What I've been reading this summer

My mom, who shares my obsession with pouring over cookbooks, bought me the holy grail of cookbooking:

There are things I've always wanted to try to make but didn't want to just randomly pick some recipe from the Internet, I don't care how many good reviews it had:

I *heart* mac and cheese and adore trying new versions of it.


Okay, honestly, I've never tried Saag Paneer. But I want to. And I want to try my own hand at it. I love that I now have a trustworthy recipe for it.

And then some recipes are really, really interesting to read, but I'm pretty sure my local Kroger doesn't carry some of the ingredients:

Ostriches will totally peck your eyes out if you get close enough.

I'm thinking several dinner parties are in my near future. Because it's no fun cooking if you don't have an audience. Much like blogging! And then I can totally turn around and blog about cooking.

I'll be sure to thank the mom for the multiple gifts.

Charlotte has taken up residence

Big D's always been a bit of a sleepwalker. Several months ago, after he'd been in bed for a couple of hours, we heard him banging around in his room. When we opened the door to check on him, he had dropped trou and was standing at his nightstand, peeing on it. He never really woke up, and so we steered him back to bed and cleaned up the mess.

It looks like Big D will be keeping us on our toes at night. Sometime around 2 AM this morning, we were woken up by Big D saying, "Uh, there's a spider in my room?" The husband jumped up, and as he grabbed a wad of tissue to kill said spider (Seriously. I already knew Big D was full of shit, but the husband, he's gullible), Big D says, "Yeah, he built a web on my bed!"

The way all this was said, dreamy and quiet, I knew Big D wasn't fully awake. I followed the husband into Big D's room to find...nothing. Just a slept-in bed scattered with a couple of Matchbox cars. We told him that hey, looks like the spider's gone, big guy, how 'bout we go back to sleep? And in his sleepy haze, Big D agreed and climbed back into bed.

The husband and I giggled all the way back to our bed. As long as no one's hurt or really upset, Big D's middle-of-the-night escapades are hilarious. If for nothing else, just so we can ask Big D, "How'd YOU sleep last night?"

I think they grow overnight

As the husband mentioned so eloquently in his last post, my mom kept the kids overnight for us on Friday. We haven't spent a night alone together since Thanksgiving, when we begged my mom to keep them so we could head out at four in the morning to shop on Black Friday. Let this be a lesson for those who want multiple children: it makes finding free childcare difficult.

We had more fun than two parents of three in their 30's and almost 30 should have. There was eating a restaurant that little people aren't even allowed into. There was Velveeta cheese dip with tuna (I gagged while typing that) and lots of laughing until someone (okay, me) almost peed her pants. And when we finally were done, spent, so tired we could barely walk, we dragged ourselves home and into bed and fell asleep. There was no staticky baby monitor in the background, no tip-toeing, just crawling into bed and crashing. It was lovely.

We slept in. With no one to feed breakfast to, no diapers, just sleep. Until 9:30. Yeah. It was all the sleeping in we could muster. We're so used to getting up early, that even being up until 3:00 AM the night before couldn't make us sleep until noon. Who needs more than six hours of sleep? THE WEAK, THAT'S WHO.

After we ate a leisurely breakfast together, we went to fetch our babies. They were glowing happiness, having been spoiled rotten by grandma and grandpa. We listened as my mom told us how sweet and behaved they were and how much fun she had had with them in the eighteen hours we were gone.

I watched them playing in the front yard, chasing and laughing, still on a grandparent's house high, feeling refreshed and calmer than I had in a long time. So when Big D ran up to me, pink-cheeked and grinning, and asked, "Did you miss us? Did you?" I could honestly say that yes, I had.

Customer of the Day

It's been a SUPER FUN week at work, what with all the dumb dumbs having trouble navigating the drive-through and such. And last night was no exception! Rudeness and stupidity abounds!

See, most public places open at a certain time, and then in turn, close at a certain time. Oh, I know there are plenty of place that never close, but I don't work for one of those places. The place I work for closes every night. At the same time. For those who don't know what time that is, it's posted on the door. The door you open to come in.

Last night, nearly ten minutes after our scheduled close time (because people love coming to an establishment three minutes before close, therefore delaying close), I was walking to the door, keys in hand, to lock it. At the same time, a younger couple was walking up. I met them at the door, apologetic, but READY TO GO HOME. I told them, sorry, we closed at 11, and smiled to hide my annoyance.

*BIG SIGH* I can't even get a tea?

Oh, sorry, we already dumped the tea for the day.

As she turned to walk away, I told her we had another location a few minutes away that was open 24 hours. She sneered back that she didn't want to drive all the way there for a stupid tea.

Well then, I guess she didn't want that tea very damn bad after all. But my biggest question is, who the hell did she think she was? Why should I keep a store open just for her? We're a coffee shop. We sell a luxury, not a necessity. (Oh SHUSH now. I don't care what anyone says, you won't die without coffee.) It's not like we sell live-sustaining medication or toilet paper even. Just frou-frou luxury beverages. GET OVER IT. You can get a tea tomorrow. Like, when we're actually open.

That saying? The one that goes "you get more flies with honey than vinegar"? It's SO TRUE. If she hadn't been such an entitled snot, I may have relented. But with the *BIG SIGH* and the sneer at the end, I wouldn't have doused her with tea had she been on fire.

Lesson of the day? Other than the cliche saying? People mostly suck. Thanks, drive on through please.

A little Wednesday night entertainment

Last night, driving home from work, I saw firetrucks pull into our neighborhood before me. Something about the sight of firetrucks always makes a knot in my stomach, and especially when they're headed to where I reside. I turned down a different street instead of following them, but when I made the turn to drive to my house at the end of a cul-de-sac, I saw the firetrucks had beaten me and were blocking the whole street. I pulled into a neighbor's empty driveway and phoned the husband to tell him I couldn't get home.

I sat and watched the action. Firemen milled around in their gear, unhurried, and the knot loosened a little. And in reality, it must've been a false alarm, because not soon after I decided to leave my parked car and walk home past the rumbling firetrucks and firemen giving me quizzical looks, they hopped in the trucks and left.

But I did notice while sitting in that driveway, ten or so houses from mine, that my neighbors are weird. A woman nearby had walked out of her house to chat with a fireman. She had a guitar from what appeared to be Guitar Hero strapped to her chest. I guess she didn't have time to be interrupted in the middle of rocking out.

A man in a Jeep Liberty who lives near the front of the neighborhood, several streets away, circled the block several times. Like, Guitar Hero lady couldn't be interrupted, but Jeep Liberty man had all the time in the world to drive around aimlessly, nosing around at midnight.

And then later, after the trucks had left and all was quiet, and I walked back down to retrieve my car and park it in our driveway, there was a golf cart bumping down our street, followed shortly by the Jeep Liberty guy again. A GOLF CART. What better way to find out what's going on in the world than a leisurely ride in a golf cart around the 'hood?

I'm thinking next time there's a disturbance, cop cars, or lawd forbid a fire on our street, I'm setting up a wienie cart and selling refreshments. Hell, depending on the viewpoint, I might even rent out lawn chairs. I COULD BE RICH.

A phone call

What've you been up to?

Oh, I'm trying to clean the house.

I thought you cleaned the house yesterday.

Nooo...

But it was clean when I came home!

Oh, hell, man! It was straightened up! I meant clean...like scrub toilets, hose down a shower, mop...that kind of thing.

Gah! You should just speak English!

A lesson in navigating a drive-through

In most drive-throughs, you drive up to a speaker where some underpaid peon wearing a crappy headset takes your order. Did you know that you can't drive up to one at a 90 degree angle? You can't pull up into a drive-through and have your windshield face the speaker. It doesn't trip the sensor if you do. I KNOW! SENSOR! Like, the sensor that "dings!" in our headset, letting us know there's a slack-jawed cretin who'd like to order a mocha choco latte ya ya. Contrary to popular belief, there isn't a small, green elf who sits on the outside menu, waiting for a car to pull up to the general vicinity of the speaker, and then runs inside to let us know someone else can't figure out how to trip a drive-through sensor.

Okay. So if you don't trip the sensor, we don't know you're there, waiting, for like, ohmigawd, ten minutes. What do you think your next plan of action should be? ABSOLUTELY you should pull up to the window and honk. But I'm going to tell you right now, that because it's THREE MINUTES UNTIL CLOSE, all the little peons inside the store are busting ass trying to get everything clean and ready for open the next morning, so it's possible, slightly possible, that someone is not standing directly in front of the window waiting for your honk. I know. It's sheer craziness. And since in this cleaning/readying process it may be noisy in the store, with vacuuming, mopping, and the screaming that takes place because WOOT! we only have three minutes!, we may not hear your honk either.

But then you should definitely come into the store. Yes. Even though you have your pj's on. Even though you only have six teeth to your name. Definitely come in, now two minutes until close, and order five drinks. And make sure to bitch wildly about the fact that you were waiting! for ten minutes! (Seriously? I'd have waited four minutes, tops.) and you honked! but no one came! honked and WAVED!

We'll still make your drinks, smiling through gritted teeth. But listen. You're not getting free drinks, even though I'm well aware that you were hinting at that. You'll get an apology and a quick lesson in navigation like, "Maybe you didn't trip the sensor. That happens sometimes." And I am SO blogging about your dumb, toothless, pj-wearing ass so that others can learn from your stupidity mistake.

Who has a case of the Mondays?

1. I have lots of little things to blog about, but nothing major. So I'm doing a list again, which annoys me because my last post was a list. But dammit, nothing's happened that deserves a big, long post.

2. See? I just used #1 to explain this whole post. And look what I'm using #2 for!

3. I'm immensely tired of my job. Like, SO TIRED. I want to just walk in, do my job, and then leave. But there always has to be drama. And I think I may be rolling my eyes too much, because I was asked the other day if I was okay. "You know, I know you're really sarcastic, I know, but really...is everything okay with you?" SIGH. Here's a newsflash: I'm not always ecstatic about work. I know, right? Sometimes, like I said before, I just want to go in and WORK. Not build relationships, not pay anybody any mind, just work. It's a foreign concept to these people.

4. Also TIRED of my stupid house. I feel like I'm in a damn hamster wheel, spinning and spinning and never getting anywhere. Why bother picking anything up and cleaning anything? It'll be just like it was in ten minutes.

5. TIRED of not having extra money. So the hamster wheel kind of fits in with working too.

6. To date, this may be the lamest post I've ever done. I'm still hitting "publish" because I have nothing better.

7. It is quite possible I have PMS. Because a) I hate everyone right now, b) I feel like simultaneously screaming in rage and crying, and c) I NEED A CANDY BAR, STAT.

Listy McListerson

1. Our new pillow-top, smooshy, comfy mattress was delivered yesterday. It's a lot taller than our old set, which will take some getting used to. Because lord help anyone who falls out of it.

2. You know what pisses me off? When you set out to bake a batch of cookies only to find that you have about a cup of flour and your damn recipe calls for 1 1/3 cups. NO BLACK AND WHITE COOKIES FOR YOU.

3. Also annoying, the fact that Smella loudly protests every day about taking a nap and then promptly falls asleep within five minutes. If it weren't so wildly inappropriate, I'd love to go in and wake her up just to tell her See? You were tired. I was right. AGAIN.

4. Big D goes back to school in nineteen days. You know what that means? One less scream-inducing kid during the day and SCHOOL SUPPLIES. If you see a woman in Target drooling over the notebooks and markers, it's probably me. Come say hi.

5. School starting also means book rental. From what I've gathered, book rental is an uncommon occurrence in the US. Apparently other states take these things called taxes and they cover your children's book/desk/paperclip usage at school. Huh. Neato. I much prefer shelling out $100. I'm sure that means Indiana kids' books are way better quality.

De-Mulleted

Because I like tormenting myself at least once a week, I finally decided to have Boober's hair cut. It was time, the husband liked to remind me, because people were asking, "Oh. Um, sooo cute. Is that a boy or a girl?" Never mind the head to toe blue and various manly vehicular appliques that Boober's clothing is adorned with, his hair was past his ears. What the hell gender is that there kid?

But I acquiesced. And the only reason I did is because Boobers was sporting one hell of a mullet. To no fault of anyone, his hair had failed to grow a lot on top, but it was ALL party in the back. A slightly curly, stringy party. I don't mind longer hair on boys, but there will be no mullets in this house.

So without further ado, the before. Before pictures are easy because Boobers is always running away from the camera.

And the afters. Look at those damn eyelashes. Jealous?

On a related note, I now have three envelopes of varying shades of baby hair. Um, EW. And the only reason I have these envelopes is because the hair people MAKE me. Don't even think you're trying to walk out of a barber shop/salon without them. Look. I love my babies. I love every single hair on their little heads. But I don't feel it necessary to hang on to those dead, wispy strands. In fact, it makes me slightly gaggy. But I'll keep them, because that's JUST WHAT YOU DO apparently.

Up next, I'll show you how to incorporate your baby's dried umbilical cord stump in a lovely scrap booking layout.

Overheard

This morning, while I fixed Boober's breakfast and the older two sat and ate:

Boobers: Mmmm! Numnumnum!

Smella to Big D: I think he wants a bite.

Big D: Well, I'm not giving him a bite!

Smella: Well, I'm not giving him a bite either!

Boobers: Numnumnum! *whine*

Smella: I fink he's hungry.

Big D: You should give him a bite.

Smella: NO! You give him a bite!

***

At the Little Rock Zoo, standing in front of the grizzly bear exhibit, watching a huge bear sniffing the air for baby snacks.

Me: Look, Smella! See the bear? Isn't that cool?

Smella: Uh huh. Can I wide him?

***

Upon entering Smella's bedroom in the morning, wearing a pair of plaid pj pants I dug out of hiding in my dresser.

Me: Hi, baby!

Smella: Mommy! Are those new pants? Those pants are BEAUTIFUL, mommy! I love them! Did you buy them at the store? They are so pretty! Are they blue? I love blue!

Me: Uhhh...thank you?

There have to be rules

Things I try not to eat in public:

Spaghetti. I still haven't mastered the art of slurping/biting noodles so that they don't spray myself and nearby diners.

Ribs. You just can't use a damn fork.

Ice cream cones. Really. Drippy obtuseness. And I inevitably get a cone that leaks.

Chicken wings. Once again, no fork. Red, sticky sauce all over fingers and mouth. And cheeks. Sometimes in hair. Never a wet wipe to be found.

Things I will eat in public, onlookers be damned:

Huge corned beef with mustard on rye sandwiches from this restaurant.

Anything from a fair or festival, including but not limited to: smoked turkey legs, elephant ears, funnel cakes. (The Indiana State Fair starts in three weeks. Woot!)

Anything from this restaurant. Including tiny bundles of fried squid legs, crusty bread dipped into warm, gooey goat cheese, and multiple types of meatballs. Mmmm, meatballs.

Stolen bites from the husband's plate of seared beef tongue from this restaurant. Followed up with beet ice cream.


I may have food issues. Okay, I definitely have multiple food issues. I could probably devote a whole blog to them. SO?

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go grab a snack now.

The one where I toot my own horn. Get it? Toot!

While visiting the husband's parents, they gave him his snare drum from high school to take home. We are now the proud owners of one roughed-up, loud snare drum. The kids adore it. I have no earthly idea where I'll keep it. Thanks, in-laws!

But it did manage to make me wistful about my junior high band career. I was actually pretty good, a first-chair player. I loved playing, and the only reason I stopped is because once in high school, they forced you to be in marching band. I didn't want to march, I wanted to play music, which marching band is so NOT about, and especially for clarinets, my instrument.

So I quit. It hurt me at the time, and it still bugs me. Apparently my love for the instrument didn't outweigh the hours of outdoor practice during Indiana summer. Or the fact that I'd have to wear a huge woolen purple costume while I marched and tried to play memorized music. I quit band cold turkey, much to the dismay of my band teacher.

I toyed with my clarinet a few times after that, playing what I could remember for the husband when we got together. Mostly it sat by its lonesome in a closet, forgotten about.

Until that Christmas I lived with the husband in Arkansas. We were scrimping and saving enough money to be able to drive home and spend the holiday with my family. Being broke and in desperate need of gas money, I rifled through the closet and found my clarinet. I think the husband tried to talk me out of it, and I had a few moments of doubt, but I hawked it. My beloved clarinet my parents made payments on. (Don't bring this up with my mom. She still threatens to smack me for doing it.)

Would you like to know how much I hawked it for? C'mon. Guess.

Fifty dollars.

Yeah.

I regretted it immediately. As we walked out of the damn door of the music shop, I regretted it. And it still makes me sick to my stomach to think about it. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Okay, I do, and at the time nothing meant more than going home to be with my family for Christmas, but damn.

I've been scanning craigslist and eBay lately, thinking maybe I'll buy another one. It won't be the same one, and it probably won't even be as good a quality as my first, but at least I'll have a clarinet in my possession. I'm hoping the fingerings and music-reading comes back to me.

And if all else fails, I have three kids. There's a good chance one of them will be a clarinet-playing band geek, right? If it happens, and they quit band, guess who's keeping a hold of their instrument?

Back to the grindstone

I spent yesterday cleaning my car, vacuuming up remnants of mulch we had left while hauling some home a couple of months ago. I even scrubbed all the bug guts off the grill and gave it a waxing.

I grocery shopped.

I actually cooked dinner.

The kids are back to tormenting each other to see who screams the loudest. (Smella always wins.)

I did piles and piles of laundry. (Did you know it breeds and multiplies like rabbits when you leave the house?)

I head back to work tonight, while the husband headed off this morning.

Someone needs to clean a toilet around here.

I miss vacation.

Listy McListerson (Vacation Edition)

1. Always call and check ahead at your hotel. They may only have shower stalls instead of bathtubs, and so you may have to a) shower with a slippery, screamy one-year-old or b) bathe a slippery, screamy one-year-old in the tiny sink. Neither is very fun.

2. It is motherfucking HOT as a motherfucker in Arkansas. I lost five pounds by sweating profusely.

3. At a gas station in Marion, Arkansas, there were a half-dozen redneck men, gassing up their huge trucks for a huntin' or fishin' trip. They were smoking. As they pumped gas. It was some awe-inspiring brilliance.

4. Despite all the warnings that it would be a suck-ass experience, Little Rock Zoo was pretty damn neat. And we were there early enough that we didn't melt as we walked around, and all the animals were out to greet us. Also? Camel rides.




5. Even after eleven or so years, Blackwood's Gyros and Grill is still delicious. The husband recommends The Blackwood, while I'll go ahead and vouch for anything that isn't nailed down. Yum.

6. We got to hang out with my 15-year-old niece and 11-year-old nephew. They're really tall now and make me feel really old.

7. The in-laws managed to not make us too crazy. They were actually very hospitable and friendly, and I wasn't called any names. The mother-in-law also loaded us up with bags and bags of cack. Like toothbrushes from dentist visits, an animated Santa, and bibles. We never visit them and leave with fewer than four bibles. Is she trying to tell me something?

8. Speaking of the godless heathen that I am, would you like to see the biggest, holiest cross this side of the Mississippi?

It makes you feel like screaming amen. Or snickering wildly. Whatever. And huh, there's a freaking website about it.

9. All in all, we had fun. The kids got to see gorillas and where the husband grew up. I got to feel completely out of place with my very northern accent. The husband got to visit with his parents, siblings, and friends he hasn't seen in a few years. The kids mostly behaved, but I don't plan on driving more than 20 minutes with them any time soon. And ohmigawd, people, I MISSED MY BED.

10. One last one. Perhaps the most unfortunate place on Earth to live.


(Many apologies to the fine folks of Cooter, Missouri. I'm sure I'll be able to pass by one day without guffawing immaturely.)

And we're off

I hope to make it back in one, sane piece to regale everyone with tales of the in-laws. Because hoo-boy, there are always good tales after a visit with them. Yup.

Happy 4th and all that jazz too.

First hair cut

After two years, ten months of growing, I took Smella to have her hair cut. It took a long time for her to have any hair; she was still almost bald at her first birthday. But now, it seems she has an inordinate amount of curly, baby-fine hair, wispy and soft. And constantly in her eyes. When asked, "Who has crazy hair?" she would sigh and say, "I do."

So it was time. She was so excited. And aside from the fact that she spoke not one word the whole entire time, she had fun. I could tell. The stylist gushed over her white blond curls, saying over and over how beautiful it was. Smella wouldn't respond, but I could see her eyes twinkle with happiness.

When all was said and done, she looked so much older. She no longer had the long, uneven tendrils of baby hair, but an actual cut. Where she had lopped off a section in the front a few months ago, there were perfectly neat bangs. She grinned and reached her arms for me to help her down off her boostered chair.

In that moment, I saw my baby girl's future in those big blue eyes. Her Kindergarten school picture. Her first grade school picture without those little baby teeth she's sporting now. Her first boyfriend. Her first dance. Broken heart. Wedding. Baby. I sucked back tears and lowered her to the floor.

As I paid for her cut, I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she twirled and danced on the smooth hardwood floor, innocently and unabashedly. She took my hand, and as soon as we stepped out of the door, she broke her shy silence and chattered constantly the whole way home.

I'm really hoping she doesn't need her hair trimmed any time soon. I'm not sure my heart can take it.

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."