Plain old algebra was iffy. Geometry, calculus, trigonometry? CHA. Not happening. Now add that to the fact that I haven't really done any kind of that math in eleven years or so, and we've got a problem.

I took a college placement test this morning and wound up four points away from being able to take the college level math I need. DER. So I either take Math 050 or wait for two weeks, study my ass off, and retake the math portion of the placement test. Anyone have any good study sites for dumbdumbs?

I aced the reading and writing portions though. I even impressed my advisor. *curtsies* But you know she got to those math scores and was like, whoa. I have a total idiot savant on my hands.

Customer of the Day

"I have a coupon for a free small nonfat, sugar-free latte. Can I have a white mocha?"

Um, no?

"But I don't like the sugar-free syrups."

Um, I'm not fond of Richard Marx, inflation, or in-laws. So?

"You don't have sugar-free white mocha?"

No. We have sugar-free mocha though.

*big sigh* "I guess I'll just have sugar-free cinnamon latte then."

It only gets worse

K will be closing on her house 54 miles away on May 30. It's official. I'm looking into getting Vonage (woohoo hoo hoo hoo woohoo hoo hoo hoo) and their free unlimited long distance.

But the worst part? The part that I'm not sure I could live with if I were her? There's no Target. The closest Target will be an hour drive away. How does she expect to survive, people? The delicious $1 bins. The cute baby clothes. The hundreds of rows of wonderful Target goodness. Gone. Just a Wal*Mart 30 minutes away and a crappy Piggly Wiggly or something. Gah. I'm not even sure I can visit her knowing I'll be that far away from a Target.

Please keep her in your thoughts.

How I met the husband, Part I

I've been meaning to type out the whole story of how the husband and I met, moved in with each other, and married. Then I get all overwhelmed and post something else. I might have to do installments of this, but we'll see. Are we ready? Here we go.

Sometime in February of 1997, we were on mIRC in a chatroom called chaos. Or #chaos, I guess. It was a game run by a bot and it was like the board game Outburst. My screen name was aenima because Tool had just released that album, and I may have been slightly obsessed. The husband was flowwolf, which I thought at the time (and still do, sorry babe) was pretty lame. He private messaged me one night, saying that he liked Tool and that album and my screen name. Innocent, no?

I played #chaos just about every night, and most of the time the husband did too. We would chat and play for hours. We learned everything about each other during those chats. He was in college, living with a roommate, working full-time. I was a senior in high school getting ready to graduate in May, living at home, and working part-time.

Eventually I was logging onto #chaos nightly, but not so much to play the game. The husband would be there to meet me, and we'd do the chat thing for hours and hours. I'm not sure how I managed to function back then, because there would be some nights I'd only get a couple of hours of sleep before having to go to school. Oh hell, that's not true. I know how. I skipped A LOT of school that senior year, and study halls were just MEANT for napping.

We chatted nightly for a couple of months, and at some point we started talking over the phone. I don't remember who or why or the specifics of it though (sad!), and I know at some point I mentioned that prom was coming up and I didn't have a date for it. He mentioned casually that he'd love to take me. I pshawed him, because hi? you're 600 miles away? The husband was persistent though. We sat down and chatted about logistics. He went to a local tailor to have his measurements taken, and I took the emailed numbers to a place to rent his tux. He bought a plane ticket and I procured a motel room for him.

In the meantime? My parents FREAKED the fuck out. Which honestly, I can't blame them right now. I was 18, he was 21. He could've been a murderous, stalkery asshole from hell from the Internet, no less. They calmed down once I promised the could meet him and talk to him and judge him.

Prom was on a Friday night, and he flew in that Thursday afternoon before. I made my friend K come with me to the airport to pick him up. Now, I'd love to sit here and tell you that I soon as I laid eyes on him it was love at first sight, but honestly, the whole thing was slightly awkward. Ask K, she'll tell you. K dropped us at my house, and it was more awkwardness as he met my parents, some more awkwardness when we went out to eat dinner and see a movie.

I dropped him off at his motel room that night with the promise that I'd be there to pick him up the next morning to pick up his tux and the corsages. But as I drove home, even with all the awkwardness, I knew I adored him. He was cute, well-mannered and sweet, but had a smartass side too. He was everything he seemed online and over the phone, and as it all turned out, he wound up making a fine prom date.

Yep, we're doing installments.

Read this

While surfing around, I came across this blog. It made me sob uncontrollably. You know, that ugly snarfling cry. This guy's amazing, and his daughter is absolutely lovely.

BFF

I've known my bestest friend forever since eighth grade. She was newish to school, and when another friend invited her to sit at our regular table during lunch, I didn't like her. Thought she was a total snob and rather bitchy. But she ate lunch with us everyday, and then I had a few other classes with her, and the more I talked to her, I realized that hey, maybe I did like her. Maybe she really wasn't a bitchy snob, just kind of quiet until you get her riled up. Because hoo-boy, she can get riled up.

We haven't been apart since.

There were sleepovers in the beginning, mingling of siblings and families (hers is award-winning crazy), and later, some underage drinking, some aimless driving around asking, "I don't know, what do you wanna do?" and then boys, marriage, babies, new houses... We've done them all together.

K currently lives 2.91 miles away (thanks, Mapquest). I like this fact. And no, it's not that we're at each other's houses constantly. We have six kids between us, two jobs, two husbands, a house apiece to clean, trumpet lessons, soccer, etc, etc. So no, there's not much visiting. We try to meet up every other Thursday with another mutual friend and we also talk daily on the phone. We're there for all six kids' birthdays, Christmas, our birthdays, and the occasional midnight freak-out when one of us pops up unexpectedly pregnant.

K is moving soon. Well, as long as the house passes inspection. And I'm happy for her. Mostly. I'd be totally happy save for the fact that this house will be an hour away. 53.72 miles. She will be long-distance to phone. We talk every.single.day. I don't even have a long-distance provider on my land line. I don't randomly pop in on her very often, but I can if I want. 54 miles away? Not so much. I'm going to have save money for gas just to visit and rollover minutes just to call her.

I'm going to miss her. And I can almost guarantee that since she's not easy to hop in a car and run down the road to see, I'm going to miss hanging out with her. She promises to "drive into town" as often as possible, but really, with the above mentioned responsibilities, that's easier said than done. She is truly the only person who fully understands me, gets me, and never judges. We can finish each other's sentences, she's watched me give birth three times.

I'm hoping, fingers crossed, that nothing changes between us. I'm not sure I could take it.

1, 2, 3

1. I was going to go on and on about how Smella might really be potty trained for good, seeing as how she has gone to the bathroom to do all her business by herself for the past couple of days, and how all morning she managed to poop! in her potty too several times. But then she woke up from her nap this afternoon and pooped on the bathroom floor. *sigh*

2. Yay for antibiotics! My bladder feels 100% better. Which is great, because Big D was complaining his ear hurt and was sort of plugged up this morning.

3. This list will only be three things long. I'm freaking tired and there's a rice krispie treat calling my name. Hear it?

Boobers: All Gussied Up

My mother-in-law sent me a box of clothes for Boobers sometime late last year. Most of it was too big, so I stored the box away. I found that box today. Wow. There were these three little outfits, I believe they're called john-johns, that uh, are so, uh...feminine. People. They have smocking and peter pan collars.

So I decided to dress Boobers up, take pictures for posterity, and show him off.

Up first, a lovely green gingham faux overall with what I believe are golf clubs on the smocking over a white short sleeve shirt with a hah-yuge peter pan collar:









Next is a solid blue john-john with sailboats on the smocking and that collar again:






And our last outfit because all this dressing up was making the Boobers really, really cranky, a blue gingham with fishes! on the smocking, and yes, a big-ass collar:




And I do mean cranky:

So these are kind of cute. They'd be a lot cuter on a little southern boy trying to snag himself a lovely southern bell, I do declare, but I'm pretty sure here in Indiana, people would just snicker.

None of this changes the fact that he's the cutest freaking baby boy ever and ohmygod, don't you just want to scoop him up and smoosh his little cheeks?!

Customer of the Day

So when you spill a little of your venti frappuccino on yourself, all by yourself, don't glare at me. Be grateful I brought you a damn towel to mop it up. And don't passive-aggressively say, "So you want to make another one, or should I just take this one?" Even though that frappuccino is just fine, even though you only spilled about a tablespoon of it, I'll make you another one. Oh yes. But I'll also think you are the biggest asshole this side of the county line. And I'll probably blog about it too. Asshole.

Oh, and when your smartass kid says, "It's probably because you put too much whip cream on it," please tell him to shut up. I'm pretty sure the weight of whipped cream didn't make you fumble your drink. Seriously, if you can't handle 24 ounces of cold blended beverage, order something smaller.

Did I mention you're an asshole?

Shaken, not stirred

The husband and I were awoken about 5:40 this morning to an earthquake. Being that I've lived my whole life in Indiana, save for that one year in Arkansas, I've never had the pleasure of being shaken awake. So at first, I was wondering who the hell drove into the house. Because that is just not called for. I grabbed the husband's shoulder, because that fixes everything, you know. And since he has only lived in Arkansas and Indiana also, he asks, "Is that an earthquake?"

After the rumbling died down, he turned on the TV. All the local news anchors had peed all over themselves (man, I can't get away from it), and a few of the male anchors were sporting woodies in the excitement. The husband came back to bed, confirmed it was indeed an earthquake, and promptly fell back asleep.

When I got up at 8:00, the local news was STILL on. The Today Show is supposed to come on at 7:00, but there was Earthquake News to Be Covered. I mean, someone in Brownsburg suffered a scratch, dammit.

I'd be all excited too except for the fact that they act this way during "tornadic activity" too.

Notes from Puddleville

1. Smella's not really doing so great on the potty training front. Yes, I know it's only been two days, but I'm over it already. And wow. I had not the faintest idea how much urine a teeny tiny 28 pound baby girl could produce. Oh, and it is really a lot of fun when you hear, "Oh, boy. Oh boy!" realize that's the "I gotta pee" call, go running to find the toddler, and then actually slip in a puddle of piss. And then look up to see tiny pee footprints down your hallway. No, really, a BLAST!

2. Speaking of peepee, I have a bladder infection. I think it started Monday, but I hate going to the doctor, so I tried to drown it in liquids and hope. Didn't work. I now have orders to drown it in liquids and an antibiotic. Nice.

3. I have to plan some kind of yummy birthday dinner and cake for the husband on Saturday. He'll eat anything and is so not picky, so he's no help whatsoever. Wonder how he'd like lasagna with a side of pee?

4. My mom came to watch the kids today while I finally hauled myself to the doctor. She likes to call it "tinkling." MY LORD, I hate that phrase. It's what she used when my sister and I were little, and I hated it then. She knows my hatred of it, so all day she was telling Smella, "Do you have to tink---pee?" I love that woman.

5. Did I mention pee? Because I've had several puddles of it all.over.the.house. I feel like I may be drowning in it. *glub*

The peepee dance

So I just up and decided to give potty training a shot today with my two-year-old. Oh, hell, I've been dreading thinking about it for some time now because she shows all the signs and girls are supposed to be waaaay easier than boys and I just don't have enough stuff to do. We've had the pottychair sitting in the kids' bathroom for several months now to, you know, acquaint her with it. She's sat on it a few times and played around, enough so that's she's not too freaked out about it.

When I asked her if she'd like to big a Big Girl now and wear Big Girl Underwear just like mommy this morning, she politely declined. I reminded her that if she wanted to wear Big Girl Underwear that she wouldn't have to wear diapers and I'd never have to bug her about changing her diapers. That piqued her interest a little. Smella really hates to be interrupted during Oswald. The whole thing was sealed when I told her that her bestest little guy friend was using the potty and wearing Big Boy Underwear (c'mon, all the other kids are doing it!). I let her pick out a pair of Little Mermaid undies (which ohmygawd, baby girl underwear is SO cute) and she's been dry for about two hours so far. I ask approximately every three seconds if she has to pee and she says, "No fank you." I figure the first time she pees all over Ariel's head she will have a complete and utter meltdown, but I'm hoping this takes. I'll only have one baby in diapers then.

Oh, and she was looking quite fetching this morning in a Beauty and the Beast t-shirt, Little Mermaid undies and hooker shoes. And crazy hair.

Lots and lots of crazy hair.

Happy Tax Day, baby

Today the husband turns 32. I've known him for eleven whole years. I met him in February 1997, a couple of months before he turned 21. Since we met on the Internet (which is a whole 'nother story), we really only communicated through IRC, email and the occasional phone call back then. He went out that night to party hard, and I remember being a little worried for him and a little jealous and sad that I couldn't be there. I adored him even after only knowing him for two months, but since it seems a little, I don't know, impossible to adore someone you've never even seen in the flesh, I kept that to myself. But he came back safe and sound if not a little hung-over, and we eventually moved in together, married, and have celebrated all birthdays together since (I'll have to write out the whole sordid tale later).

So 32 isn't one of those huge milestone birthdays, but it makes me think of his 21st and how long ago that was and how stupid and young we both were and how I absolutely wanted to be with him but didn't want to tell him and scare the hell out of him, because once again, two months over a computer, blah, blah, blah. I still adore him, but luckily, I don't have to be scared to tell him now.

Happy birthday. I love you bunches. Ya dork.

I wanna take a nap for the next 17 years

I really don't know what my problem is. I just had three whole glorious days off, plenty of rest, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. So here I sit, with a house to clean, butts to wipe, and dinner to plan, but I just can't. I only have three and a half hours before I have to be at work, and I can't make myself get up and DO anything except count down the minutes. I feel tired and overwhelmed. I feel like crying. I feel like I never have time to do anything. The husband helps out a ton, but it never feels like it's enough. Which pains me to say that, because I know he helps. If he weren't here, I'm pretty sure nothing would get done, ever.

I'm tired of having to work out of the home. I have enough to take care of AT home. Three kids, homework, dinners, lunches, mopping, endless piles of laundry, toilets to clean... But I have to work. I carry all the health insurance on the kids. We have a mortgage, two car payments, debts...blah, blah.

I don't think I've ever had depression before, but I think I may have a touch of it now. Between the kids, work, and money, I never feel satisfied or like I'm doing a good job. And it feels those three things are sitting on my chest, crushing me. All I do is worry and then worry about worrying and then try to hide that worry so others don't.

And I only work out of the house about 20 hours a week. Not even full-time. I don't know if I'd be able to function if I had to work full-time. Many props to those who do it, because this part-time barista, full-time mom, half-assed housekeeper is just about at her limit with what she has.

Whew.

I finally had that much-needed break (shout-out to the husband for suffering through three kids all alone). It was cooling and refreshing and I feel so much better. Or maybe it was just the fact that it was raining. I dunno.

I'm not sure the husband realizes how much I need to escape like that, because he occasionally gets, I don't know, grumbly, about me leaving for the night. But I ate a grown-up meal at a relatively grown-up restaurant and I didn't have to share. If I had ordered something hot, I would've eaten it at that temp (shout-out to lettuce wraps though. Not hot, but still delicious). I had real grown-up conversation with two women I absolutely adore. I come back after a few hours out and actually miss the offspring and husband. I sometimes want to sneak into the offsprings' bedrooms and nuzzle their heads. But I refrain. Because they're asleep and it's SO rude to be woken up by your mom nuzzling your head. Seriously.

I have two more days off of work (shout-out to Becca the schedule maker. I needed three days off in a row) before I start a five day stretch with another three days off. The weather's gorgeous today, so we're heading out to bask in it. I'm hoping to birthday shop for the husband tomorrow and not eat myself silly because I've lost four pounds since Tuesday morning (shout-out to Weight Watchers, I guess?). Back to the grindstone Sunday, but for now, I'm out.

Random Hump Day Thoughts

1. I'm going out tomorrow with girlfriends. It'll be the first time in several weeks, and I can't remember the last time I was so excited. Probably the last time I went out with girlfriends.

2. Smella is hollering right now because the doll clothes she's using as a hat won't stay perched on the top of her head. I think I might choke her until her head pops off. Then she won't have a need for a hat.

3. My job is really getting on my nerves. The boat is sinking it seems, and they are scrambling trying to find something to save it. "We'll try retraining the employees!" Yes, because I've worked there a year and a half and still can't make a mocha to save my life. "NO! New doughnuts!" Hi? Dunkin' Donuts? Your big competition? They have coffee. And um, doughnuts too. "Nonono, a new blend of COFFEE! That's the ticket!" Oh. So we can brew the same.exact.coffee every single day. Like, um, Dunkin' Donuts. I see. This all solidifies the fact that I must return to school and get a grown up job.

4. I'm back on the diet bandwagon. I have to because my freaking clothes aren't fitting so well. And since I WILL NOT buy a bigger size, I must shrink. Yay ricecakes.

5. I'm hoping something inspiring happens between now and tomorrow, because this post? Kinda lame.

Listy McListerson

1. When you order your drink nonfat, and I ask if you still want the whipped cream, I'm not doing it to make you feel guilty. I'm just checking. Although I will say, ordering your drink nonfat doesn't cancel out the calories of the whipped cream. Much like ordering a Diet Coke doesn't cancel out the calories in your Baconator.

2. I really wish it were more Springy for Spring Break.

3. I've taught Smella to say "pardon me" when she burps as opposed to "excuse me." It's hilarious. I'm going to teach her "Onward Howard!" next. Just for fun.

4. The Baconator? The Baconator has six (SIX!) slices of bacon.

5. Boobers has learned to walk at ten months old. And he's actually walking really well. When I leave for work I ask for kisses, and he'll actually toddle over and let me smooch all over his soft baby face while giggling. It's absofreakinlutely adorable. If you ask for him to give kisses, he licks your face and occasionally rubs his sharp baby teeth on your cheek. It's absofreakinlutely scary for a minute.

The one where we were almost taken down by a spider

I came in from work, said hey to the husband, did our small pleasantries, et cetera. He mentioned that there was a spider over by the couch earlier but that it had left when he came back with his paper towel to smoosh it. I really hate spiders. Like, a lot. Like screamy shrieky girly a lot. I voiced displeasure, but you know, I was still going to be able to sleep okay.

Here's where my husband loses ALL credibility. He calls, "Hey, it's back. C'mere." I walk into the living room and on the wall, I find this:

DO YOU SEE HOW BIG IT IS? I guess it's hard to tell, but we're talking larger than a half dollar. I'm going with three inches long. We're not talking about your little "ew, a spider" spider. We're talking ohmyfuckinggodRUN spider. After I died, I snapped a picture and then tap danced and screamed at the husband to killitkillitkillit. And seriously, if I'd known it was that big, I wouldn't have slept tonight. That thing could take down a small baby, WHICH I HAVE.

This however makes me feel snuggly and safe:

Oh? And the best way to murder large spiders who take down small children and pets? Squirt a shot of ant killer (because up until now, they were our biggest problems. *snort*) at it, watch it slowly lower itself to the floor by a strand of web (just like Spidey!) and then whack it multiple times with a shoe until it curls it's legs up like that in defeat. Shud.der.

Bouncertown

We took the kids to a friend's son's birthday party last night. It's an indoor place with tons of those inflatable bouncy type germ infestations. No one came home with a concussion, just a sugar high and bad hair. The germ manifestations are yet to be seen.

My baby girl went down the tallest slide by herself. I was scared she'd get up there and chicken out and I'd have to send Big D up to rescue her, but she did it! And then promptly announced "AGAIN!"

Here she is driving. I love that you don't even have to put a token in for her to be amused.

Birthday Crew.

We actually had to take the Birthday Crew to a nearby Burger King because Bouncertown doesn't allow you to bring in a birthday cake unless you fork out tons of cash for one of their Uberspecialwayoverpricedcraptastic Party Packages. To all of the patrons and employees at BK last night, we apologize for the screaming (sorry, it was late and hello! we gave them CAKE), whistle blowing (gotta love goodie bags), cake smearing (Spiderman), and bubble blowing (goodie bags are FUN).

Customer of the Day

"I need a windy mocha frappuccino."

"A..uh...what? A tall?"

"A windy. Frappuccino."

"Um. A small?"

"The largest. Biggest. Windy."

"Oooooh. A Venti. Yes, sure, coming right up."

Eater Buddy

We're not religious at all, in fact I think I could be labeled as a heathen, but still, chocolate bunnies and marshmallow eggs are fun. Smella and Big D had a lovely time coloring eggs, and Saturday night when I reminded Smella that the Easter Bunny would be coming that night and dropping off some baskets, she nearly crapped her pants at the thought. "The Eater Buddy? To my house? Eater basket?!?!" It was almost better than Santa, though I have no idea why. Maybe because bunnies are way less threatening than some strange, fat, hairy guy in a horribly red suit? (Because the mention of "would you like to go see Santa?" makes Smella emit ear-piercing shrieks of protest.) Either way, Eater was nice, and the best bunny present was the $1 package of bubbles. My floors are a little sticky, but Smella has finally learned how to blow her own bubbles.

I hope they like me!

I actually applied for community college the other day. Now I'm waiting to hear if I'm accepted. *snort* Since the hardest question was "Fill in your address" I think I have a pretty good shot! I'm really excited and kind of wished I'd done this years ago. But I look back at myself graduating high school, and wild horses couldn't have dragged me back to a school. I was so tired of it. I told myself I'd take a bit off and then go, but stuff happened, and then kids, and then a car payment or two, and a mortgage... I'm still not sure going back now is the best time either, but I'm afraid no time will be. And I really see myself as a L&D nurse. I know I'd be excellent at it. I couldn't say that when I was 18.

And I bet I get to buy school supplies. For myself. Pens and paper and notebooks and erasers and three-ring binders! *squeeee!*

Customer of the Day

There's a lady that comes in pretty much every night. I think she's on her way to or from work because she's usually dressed in scrubs. I don't think she's much older than I am, and she may actually be younger, but she always calls me "dear." It cracks me up. If I see her drive up, I say hey, want your medium non-fat, no-whip, stirred white mocha? We do this the other night, and when she gets around to the window, she's giggling and says, "My four year old is impressed! He said, 'She's so smart! You didn't even have to tell her what you wanted!'"

See? I'm impressive to four year olds at least!

Customer of the Day

We have this lady who regularly comes in. And when I say regularly, I mean like six times a day. During the winter, she orders a large, six-pump sugar-free vanilla, 2% milk, six Splenda, extra hot, no foam latte. Summer is a large sugar-free caramel coffee light blended drink with extra caramel drizzle on top.

So other than her drinks being absolutely stupid, she also orders them as "Bitchface* latte" or "Bitchface Frappuccino" and expects whoever is in drive-thru to know what the hell she's talking about, and lordamercy if you happen to not know what that means. She spends $30 a day at this joint, you had better know what she's talking about! Or she'll be all pissy and NOT leave that $1 tip!

I've worked at this same location for a year and a half, and even though I totally know the sound of her voice, and I'm sure she knows mine, I make sure I don't know what a Bitchface latte is, just so she has to tell me exactly how many Splendas she wants. I know she hates me for it, but I can't help it. Sometimes that little power trip is the only thing that helps me make it through the day.

*Bitchface isn't really her name. Just what I call her. In my head.

The First "Customer of the Day"

Nice looking middle-aged guy walks up and orders a tall, decaf, non-fat, sugar-free caramel latte. I take his money and slide over to the espresso machine and finish his drink. When I hand him his cup, I repeat the name of the drink.

"Wow. Now that you say it, it's probably not going to be very good at all."

"Well, between you and me, we do call those no-fun lattes."

I'm back. Ish.

I knew I wouldn't post regularly, but I haven't given up completely. I wound up having that third baby. We named him Boobers, and I really can't describe how grateful I am that we had that little rendezvous sometime in August '06. He's the sweetest baby and totally worth everything. I now know why the babies of families are incredibly screwed up. If he would let me, I would swaddle his butt and nuzzle his fuzzy baby head all day long. But at ten months old, he balks at that. Pfft.

So while I throughly enjoy my job as a coffee slinger, actually Coffee Slinger with Keys as I was promoted to a shift manager late last year, I'm thinking of heading back to school this fall to become a labor/delivery nurse. I'm only going to be taking a couple of classes a semester, so an associates degree is only sixteen years away. I'm just hoping to be done by the time my oldest is ready for college.

I'm going to post more, dammit. I'm going to try to post a "Customer of the Day" post. Which might be hard considering I don't work daily, but it's something. But I read several blogs on a daily basis and think, um, I could do that. I could totally be a household name of at least two people or so. So wish me luck. Onward!