The little monster is on vacation for a few days at my parents' house in Cleveland. I went home this weekend and Molly and I went to visit a friend; I came back yesterday and Molly will continue to hang out with grandma and grandpa for a few more days. So far during her short visit, she has decided to go on the potty ALL THE TIME (today at least) - two pees and a poop by nap time and the SAME DIAPER ALL MORNING!!! Of course, all this excretory excitement had to come when they were 1) at the mall and 2) at a restaurant. The child has impeccable timing. But whatever works. She had to call both daddy and I at work to tell us alllll about it so I pity my coworkers who have to listen to me exclaiming "REALLY??? How MUCH poopy??? That's SO EXCITING HONEY!!!!"
She also sat on Santa'a lap, rode the Christmas train at the mall, and learned how to walk up steps backward. All today. She helped grandma and grandpa decorate their Christmas tree by putting about 45 ornaments on two low hanging branches, all in a very concentrated mass but dammit she DID IT HERSELF, she told me about 100 times this weekend. Too funny.
I am still pregnant, and crabby. I've been having some braxton hicks contractions, I think - and for the non mommy readers out there, those are very annoying little "fake" or "practice" contractions wherein your uterus suddenly turns into the consistency of titanium and you feel like it's having steel-coated seizures. You know what? I had plenty of REAL contractions last time. I don't need any damn practice. GO AWAY stupid contractions. You are freaking me out. I drink enough water to fill a fish tank already, so it shouldn't be a sign of dehydration. We are just a few weeks away from finding out what the little alien is sporting genitalia wise, so that I know if I should curse "him" or "her" for making my existence miserable, my bladder depressed, my sleep schedule disastrous and my face the consistency of a land mine that has just been run over by obese elephants wearing cowboy spurs.
Argh.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Sunday, November 12, 2006
I just spent half an hour attempting to play Dora Candyland with a not quite 2 1/2 year old. The game is for 3+ but that did not deter miss Doraobsession, who spotted the box and wanted to do NOTHING else but "play wif my Dora game pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!!!!!!" She can get the color thing down, where you draw a card and move your piece onto the corresponding colored square. What's missing is the ability to understand that you are following this colored path to and END POINT; that you only get to be one piece at a time; that no, Murphy does NOT want to be Boots this time; that you cannot walk on the board "like a balance beam mommy!", that you do in fact have to take turns with the other person (or dog) playing with you, etc.
Unrelatedly amusing moment from this week's adventures in Pottyland...we have been able to get her to at least AGREE to sit on the potty lately, but only on the BIG potty - no more potty seats, thank you very much. Despite the fact that her skinny little butt fell right in a few days ago, she is undeterred. She holds onto the big potty porcelain seat with both hands and reminds me "I am NOT falling in dis time Mommy!!"
She accomplished a great big poop on the potty the other night (by coincidence, not by telling us she had to poop or anything helpful like that) and we did the whole routine - "now we wipe! and now we get a STICKER!!" I reminded her that we had to flush the poop away so I pulled the handle and she sticks her head over the bowl watching the poop go away and yells "BYE BYE POOPY!!! HAVE A NICE WEEK!!!!!!!!!"
She is nothing if not polite.
Unrelatedly amusing moment from this week's adventures in Pottyland...we have been able to get her to at least AGREE to sit on the potty lately, but only on the BIG potty - no more potty seats, thank you very much. Despite the fact that her skinny little butt fell right in a few days ago, she is undeterred. She holds onto the big potty porcelain seat with both hands and reminds me "I am NOT falling in dis time Mommy!!"
She accomplished a great big poop on the potty the other night (by coincidence, not by telling us she had to poop or anything helpful like that) and we did the whole routine - "now we wipe! and now we get a STICKER!!" I reminded her that we had to flush the poop away so I pulled the handle and she sticks her head over the bowl watching the poop go away and yells "BYE BYE POOPY!!! HAVE A NICE WEEK!!!!!!!!!"
She is nothing if not polite.
Friday, November 10, 2006
I came, I saw, I scoffed...I shut up.
My own personal kiwi/avocado/kumquat/4 oz beef patty was obviously not amused with my last post, and in the last hour has taken to kicking me in the damn belly button. Sorry, bloblet, if I offended you. I guess you can feel it at 15+ weeks. Or I need to lay off the chili, as it may be attacking from the inside out. But having been down this road before, I venture to say that the internal assault (well, ok, teenytinylittlepops, not exactly tae bo) is coming from the bloblet.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Doritos Dancing In Utero
I have a good friend at work who is also pregnant, about 2 1/2 weeks behind me. She told me this week that she has already been able to feel her baby kicking and moving...at 12 WEEKS. When I noted that I haven't felt a thing thus far, at 15 weeks, she reminded me that "you DO tend to feel it earlier with the second child - hmm!"
Now OK, I can buy that. But 12 weeks??? At 12 weeks your fetus is roughly the size of a DORITO. Unless it has detached from your uterus and lodged itself just on the other side of your belly button AND your skin is the consistency of Saran Wrap, you are not feeling a baby kick at 12 WEEKS!!!! Maybe you are feeling the effects of eating pickles and mountain dew simultaneously - it's called GAS. But whatever, maybe she is growing a monster in there.
I love that the pregnancy progress sites like to give you weekly updates as to the size of your little uterine alien, in terms of food. For example, at 15 weeks, my baby is apparently the size of a kiwi. This would be fantastic knowledge to possess, if I actually 1) cooked or 2) consumed any fresh produce. At 16 weeks you graduate to an avocado. I wouldn't know what an appropriate sized avocado looked like if it jumped up and bit my ass. All I know about kiwis is that they are little and hairy. But how little? Am I growing a mutant kiwi in there? Is it a California kiwi or an import?? When you tell me the thing is a size of an apple -- what the hell kind?!? Granny Smith? Red Delicious? Little sour green kind??
Could they not give you measurements that a more in tune with what the average pregnant woman might encounter -- say, at XX weeks, your fetus is roughly the size of a junior bacon cheeseburger! Or...at this stage, your baby is the length of an Oscar Meyer hotdog bun. The normal kind, not the footlong ones. Or the size of a deluxe Hershey bar. THESE things I can picture.
So far I have managed not to kill anyone, and more importantly, no one has (successfully) attempted to murder me, which is impressive given that I have been having mood swings and conniptions of cartoon-character proportions, complete with steam exiting cranial orifices and separation of head from body while it spins in circles before coming back to rest in proper location. I hate all my clothes, I hate work, I hate getting up, I hate trying to fall asleep, I hate food but if I don't eat it I still turn wretchedly green.
By this time next week, I will reach the "more than halfway" anniversary from Molly's 31 week birth. SCARY. We are hoping that halfway this time around will be 18 weeks, with a nice problem-free delivery around 36-37 weeks. However, we all know my history with problem-free (or "nice" for that matter) so we shall see!
Now OK, I can buy that. But 12 weeks??? At 12 weeks your fetus is roughly the size of a DORITO. Unless it has detached from your uterus and lodged itself just on the other side of your belly button AND your skin is the consistency of Saran Wrap, you are not feeling a baby kick at 12 WEEKS!!!! Maybe you are feeling the effects of eating pickles and mountain dew simultaneously - it's called GAS. But whatever, maybe she is growing a monster in there.
I love that the pregnancy progress sites like to give you weekly updates as to the size of your little uterine alien, in terms of food. For example, at 15 weeks, my baby is apparently the size of a kiwi. This would be fantastic knowledge to possess, if I actually 1) cooked or 2) consumed any fresh produce. At 16 weeks you graduate to an avocado. I wouldn't know what an appropriate sized avocado looked like if it jumped up and bit my ass. All I know about kiwis is that they are little and hairy. But how little? Am I growing a mutant kiwi in there? Is it a California kiwi or an import?? When you tell me the thing is a size of an apple -- what the hell kind?!? Granny Smith? Red Delicious? Little sour green kind??
Could they not give you measurements that a more in tune with what the average pregnant woman might encounter -- say, at XX weeks, your fetus is roughly the size of a junior bacon cheeseburger! Or...at this stage, your baby is the length of an Oscar Meyer hotdog bun. The normal kind, not the footlong ones. Or the size of a deluxe Hershey bar. THESE things I can picture.
So far I have managed not to kill anyone, and more importantly, no one has (successfully) attempted to murder me, which is impressive given that I have been having mood swings and conniptions of cartoon-character proportions, complete with steam exiting cranial orifices and separation of head from body while it spins in circles before coming back to rest in proper location. I hate all my clothes, I hate work, I hate getting up, I hate trying to fall asleep, I hate food but if I don't eat it I still turn wretchedly green.
By this time next week, I will reach the "more than halfway" anniversary from Molly's 31 week birth. SCARY. We are hoping that halfway this time around will be 18 weeks, with a nice problem-free delivery around 36-37 weeks. However, we all know my history with problem-free (or "nice" for that matter) so we shall see!
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Just Shoot Me.
Pregnancy is a glowing, mysterious, wonderful, joyous, magical, anticipatory time for many women. I am certainly glowing -- with sweat, brought on by non stop anxiety attacks from not being able to be properly nutcase-medicated. I am mysterious -- as in, it's a mystery to me how one person can gag and dry heave so many times in one hour and yet not actually throw up. I am joyous -- when I am asleep. Magical -- frosted Lucky Charms ARE magically delicious, with carbs and in particular, sugared breakfast foods accounting for 90% of my daily intake. I am anticipating a point in the future in which I do not want to spear my husband with a javelin soaked in arsenic for inflicting this on me.
I do not do pregnancy well. If there are any of you who don't yet know that I am pregnant, there you are. The land-mine ridden face full of 14 year old acne hell would be a good giveaway, as would the cumulative amount of hours a day I spend in a bathroom, either gagging, getting ready to gag, finishing up a gag, or trying to poop for the first time since the Reagan adminstration. I am on some lovely pills called Zofran to help with the nausea, but the side effect is that they basically turn your stomach into quik-dry concrete. Nothing comes up, but nothing goes out, either. For me this is a completely unfathomable phenomenon. things are ALWAYS coming out, hence the irritable bowel fun. Zero millimeters of my GI tract are currently functioning properly.
I am also "living clean," completely devoid of my friends the "antis" -- antidepressants, antianxiety drugs, antihomicidal maniac suppression...this has been great fun for my immediate family, who I'm sure would like to find me a Victorian-era "home" for young mothers to wait out their "confinement period" in secret and where I would be less likely to lash out at people asking me IDIOTIC questions like "can you hand me that magazine?" or "have you seen the remote?" I even had to give up my beloved Diet Cokes (usually only about 6 a day) and switch back to regular coke, 2 a day! eeeeek.
If I had felt this horrible with my first pregnancy, you can bet that there would NEVER EVER EVER be a second little alien brewing in there right now (yes, we are sure there's ONLY ONE, THANK GOD IN HEAVEN). Due date is 5/3/07, but right now we just hope to make it to the month of April and see what happens! In the meantime, for your safety, please keep your hands, arms, valuables and small children away from the manic starving poopladen gaggy bitchy pregnant woman.
I do not do pregnancy well. If there are any of you who don't yet know that I am pregnant, there you are. The land-mine ridden face full of 14 year old acne hell would be a good giveaway, as would the cumulative amount of hours a day I spend in a bathroom, either gagging, getting ready to gag, finishing up a gag, or trying to poop for the first time since the Reagan adminstration. I am on some lovely pills called Zofran to help with the nausea, but the side effect is that they basically turn your stomach into quik-dry concrete. Nothing comes up, but nothing goes out, either. For me this is a completely unfathomable phenomenon. things are ALWAYS coming out, hence the irritable bowel fun. Zero millimeters of my GI tract are currently functioning properly.
I am also "living clean," completely devoid of my friends the "antis" -- antidepressants, antianxiety drugs, antihomicidal maniac suppression...this has been great fun for my immediate family, who I'm sure would like to find me a Victorian-era "home" for young mothers to wait out their "confinement period" in secret and where I would be less likely to lash out at people asking me IDIOTIC questions like "can you hand me that magazine?" or "have you seen the remote?" I even had to give up my beloved Diet Cokes (usually only about 6 a day) and switch back to regular coke, 2 a day! eeeeek.
If I had felt this horrible with my first pregnancy, you can bet that there would NEVER EVER EVER be a second little alien brewing in there right now (yes, we are sure there's ONLY ONE, THANK GOD IN HEAVEN). Due date is 5/3/07, but right now we just hope to make it to the month of April and see what happens! In the meantime, for your safety, please keep your hands, arms, valuables and small children away from the manic starving poopladen gaggy bitchy pregnant woman.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Click Clack Moo...
There are few things on this earth more empowering, more initmidating, more awe-inspiring, more...more...clackier -- than a new set of fake ones. Nails, I mean. If any other part of your anatomy is new and clacky, you may want to get a new surgeon.
I had abandoned regular manicures shortly after Molly was born out of fear that my little claws of power would claw her little eyes out. Subsequently, it took me til roughly last week to regrow completely normal, healthy nails that didn't look like they were pillaged off of a corpse. So what do I do? March right back to the nice little shop of indeterminable Asian descent and plop down $55 ($45 plus tip) for them to start the cycle of mucking my nails up all over again.
It feels GREAT. I am typing with wild abandon today (whereas usually I type with pretty domesticated abandon) just because it is EXTRA CLICKY CLACKY. "Hi. PERIOD. How are YOU BAM BAM BAM TAKE THAT YOU PIECE OF SHIT SPACE BAR!!! HA HA!!!!"
One thing I forgot about, though, when telling the nice man "yep, that looks like a good length" is that every night I am sort of required to stick my fingers in my eye to get my contacts out. oops. I figured this out last night at 11:45 after having already taken an Ambien and doing the little drunken-totter-maybe the dose should be a little less for small people-dance.
I tried with my thumb and forefinger. POKE. Thumb and third finger. JAB. Tried just smooshing the damn thing to one side of my eye. SCRRRRRAPE. Tried all of these things for 10 minutes before finally clawing one soft contact out of my right eye.
God damn it, I have two eyes. Repeat. Repeat. repeat. Finally get contact extracted from left eye.
Go to do one final round of business on the potty before bed -- poke nail through TP and almost partake in do-it-yourself episiotomy.
ARRRRRRGH.
Today I do appear to be all in one piece, and even managed to get both contacts in without ripping them in half or lodging my eyeball up into my sinus cavity.
I am woman. I have nails. Hear me roar. (I mean, in addition to the pain related roaring. just ignore that)
I had abandoned regular manicures shortly after Molly was born out of fear that my little claws of power would claw her little eyes out. Subsequently, it took me til roughly last week to regrow completely normal, healthy nails that didn't look like they were pillaged off of a corpse. So what do I do? March right back to the nice little shop of indeterminable Asian descent and plop down $55 ($45 plus tip) for them to start the cycle of mucking my nails up all over again.
It feels GREAT. I am typing with wild abandon today (whereas usually I type with pretty domesticated abandon) just because it is EXTRA CLICKY CLACKY. "Hi. PERIOD. How are YOU BAM BAM BAM TAKE THAT YOU PIECE OF SHIT SPACE BAR!!! HA HA!!!!"
One thing I forgot about, though, when telling the nice man "yep, that looks like a good length" is that every night I am sort of required to stick my fingers in my eye to get my contacts out. oops. I figured this out last night at 11:45 after having already taken an Ambien and doing the little drunken-totter-maybe the dose should be a little less for small people-dance.
I tried with my thumb and forefinger. POKE. Thumb and third finger. JAB. Tried just smooshing the damn thing to one side of my eye. SCRRRRRAPE. Tried all of these things for 10 minutes before finally clawing one soft contact out of my right eye.
God damn it, I have two eyes. Repeat. Repeat. repeat. Finally get contact extracted from left eye.
Go to do one final round of business on the potty before bed -- poke nail through TP and almost partake in do-it-yourself episiotomy.
ARRRRRRGH.
Today I do appear to be all in one piece, and even managed to get both contacts in without ripping them in half or lodging my eyeball up into my sinus cavity.
I am woman. I have nails. Hear me roar. (I mean, in addition to the pain related roaring. just ignore that)
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
crickets
I am sitting here watching the Tigers, again, as usual, which is par for the course for me every single day from April-OCTOBER (yeah baby, this year it WILL be OCTOBER) except the random Monday or Thursday travel day. It's best for all involved that I be left alone when undertaking this daily ritual, as I turn into Captain Tourette's.
"BLEEP BLEEP you BLEEPING sheep BLEEPING monkey BLEEP piles of BLEEP!!!!"
And that's when we're only up by a few runs. Tonight we started off down 7 RUNS after the FIRST INNING. It is now the 6th, and we are within one run (8-7 Indians winning).
Err...
BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP MOTHER BLEEPING BLEEPNUTS
9-7 Indians.
I am free to spew obscenities at the top of my lungs this week without fear that Molly-the-human-parrot will immediately pick one of them up and decide it should be the name of one of her stuffed animals. She AND Murphy are both on vacation this week, up north with Mamaw and Grampa Waters and Mamaw Hearsch, having a lovely time at the beach. Dan has class every night this week. This means that my house is totally. utterly. completely.
QUIET.
It is insane. And disconcerting. I have been away from Molly on business before, but having an entire house in which no one is snoring or muttering "dorrra...boooots...choc-ate millllk" in their sleep and in which there is no 115 lb lump of fur to trip over is just WEIRD. Even when Dan gets home from class around 10 or 11, we sit here and look at each other like "what exactly DID we do before we had a kid? or a dog? Or laptops? I mean, at some point, did we talk to each other?? Did we watch something on television during which neither of us was IMing someone or studying?"
I can actually hear crickets outside. Over my obscene mutterings of course.
One upside of this dependent-free week -- the poop quantity and responsibility is massively reduced. Each of the humans in this house is currently responsible SOLELY FOR THEIR OWN POOP THIS WEEK!!!!! I don't have to pick up dog poop! I don't have to feign excitement over toddler poop in the toilet and examine each piece like I'm checking out the prized jewels of the Nile and I don't have to explain to anyone that no, those are NOT raisins in the potty and I do not have to yell "BYE BYE POOPY!!!" every time I flush away a bowel movement!! (although I can if I want to. You can't stop me) And Dan can get his own candy if he wants a pooping reward!!! It is a thing of beauty.
So, I am off to scream at the TV some more and enjoy my eerily quiet night. Last night I ended up having to turn Molly's Baby Einstein CD on to try to help me fall asleep. Didn't work. Also -- I do not recommend that any human being try to watch "The Passion of the Christ" after 1) eating anything in the last 3 days that you don't want to see back up in your lap and 2) within 12 hours of trying to sleep. We started watching at 11:45 last night. Bad. Bad. Idea. Hopefully my nightmares tonight will be limited to misplayed grounders.
"BLEEP BLEEP you BLEEPING sheep BLEEPING monkey BLEEP piles of BLEEP!!!!"
And that's when we're only up by a few runs. Tonight we started off down 7 RUNS after the FIRST INNING. It is now the 6th, and we are within one run (8-7 Indians winning).
Err...
BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP MOTHER BLEEPING BLEEPNUTS
9-7 Indians.
I am free to spew obscenities at the top of my lungs this week without fear that Molly-the-human-parrot will immediately pick one of them up and decide it should be the name of one of her stuffed animals. She AND Murphy are both on vacation this week, up north with Mamaw and Grampa Waters and Mamaw Hearsch, having a lovely time at the beach. Dan has class every night this week. This means that my house is totally. utterly. completely.
QUIET.
It is insane. And disconcerting. I have been away from Molly on business before, but having an entire house in which no one is snoring or muttering "dorrra...boooots...choc-ate millllk" in their sleep and in which there is no 115 lb lump of fur to trip over is just WEIRD. Even when Dan gets home from class around 10 or 11, we sit here and look at each other like "what exactly DID we do before we had a kid? or a dog? Or laptops? I mean, at some point, did we talk to each other?? Did we watch something on television during which neither of us was IMing someone or studying?"
I can actually hear crickets outside. Over my obscene mutterings of course.
One upside of this dependent-free week -- the poop quantity and responsibility is massively reduced. Each of the humans in this house is currently responsible SOLELY FOR THEIR OWN POOP THIS WEEK!!!!! I don't have to pick up dog poop! I don't have to feign excitement over toddler poop in the toilet and examine each piece like I'm checking out the prized jewels of the Nile and I don't have to explain to anyone that no, those are NOT raisins in the potty and I do not have to yell "BYE BYE POOPY!!!" every time I flush away a bowel movement!! (although I can if I want to. You can't stop me) And Dan can get his own candy if he wants a pooping reward!!! It is a thing of beauty.
So, I am off to scream at the TV some more and enjoy my eerily quiet night. Last night I ended up having to turn Molly's Baby Einstein CD on to try to help me fall asleep. Didn't work. Also -- I do not recommend that any human being try to watch "The Passion of the Christ" after 1) eating anything in the last 3 days that you don't want to see back up in your lap and 2) within 12 hours of trying to sleep. We started watching at 11:45 last night. Bad. Bad. Idea. Hopefully my nightmares tonight will be limited to misplayed grounders.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Blogging only as a distraction
I am currently watching the Tigers and White Sox and if I don't do something with my hands, I may hurl the remote through our very expensive TV. I guess i could do laundry or something useful, but I'll update instead so that my 4 former readers have something to read later.
I can't believe I haven't been on here since May. Oops. Molly turned 2 on May 24 and is now 2 going on 17. WHERE in the world she gets her attitude and mouth I am sure I have NO idea. The child talks in monologues. Not just paragraphs. You can actually call her on the phone and have a conversation. Whether or not it makes sense is another thing, but you can try.
Me: "Hi baby!"
Her: "MOMMMEEE! What you doing mommy? Mommy? Mommy I on da TEL-FONE!"
Me: "I hear that! What are you doing?"
Her: "Ummmm...MUR-phy....STOOOOPID DOG!!"
Me: "Murphy is a NICE dog. Not a stoopid dog."
Her: "OK. Stoopid dog."
Me: "What did you do with Grandma today?"
Her: "I GO SWIIIIIMING MOMMY!! In da pool! I jump in and get ALL wet!!"
Me: "What else did you do?"
Her: "I GO POOOPY MOMMY!! In da POTTY!! YAAAAAY!"
Me: "That's great! And wh...
Her: "OK Bye"
drops phone on floor.
Lovely.
Potty training is a slow process indeed. I thought I was a supergenius, and would successfully bribe her with M&Ms for any poop or pee pee actually deposited in said potty and not on the floor, in the diaper, in the pull ups, etc. After a few months of limited success, we've lately been doing a lot better with actually going. Last week she would pee or poop and yell "WHAT I GET MOMMY???!!" before she was even off the toilet. She would get to pick an M&M and yell "I get CANNY!!"
This week, she pooped on the potty the other day and I said "YAY Molly!" She says "What I get?" and I said "CANDY!" and she looks at me for a second and goes "No thank you mommy. What ELSE I get?"
She got a sticker. I hope we train fast, or this is going to start costing me some serious bribe products.
I can't believe I haven't been on here since May. Oops. Molly turned 2 on May 24 and is now 2 going on 17. WHERE in the world she gets her attitude and mouth I am sure I have NO idea. The child talks in monologues. Not just paragraphs. You can actually call her on the phone and have a conversation. Whether or not it makes sense is another thing, but you can try.
Me: "Hi baby!"
Her: "MOMMMEEE! What you doing mommy? Mommy? Mommy I on da TEL-FONE!"
Me: "I hear that! What are you doing?"
Her: "Ummmm...MUR-phy....STOOOOPID DOG!!"
Me: "Murphy is a NICE dog. Not a stoopid dog."
Her: "OK. Stoopid dog."
Me: "What did you do with Grandma today?"
Her: "I GO SWIIIIIMING MOMMY!! In da pool! I jump in and get ALL wet!!"
Me: "What else did you do?"
Her: "I GO POOOPY MOMMY!! In da POTTY!! YAAAAAY!"
Me: "That's great! And wh...
Her: "OK Bye"
drops phone on floor.
Lovely.
Potty training is a slow process indeed. I thought I was a supergenius, and would successfully bribe her with M&Ms for any poop or pee pee actually deposited in said potty and not on the floor, in the diaper, in the pull ups, etc. After a few months of limited success, we've lately been doing a lot better with actually going. Last week she would pee or poop and yell "WHAT I GET MOMMY???!!" before she was even off the toilet. She would get to pick an M&M and yell "I get CANNY!!"
This week, she pooped on the potty the other day and I said "YAY Molly!" She says "What I get?" and I said "CANDY!" and she looks at me for a second and goes "No thank you mommy. What ELSE I get?"
She got a sticker. I hope we train fast, or this is going to start costing me some serious bribe products.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Screw you, thieves
Just before Molly and Dan and I were about to stumble out the door this morning in our usual fit of late-running chaos, we were met by a very nice policeman knocking on our door. At 8:15 a.m. This did not amuse Murphy the sharp-as-a-rusty-filed-down-tack watchdog who promptly barked loud enough to trigger a mild earthquake.
Seems some neighbors down the street had come out this morning to find their cars ransacked and items stolen, and while the cop was driving down the street looking for other possible victims, he noticed that the door to my car -- lovingly referred to now as "mommy BLUE car" -- was ajar. Sure enough, some jackasses had completely rooted through both my and Dan's cars overnight -- pulling everything out of the glove compartment, emptying consoles, throwing our shit on the floor (I think it was them. Hard to tell among the 4 inches of pretzel crumbs and smashed up goldfish crackers that already form a lovely graham cracker-like crust on the floor of my car)...and yet, apparently, taking NOTHING.
We are not talking the world's finest criminal minds here, or even people who understand that people will PAY MONEY to buy NICE STUFF on ebay. They left Molly's $250 car seat; our cell phone chargers; the adapters for our MP3 players; a stroller; all our CDs, etc. I was ragingly fumingly lividly and several other adverbs-ly PISSED, but Dan found some humor in the fact that no one in their right mind would steal my CDs, even if he PAID them. Among the ransacked display on my front seat -- Nelly, Britney Spears, KC and the Sunshine Band (the remix album), A Chorus Line, Baby Einstein Traveling Melodies, Best of Disney part 2, and Millenium Hip Hop Party. Now WHO could pass down a musical smorgasbord of such distinction?? I mean really.
Anyway, from now on, I guess daddy's insistence that we DO NOT NEED TO LOCK OUR DOORS, OH MY GOD WOMAN, STOP IT, YOU ARE AN OBSESSIVE FREAK has been reduced to a whimper. I hope these dumbasses walked away with sticky poptart residue, baby boogers and other assorted schmegma all over their unsuspecting little criminal fingers. And perhaps next time, Captain Snores-a-lot the Wonder Dog could actually GET OFF the extra bed where he sleeps sideways like a 115 lb passed out furry frat boy and bark...AT THE PEOPLE BREAKING INTO OUR CARS!!!!! Seriously. No points for the dog on this one.
Seems some neighbors down the street had come out this morning to find their cars ransacked and items stolen, and while the cop was driving down the street looking for other possible victims, he noticed that the door to my car -- lovingly referred to now as "mommy BLUE car" -- was ajar. Sure enough, some jackasses had completely rooted through both my and Dan's cars overnight -- pulling everything out of the glove compartment, emptying consoles, throwing our shit on the floor (I think it was them. Hard to tell among the 4 inches of pretzel crumbs and smashed up goldfish crackers that already form a lovely graham cracker-like crust on the floor of my car)...and yet, apparently, taking NOTHING.
We are not talking the world's finest criminal minds here, or even people who understand that people will PAY MONEY to buy NICE STUFF on ebay. They left Molly's $250 car seat; our cell phone chargers; the adapters for our MP3 players; a stroller; all our CDs, etc. I was ragingly fumingly lividly and several other adverbs-ly PISSED, but Dan found some humor in the fact that no one in their right mind would steal my CDs, even if he PAID them. Among the ransacked display on my front seat -- Nelly, Britney Spears, KC and the Sunshine Band (the remix album), A Chorus Line, Baby Einstein Traveling Melodies, Best of Disney part 2, and Millenium Hip Hop Party. Now WHO could pass down a musical smorgasbord of such distinction?? I mean really.
Anyway, from now on, I guess daddy's insistence that we DO NOT NEED TO LOCK OUR DOORS, OH MY GOD WOMAN, STOP IT, YOU ARE AN OBSESSIVE FREAK has been reduced to a whimper. I hope these dumbasses walked away with sticky poptart residue, baby boogers and other assorted schmegma all over their unsuspecting little criminal fingers. And perhaps next time, Captain Snores-a-lot the Wonder Dog could actually GET OFF the extra bed where he sleeps sideways like a 115 lb passed out furry frat boy and bark...AT THE PEOPLE BREAKING INTO OUR CARS!!!!! Seriously. No points for the dog on this one.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Happa DaBay
In an apparent effort to make sure that at least ONE person will be singing at her upcoming birthday party, Molly has taken to serenading us nightly with various refrains of "Happy Birthday," which I am guessing she learned from school. Although quite the neverending chatterbox, her pronunciation is still a bit (using my favorite word of the week) wonky. The other night as I was getting her tucked into bed, I gave her kisses and she laid down, and said "MOMMY lay down on da big bed." I complied, since she does now have an insanely comfy twin bed that is a bit more conducive to Mommy laying down in than, say, her crib was.
She likes to talk to me and give me kisses in bed before she falls asleep, and hug each of her 426 stuffed animals that have to sleep in bed with her (425 of them are stuffed bunnies). So she is going through this routine, and all of a sudden starts singing "happa da-baaaay....mommy....happa da-baaaaaay....daddy...happa da-baaay.....murfffy...."
I'm like "What the hell is a happa da bay?" and then she goes "Happa da-baaaay....TOOOO....yoooooou" and I figured out that she was, indeed, singing happy birthday to everyone she knew. She continued, with verses for mamaw, poppa, yoooou several more times...she actually fell asleep singing. I went downstairs and could hear "hap...da....bay....yoooo" in this tiny whisper.
Among the other "where did THAT come from" comments this week -- driving home from daycare one day --
Molly: "MOMMY!!!!"
Me: "WHAT??
Molly: (pause)..."Where da Easter bunny go?"
Me: (pause)..."WHAT??"
Molly: "Where dat bunny go mommy?"
Me: (pause....what the HELL is making her think of the easter bunny? is she seeing things? Is Harvey in my backseat???) "Um...I don't know, sweetie!"
Molly: (looking out window) "Up in da sky. In da airplane." (resumes eating pretzels)
Well there you have it. The Easter bunny was off on his private jet going to hook up with the tooth fairy in Cabo.
She likes to talk to me and give me kisses in bed before she falls asleep, and hug each of her 426 stuffed animals that have to sleep in bed with her (425 of them are stuffed bunnies). So she is going through this routine, and all of a sudden starts singing "happa da-baaaay....mommy....happa da-baaaaaay....daddy...happa da-baaay.....murfffy...."
I'm like "What the hell is a happa da bay?" and then she goes "Happa da-baaaay....TOOOO....yoooooou" and I figured out that she was, indeed, singing happy birthday to everyone she knew. She continued, with verses for mamaw, poppa, yoooou several more times...she actually fell asleep singing. I went downstairs and could hear "hap...da....bay....yoooo" in this tiny whisper.
Among the other "where did THAT come from" comments this week -- driving home from daycare one day --
Molly: "MOMMY!!!!"
Me: "WHAT??
Molly: (pause)..."Where da Easter bunny go?"
Me: (pause)..."WHAT??"
Molly: "Where dat bunny go mommy?"
Me: (pause....what the HELL is making her think of the easter bunny? is she seeing things? Is Harvey in my backseat???) "Um...I don't know, sweetie!"
Molly: (looking out window) "Up in da sky. In da airplane." (resumes eating pretzels)
Well there you have it. The Easter bunny was off on his private jet going to hook up with the tooth fairy in Cabo.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Still counting...annoying things
Since I only got through #s 100 down to 69 with my things I hate about winter rant, I guess I will just pick up where I left off and start in on the remaining 68 things that I hate...I'll start with spring.
#68. Wet worm smell after rain.
#67. STUPID MUDDY DOG FEET
#66. STUPID MUDDY YARD THAT CAUSES STUPID MUDDY DOG FEET
#65. Bees start coming out of hiding. I HATE BEES.
#64. Cleaning up recently unfrozen dog poop piles that have been fermenting on the lawn since October and which Molly thinks would be GREAT fun to pick up and throw for the dog to chase
#63. Spring cleaning. I tend to clean in giant spurts of energy - like, every 4 months or so I will windex a mirror in the bathroom -- then, phew, have to rest. I just cleaned out our garage all by myself and found 89% of the surfaces in the garage covered in either mouse poop, spilled birdseed, stray pieces of the pink insulation stuff or dirt. Yum.
#62. Trying on bathing suits.
#61. Trying on ANYTHING that involves showing skin.
#60. Having to actually maintain your toenails now that your feet are seeing the light of day again, after enjoying many months of poking your bed mate with nasty sharp little uneven toenails and then rubbing your nasty pale unshaven legs on them.
#59. Actually having to shave your legs higher than your anklebone.
#58. I STILL HATE BEES. Especially buzzing around my beer at Tiger games.
#57. Realizing that the Tigers do, indeed, still suck.
#56. Realizing that you paid $1300 in season tickets to once again see the Tigers suck 21 times in person.
#55. Realizing how many cute purses you could have bought for $1300
#54-45. ROAD CONSTRUCTION EVERYWHERE I POSSIBLY NEED TO GO IN MICHIGAN
#68. Wet worm smell after rain.
#67. STUPID MUDDY DOG FEET
#66. STUPID MUDDY YARD THAT CAUSES STUPID MUDDY DOG FEET
#65. Bees start coming out of hiding. I HATE BEES.
#64. Cleaning up recently unfrozen dog poop piles that have been fermenting on the lawn since October and which Molly thinks would be GREAT fun to pick up and throw for the dog to chase
#63. Spring cleaning. I tend to clean in giant spurts of energy - like, every 4 months or so I will windex a mirror in the bathroom -- then, phew, have to rest. I just cleaned out our garage all by myself and found 89% of the surfaces in the garage covered in either mouse poop, spilled birdseed, stray pieces of the pink insulation stuff or dirt. Yum.
#62. Trying on bathing suits.
#61. Trying on ANYTHING that involves showing skin.
#60. Having to actually maintain your toenails now that your feet are seeing the light of day again, after enjoying many months of poking your bed mate with nasty sharp little uneven toenails and then rubbing your nasty pale unshaven legs on them.
#59. Actually having to shave your legs higher than your anklebone.
#58. I STILL HATE BEES. Especially buzzing around my beer at Tiger games.
#57. Realizing that the Tigers do, indeed, still suck.
#56. Realizing that you paid $1300 in season tickets to once again see the Tigers suck 21 times in person.
#55. Realizing how many cute purses you could have bought for $1300
#54-45. ROAD CONSTRUCTION EVERYWHERE I POSSIBLY NEED TO GO IN MICHIGAN
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
There, I fixed the spacing problem.
All I had to do was completely change the look of the whole blog. Oh well.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
HERE. I updated.
Now all six of my remaining readers (Curt, Kathy, Rachel, Erin, possibly Megan if she's really bored in a meeting, and maybe my sister in law) can have proof that I do still exist in cyberspace.
I recently did some online poll thing where it tells you what animal you will be reincarnated as in your next life. I think I was actually a cat -- which I guess means I am bored with humanity, selfish, reclusive, arrogant and deathly allergic to myself. Yep, that pretty much sums me up. I think, though, that I more accurately will be reincarnated as an octopus as payback for the fact that I spend all of my waking hours and many of my sleeping ones multitasking like a freak. My coworker told me the other day, "Wow, I really wish I did as much 'stuff' as you did. But then I think -- wow. Just HEARING about your life makes me tired."
It makes me tired and cranky and overcommitted and overstressed and guilty. Right now in addition to full time work (well, "full time" -- ha ha, considering how often I am online googling things that I saw the night before on Discovery Health channel or debating whether or not Molly REALLY needs that $84 pair of baby Ralph Lauren capris...by the way, NO.), I am performing in "A Chorus Line" -- which I have to tell you is the WORST show for a woman's self esteem EVER. Just the thought of standing in front of hundreds of people in a leotard makes me (ALMOST) want to vomit. In my brain, the entire show will be ignored by everyone as they stare intently at my midsection and say in their heads (or out loud, if they're really rude) "tsk tsk, what a NASTY looking roll of fat from that poor woman's C-section! And look! Her left thigh seems to be growing fatter as we sit here!!!" Not to mention that 3/4 of the women in the cast are a) under 20 and b) the size of my arm. You got us couple-a mommas up there feeling like dancing water buffalos next to this army of no-inner-organ, rib-cage removed pixies. BLEGGGGH.
So, show ends April 23. April 25 I leave at 7 am for Charlotte for 4 days for work. I also recently agreed to serve on the communications committee for the March of Dimes, which requires 7:30 am monthly meetings, and am on the board of the theater group that is performing Chorus Line which means being involved with fundrasing/begging, events, marketing, getting the word out to local media, etc.
With my beloved group of online mommy friends (many of whom I recently met in real life!!! I will have to get into that later. See? promise of at least one more post), I am doing two "gift exchanges" and "secret mommy" relationships. I have Molly's 2nd birthday coming up -- which I vowed to "scale WAY back" from last year's 60 person gala -- right now I am at 42 and counting. My mother in law's birthday is this Sunday; and oh yeah, yours truly celebrates her Baskin Robbins birthday next Thursday on opening night of the show (get it? Baskin Robbins? 31-derful? ha ha ha. sigh. It should be 31-der why I feel like ass all the time and have wrinkles and saggy parts -- oh yeah, I'm OLD. Guess that won't fit neatly on those little pink plastic taste spoons though).
I don't expect sympathy from anyone -- I bring this on myself and have always been involved in a million and a half things. But what gets to me is that oh yeah -- wake up , captain selfish -- you have this little person named Molly who might, perhaps, like to see her mother at some point. Daddy is also in school, a schedule which is about to get a LOT worse before it gets better, so in theory, one or the other of us is always a single parent and more often than THAT, Molly is shuffled around between her very patient/willing grandparents and her aunt who indulge my silly penchant for theater and Daddy's penchant for wanting to make a lot of money to support Mommy's ridiculous spending on things like, oh, CARPET that isn't the color of ground salmon with giant spills all over it (including the Kathy memorial wine stain); FURNITURE that isn't faded, torn, puked on, shedded on, deflated and deformed; and oh yeah, a $10 GARBAGE CAN THAT DOESN'T HAVE A GAPING HOLE IN THE SIDE OF IT!!!!!! (Dan's response -- "I can't believe you're throwing that out. We can PATCH it you know.")
ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Anyway, if you've been wondering where I've been and what I've been doing, there you have it. Talk to you all in 2007.
I recently did some online poll thing where it tells you what animal you will be reincarnated as in your next life. I think I was actually a cat -- which I guess means I am bored with humanity, selfish, reclusive, arrogant and deathly allergic to myself. Yep, that pretty much sums me up. I think, though, that I more accurately will be reincarnated as an octopus as payback for the fact that I spend all of my waking hours and many of my sleeping ones multitasking like a freak. My coworker told me the other day, "Wow, I really wish I did as much 'stuff' as you did. But then I think -- wow. Just HEARING about your life makes me tired."
It makes me tired and cranky and overcommitted and overstressed and guilty. Right now in addition to full time work (well, "full time" -- ha ha, considering how often I am online googling things that I saw the night before on Discovery Health channel or debating whether or not Molly REALLY needs that $84 pair of baby Ralph Lauren capris...by the way, NO.), I am performing in "A Chorus Line" -- which I have to tell you is the WORST show for a woman's self esteem EVER. Just the thought of standing in front of hundreds of people in a leotard makes me (ALMOST) want to vomit. In my brain, the entire show will be ignored by everyone as they stare intently at my midsection and say in their heads (or out loud, if they're really rude) "tsk tsk, what a NASTY looking roll of fat from that poor woman's C-section! And look! Her left thigh seems to be growing fatter as we sit here!!!" Not to mention that 3/4 of the women in the cast are a) under 20 and b) the size of my arm. You got us couple-a mommas up there feeling like dancing water buffalos next to this army of no-inner-organ, rib-cage removed pixies. BLEGGGGH.
So, show ends April 23. April 25 I leave at 7 am for Charlotte for 4 days for work. I also recently agreed to serve on the communications committee for the March of Dimes, which requires 7:30 am monthly meetings, and am on the board of the theater group that is performing Chorus Line which means being involved with fundrasing/begging, events, marketing, getting the word out to local media, etc.
With my beloved group of online mommy friends (many of whom I recently met in real life!!! I will have to get into that later. See? promise of at least one more post), I am doing two "gift exchanges" and "secret mommy" relationships. I have Molly's 2nd birthday coming up -- which I vowed to "scale WAY back" from last year's 60 person gala -- right now I am at 42 and counting. My mother in law's birthday is this Sunday; and oh yeah, yours truly celebrates her Baskin Robbins birthday next Thursday on opening night of the show (get it? Baskin Robbins? 31-derful? ha ha ha. sigh. It should be 31-der why I feel like ass all the time and have wrinkles and saggy parts -- oh yeah, I'm OLD. Guess that won't fit neatly on those little pink plastic taste spoons though).
I don't expect sympathy from anyone -- I bring this on myself and have always been involved in a million and a half things. But what gets to me is that oh yeah -- wake up , captain selfish -- you have this little person named Molly who might, perhaps, like to see her mother at some point. Daddy is also in school, a schedule which is about to get a LOT worse before it gets better, so in theory, one or the other of us is always a single parent and more often than THAT, Molly is shuffled around between her very patient/willing grandparents and her aunt who indulge my silly penchant for theater and Daddy's penchant for wanting to make a lot of money to support Mommy's ridiculous spending on things like, oh, CARPET that isn't the color of ground salmon with giant spills all over it (including the Kathy memorial wine stain); FURNITURE that isn't faded, torn, puked on, shedded on, deflated and deformed; and oh yeah, a $10 GARBAGE CAN THAT DOESN'T HAVE A GAPING HOLE IN THE SIDE OF IT!!!!!! (Dan's response -- "I can't believe you're throwing that out. We can PATCH it you know.")
ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Anyway, if you've been wondering where I've been and what I've been doing, there you have it. Talk to you all in 2007.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
SING!
I just wanted to see if I could get anyone to faint by updating not once, but twice - in ONE WEEK!! That should give you some indication of how bored I am with the riveting world of housing industry public relations. Be still, my beating interest rate.
In true typecasting, I have been given the role of "Kristine," the dancer who can't sing to save her life, in the upcoming production of "A Chorus Line" with my new theater (or "theatre" if you're truly cultured. Or pretentious.) group, Destination Theatre. The downside of this role is that it is a pretty nice-sized role, with lots of dialogue, a whole song, and plenty of dancing -- thereby likely to land me in divorce court from a time commitment standpoint. The upside is that I will be doing the show with my bestest little short person mommy friend Rachel, all four-feet-ten-inches (oh, 11, fine) of her. Should be a blast! Kristine's signature piece is aptly titled "SING!" which, of course, she cannot do. I can at least sing (a little), but it will be a huge relief for me to actually squawk and shriek on stage with the goal of being as BAD as possible. I still have to dance well, unfortunately, which as I found out during auditions would be an easier feat if I wasn't Captain Carbs-a-lot, actually got some exercise other than toting the 23 lb screaming eel up and down the steps, could wear a leotard without looking like a sausage factory accident, and had any of the flexibility left that made me such a popular party trick in my earlier days (reference: bachelorette party photo of foot over head, wearing 3 inch heels and feeling no pain. Til the next day at least)
That's all the news for now. Molly is feeling better but has lately turned into a control freak on issues like diaper changes, eating, clothes changing, crayon picking, page turning...basically anything that occurs during waking moments. It's a blast. Why do we want to do this again??? DO we want to do this again?!?! EEK!
(NOTE: THIS IS IN NO WAY AN INDICATION OF A CHANGE IN CURRENT CHILD COUNT. WE WILL ISSUE AN ALL POINTS BULLETIN SHOULD THE CHILD QUANTITY EXCEED THE CURRENT LIMIT OF 'ONE' IN OUR HOUSEHOLD. PLEASE RESUME NORMAL BREATHING PATTERNS.)
In true typecasting, I have been given the role of "Kristine," the dancer who can't sing to save her life, in the upcoming production of "A Chorus Line" with my new theater (or "theatre" if you're truly cultured. Or pretentious.) group, Destination Theatre. The downside of this role is that it is a pretty nice-sized role, with lots of dialogue, a whole song, and plenty of dancing -- thereby likely to land me in divorce court from a time commitment standpoint. The upside is that I will be doing the show with my bestest little short person mommy friend Rachel, all four-feet-ten-inches (oh, 11, fine) of her. Should be a blast! Kristine's signature piece is aptly titled "SING!" which, of course, she cannot do. I can at least sing (a little), but it will be a huge relief for me to actually squawk and shriek on stage with the goal of being as BAD as possible. I still have to dance well, unfortunately, which as I found out during auditions would be an easier feat if I wasn't Captain Carbs-a-lot, actually got some exercise other than toting the 23 lb screaming eel up and down the steps, could wear a leotard without looking like a sausage factory accident, and had any of the flexibility left that made me such a popular party trick in my earlier days (reference: bachelorette party photo of foot over head, wearing 3 inch heels and feeling no pain. Til the next day at least)
That's all the news for now. Molly is feeling better but has lately turned into a control freak on issues like diaper changes, eating, clothes changing, crayon picking, page turning...basically anything that occurs during waking moments. It's a blast. Why do we want to do this again??? DO we want to do this again?!?! EEK!
(NOTE: THIS IS IN NO WAY AN INDICATION OF A CHANGE IN CURRENT CHILD COUNT. WE WILL ISSUE AN ALL POINTS BULLETIN SHOULD THE CHILD QUANTITY EXCEED THE CURRENT LIMIT OF 'ONE' IN OUR HOUSEHOLD. PLEASE RESUME NORMAL BREATHING PATTERNS.)
Monday, February 13, 2006
Greetings from Snotsville USA
Yeah, I really have that boring of a life that my child's bodily excretions are worthy of their own blog entry. While it seems that the little monster had had some kind of snotty nose for about the last 3 years, including time in utero, she got cough-y and phlegm-y enough today that even DADDY agreed she needed to go to the doctor (something that usually requires "proof" of serious illness such as an amputated limb or second head sprouting). Turns out she has RSV and a double ear infection (sounds like something you would order at Starbucks -- "Make mine a half-caf RSV with a double E/I, please"). We are lucky this didn't happen last year -- RSV would likely have landed her in the hospital as an infant. It stands for Respiratory Syncitial Virus (look at me throwin' around all the medical terminology, now that I am considering nursing school!) and is a cousin of pneumonia that causes wheezing, coughing and all sorts of unpleasantness, including, apparently, the desire to take all solid foods and shove them up mommy's butt or somewhere equally far away from said child's mouth.
She has been surviving on Pediasure, chocolate milk, drinkable yogurt and daddy's homemade milkshakes. Yesterday, Daddy aka Captain Child Psychology aka I Worked In A Daycare Don't Question My Parenting WHERE IS MY SUPERSUIT, WOMAN?!?! decided that we needed to start boosting Molly's protein intake since her idea of well rounded nutrition is eating solely from the F group - French Fries, Frosty, Fingers (chicken), etc. Sooooo, daddy mixed up vanilla ice cream, nestle quik, bananas, and...A RAW EGG. Yes, because apparently Molly has unbeknowst to me become a champion weightlifter and will soon be trading in her cheerios for Creatine. BLEGGGGGGGGH. Needless to say I was none too amused with Daddy's efforts, as thoughtful as they were to get her to try to eat more. Sigh. He is home with her today and tomorrow while she rests up from the RSV, so I am secretly hoping that maybe a few nice rounds of less-than-well-formed poop might repay daddy for the raw egg favor.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
I've Been Tagged So I Have to Stop Slacking
Thank God for Natalie, who tagged me with these questions, thus saving me from having to come up with an original idea. Original ideas have been in short supply 'round these parts so I will happily post some responses to her "four questions" and then pass them along to anyone who's left who hasn't already been tagged!
Four jobs that I have had:
1) game technician and merchandise rep at Sea World of Ohio, working in Shamu's Happy Harbor and perfecting my Skee-ball skills (college summers)
2) public relations coordinator for the Detroit Tigers for four years (experience: priceless. number of drinks paid for by gazillionaire athletes: priceless. salary, broken down per hour: priceless. I mean, LITERALLY priceless. As in too small to assign a price to.)
3) public relations human sacrifice, horrible Midwest calls-itself-luxury-but-really-overpriced-crap apartment management company (job stress = prime suspect for why I had a baby, 9 weeks early, while on a business trip 1000 miles from home)
4) dance teacher (high school)
Four movies that I can watch over and over again:
1) Major League (but NOT Major League II or III or however many unfortunate sequels now exist)
2) A League of Their Own (sensing a trend here?)
3) Rudy (naw, I really don't like sports. Really.)
4) Clueless (it's just damn funny)
Four places I have lived:
1) Pittsburgh, PA
2) Cleveland, OH
3) South Bend, IN
4) Detroit, MI
Yes, indeedy, all I need is Gary, IN and I will have hit all of the Midwest's finest armpit cities
Four TV shows I love to watch:
1) Lost
2) Anything and everything on Discovery Health Channel
3) West Wing
4) Jack's Big Music Show (regardless of whether or not Molly is home)
4a) American Idol
4b) Dancing with the Stars
4c) I 4-C needing to stop watching so much bad TV
Four websites I read daily (or I at least check on daily):
1) Detroit News (detnews.com)
2) Babycenter.com
3) Msnbc.com (I am a news junkie)
4) A private site I cannot name for fear that the other members will hunt me down and fling rabid wet rodents at me
4a) ESPN.com
4b) Dooce.com (hil-a-ri-ous blogger)
Four places I have been on vacation:
1) Spain
2) The Bahamas
3) Hawaii (Maui, Kauai, Oahu)
4) Duck, NC (always one of my favorites)
Four favorite foods:
1) my nachos
2) Don Pablo's anything
3) anything Italian that doesn't involve olives
4) Brown sugar cinnamon pop tarts
Four places I'd rather be:
1) in bed, asleep
2) with Molly, not at work :(
3) Hawaii, if I could get there without the whole airplane flight thing
4) in bed, asleep
Four people to tag:
Sheesh, who's left???
Did anyone tag Kiki?
How about Kafra?
Angel?
Everyone else I can think of has already been hit with this one!!
Four jobs that I have had:
1) game technician and merchandise rep at Sea World of Ohio, working in Shamu's Happy Harbor and perfecting my Skee-ball skills (college summers)
2) public relations coordinator for the Detroit Tigers for four years (experience: priceless. number of drinks paid for by gazillionaire athletes: priceless. salary, broken down per hour: priceless. I mean, LITERALLY priceless. As in too small to assign a price to.)
3) public relations human sacrifice, horrible Midwest calls-itself-luxury-but-really-overpriced-crap apartment management company (job stress = prime suspect for why I had a baby, 9 weeks early, while on a business trip 1000 miles from home)
4) dance teacher (high school)
Four movies that I can watch over and over again:
1) Major League (but NOT Major League II or III or however many unfortunate sequels now exist)
2) A League of Their Own (sensing a trend here?)
3) Rudy (naw, I really don't like sports. Really.)
4) Clueless (it's just damn funny)
Four places I have lived:
1) Pittsburgh, PA
2) Cleveland, OH
3) South Bend, IN
4) Detroit, MI
Yes, indeedy, all I need is Gary, IN and I will have hit all of the Midwest's finest armpit cities
Four TV shows I love to watch:
1) Lost
2) Anything and everything on Discovery Health Channel
3) West Wing
4) Jack's Big Music Show (regardless of whether or not Molly is home)
4a) American Idol
4b) Dancing with the Stars
4c) I 4-C needing to stop watching so much bad TV
Four websites I read daily (or I at least check on daily):
1) Detroit News (detnews.com)
2) Babycenter.com
3) Msnbc.com (I am a news junkie)
4) A private site I cannot name for fear that the other members will hunt me down and fling rabid wet rodents at me
4a) ESPN.com
4b) Dooce.com (hil-a-ri-ous blogger)
Four places I have been on vacation:
1) Spain
2) The Bahamas
3) Hawaii (Maui, Kauai, Oahu)
4) Duck, NC (always one of my favorites)
Four favorite foods:
1) my nachos
2) Don Pablo's anything
3) anything Italian that doesn't involve olives
4) Brown sugar cinnamon pop tarts
Four places I'd rather be:
1) in bed, asleep
2) with Molly, not at work :(
3) Hawaii, if I could get there without the whole airplane flight thing
4) in bed, asleep
Four people to tag:
Sheesh, who's left???
Did anyone tag Kiki?
How about Kafra?
Angel?
Everyone else I can think of has already been hit with this one!!
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