Fall is by far my favorite time of year. I love the cooler weather, the clothes, the sights and sounds, and most importantly I LOVE the food. Fall food means the best of the best: squash, pumpkin anything, apple pies, and the big kahuna: THANKSGIVING DINNER! It's like a fat kid's delight!
And this time of year brings back a very strong memory for me. It's something that I did about this time last year. I'd like to say it wasn't me, but then it wouldn't make for a very funny blog. It's a little something involving pumpkin pie, my hormonal rage, and me... nearly beating a woman up and a punk-ass teenager.
About this time last year I was about 4 months pregnant. I had cravings, but my cravings consisted of people who had food needed to leave my smelling radius because everything made me want to puke. I was sick nearly every day until about the 6 month mark. So the fact that one night I even got an actual craving that wouldn't pass after the thought of it made me dry-heave was a little extraordinary!
It was after 10pm and Abby had just left to go back to her place. Stoofy was in Kuwait in the midst of his contract out there. So I was on my own and I needed pumpkin pie. And I mean NEEDED it!
So I climbed into bed thinking, I can let this pass. If I fall asleep, I won't want it anymore and I'll be fine. That lasted all of 5 minutes and then I climbed out of bed, put on something decent to go out in and hopped into my car. I was on the hunt for fresh baked pumpkin pie.
I knew that being the end of September meant there would be pumpkin pie available. (It’s fall time for God’s sake!) I knew exactly what store would have it too. Harris Teeter. Because I had been there the day before and saw the pies lined up for display at the front of the store.
At 10:10PM I arrive at HT and walk through the door. I can't wait to get to the pies all sitting there waiting for me to snatch up and eat on the car ride home. Except when I got there, they were out of pumpkin pies. They had sweet potato pie, but everyone knows that's totally different. Even if you smear it with whipped cream, I knew I would be able to tell the difference.
So I scoured the rest of the store. I went through every pie in the bakery section. Checked behind random loaves of bread just in case some jerk tried to hide one for themselves until they got off shift. I'd show that asshole! But alas, there was no pie. I checked the freezer section thinking, ok I'll just find myself a Sarah Lee and pop it in the oven. That bitch creates pies that take an HOUR to bake! Uh, I needed my pie fix immediately!
What's a hormonal pregnant woman to do? Search the store and buy cinnamon rolls for breakfast the next morning, juice and lemon poppy seed muffins because they've got the best ones. And that'll hold me over until I get to the next store. I did pass the baking section and thought, damn, it'll take too long to bake my own pie. I'll just go to Giant and get a pie there.
As I check out, the cashier asks if I found everything ok. Uh no, you do you have any pumpkin pies left in the back? I'm seriously craving them and I want one.
And the pimple-faced douche bag bagger turns to me and says, "I bought the last ones about an hour ago. (ha ha) If you want a slice I'll sell you one in an hour when I go on my break. (HAHAHAHA)."
To which I respond, "Listen here you fucking asshole, I'm pregnant and I want a fucking pie now. Don't be a prick and tease me."
I quickly paid and left the store before the manager, who was headed my way, could escort me out.
Now I'm just pissed! I want a fucking pie and if I could figure out which car was that kid's I'd consider breaking in for a slice. Then I decide going to jail tonight wasn't going to be the best decision... so on to the next store.
10:35PM- I arrive at Giant and make a beeline to the bakery section. I leave no slice of pie unturned in my quest for pumpkin. They've got cherry, apple, sweet potato, pretty much everything but pumpkin. And nothing is going to do until I get a slice of pumpkin. So I start sprinting (as fast as a pregnant woman can go) to the freezer section hoping I can find a pie that doesn't take an hour to bake. But as I get to the freezer section I start to search people's carts as I pass them, hoping to find my pot of gold.
Low and behold, I do! There is a woman with a pumpkin pie in her cart. So I rush up to her in a panicked frenzy and ask her (in my mind it was with good, friendly intentions. It came across as scary and abrasive) if I can have her pumpkin pie. She says no.
I explain to her I am pregnant and I really NEED that pie.
She says no.
I dig in my purse, pull out a $20 and start shouting I'LL GIVE YOU $20 IF YOU GIVE ME THAT PIE! I'M FUCKING PREGNANT AND I NEED THAT FUCKING PIE!
She starts to walk away scared. I take a few steps after her yelling... it did me no good.
Back to the freezer section. And yes, they do have pies that take only 25 minutes to bake... but they’re all out. I'm nearly in tears and I want to scream at the top of my lungs (which I already had at the woman with the pie).
I storm back out of the store feeling defeated. But across the street I see the hazing red light of a bulls eye sign. FUCK YEAH! Target is open until 11PM tonight! And it's only 10:50!!!! I zip across the street and throw it into park.
I don't think I've ever hustled as fast as I did to get into the store.
I run to the freezer section and find a pumpkin pie, and it only takes 25 minutes to bake! FINALLY, VICTORY IS MINE!!! But it's a bittersweet victory. Because deep down I know it's not going to be a great pie. I know that with the time it took to track down this pie, I could have baked one in my house already and be sitting in my bed with a warm slice topped with crumb topping like I like and a dollop of whip cream on top. But I don't fucking care. I just want the pie.
So I purchase the pie (and vanilla ice cream… ala mode, DUH!), speed home and throw that sucker into the oven. 25 minutes later (plus the time it took to preheat the oven and the time it took to cool and set), I dish up my pie slice and dig in. Only to find that it sucks just as much as I knew it would.
I go to bed even more pissed and in tears that I didn't have good pie, that I nearly accosted a woman and teenage kid. And I'm even more pissed that I didn't just buy the ingredients and make my own pie. Because now that it’s nearly midnight, going back to the store to buy the ingredients and bake another pie is just flat out CRAZY!!!!
Lesson learned: when you have a craving, it's just easier to make it yourself. And it's less likely to get you arrested.
About Me
- Betty Bakedgood
- I'm a working single mom who loves to write in my spare time... so bare with me when there's a lull in the blogging. It means I'm out enjoying my daughter, Elly's, crazy antics!
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
A Queen Looking for a King
Sleeping is a time for stretching in my house. We (I mean the female we's in the house) like to sleep as starfish as possible.
My daughter still sleeps the same way she did when I was pregnant with her... Stretched out as far as she can go. However, now she's only restricted by the walls of her crib, not the walls of my uterus or my rib cage.
Even the dog who sleeps curled up in a ball for most of the night tries to gain a little more tail room by wiggling her boney ass in an attempt to wedge me from my designated sleeping area. (She usually gets kicked out for this infraction.)
This in turn means I start to encroach on Stoofy's space. Basically at the end of the night, he's literally on the edge of his seat and I've taken up most of the rest of the bed, minus the dog's spot at my feet.
And this violation of our bed's Monroe Doctrine is a violation of Stoofy's and my unspoken marriage vows.
I apparently vowed I wouldn't try to take over his whole life. So taking over his sleeping space kind of negates my promise. Oops!
I can't help it. When it's time to sleep, I need my space. No cuddling allowed! I need room to myself to stretch out and get comfy. I roam free, even in my sleep. And I've passed that on to my daughter.
It worries Stoofy to no end that he may never get to actually have space to sleep as she gets older. Because there will inevitably be nights where the boogie man scares Elly and she finds her way into our bed for safe keeping. And although I'd like to say I'd shoo her back to bed immediately, but I’d probably be lying. When sleepy, I’ll give in to just about anything just to get back to my REM cycle. So if that means letting a crying child climb in to my bed so I can get back to my dream I'll probably do it.
In Stoofy's mind that means two starfish. Two competing sets of arms and legs flailing around looking to occupy as much space as possible. It concerns him to say the least. His solution is to put his foot down and make me go back to my side.
The really amazing thing is that when I have a smaller space to sleep in, I only occupy that much space. But give me a bigger space, and I'll use it. Kind of like the bigger the purse the more stuff you NEED to carry with you!
I mean, on deployment 'racks' (as we call them in the Navy) are TINY to say the least. (I think the reason why there are weight restrictions in the Navy is because if you're too fat to get into your rack then what the hell are you going to do? You can't exactly knock out a wall to make more room!) And I do just fine there. I don’t' flail around. There just isn't room for that. You just climb in and sleep. No moving except for the rocking of the ship. (If the ship's a rockin' don't come a knockin'! HAHAHA! That's what she said! I'm 12 this morning.)
So I feel like the only solution to this conundrum is to upgrade sleeping arrangements.
TIME FOR A KING!
My daughter still sleeps the same way she did when I was pregnant with her... Stretched out as far as she can go. However, now she's only restricted by the walls of her crib, not the walls of my uterus or my rib cage.
Even the dog who sleeps curled up in a ball for most of the night tries to gain a little more tail room by wiggling her boney ass in an attempt to wedge me from my designated sleeping area. (She usually gets kicked out for this infraction.)
This in turn means I start to encroach on Stoofy's space. Basically at the end of the night, he's literally on the edge of his seat and I've taken up most of the rest of the bed, minus the dog's spot at my feet.
And this violation of our bed's Monroe Doctrine is a violation of Stoofy's and my unspoken marriage vows.
I apparently vowed I wouldn't try to take over his whole life. So taking over his sleeping space kind of negates my promise. Oops!
I can't help it. When it's time to sleep, I need my space. No cuddling allowed! I need room to myself to stretch out and get comfy. I roam free, even in my sleep. And I've passed that on to my daughter.
It worries Stoofy to no end that he may never get to actually have space to sleep as she gets older. Because there will inevitably be nights where the boogie man scares Elly and she finds her way into our bed for safe keeping. And although I'd like to say I'd shoo her back to bed immediately, but I’d probably be lying. When sleepy, I’ll give in to just about anything just to get back to my REM cycle. So if that means letting a crying child climb in to my bed so I can get back to my dream I'll probably do it.
In Stoofy's mind that means two starfish. Two competing sets of arms and legs flailing around looking to occupy as much space as possible. It concerns him to say the least. His solution is to put his foot down and make me go back to my side.
The really amazing thing is that when I have a smaller space to sleep in, I only occupy that much space. But give me a bigger space, and I'll use it. Kind of like the bigger the purse the more stuff you NEED to carry with you!
I mean, on deployment 'racks' (as we call them in the Navy) are TINY to say the least. (I think the reason why there are weight restrictions in the Navy is because if you're too fat to get into your rack then what the hell are you going to do? You can't exactly knock out a wall to make more room!) And I do just fine there. I don’t' flail around. There just isn't room for that. You just climb in and sleep. No moving except for the rocking of the ship. (If the ship's a rockin' don't come a knockin'! HAHAHA! That's what she said! I'm 12 this morning.)
So I feel like the only solution to this conundrum is to upgrade sleeping arrangements.
TIME FOR A KING!
Friday, September 23, 2011
BFFs are AWESOME!
Today I'd like to recognize my BFF, Abby. It's her birthday and she's pretty much AWESOME!
She's the kind of friend that'll laugh at your jokes even if you're not that funny, help you plot your husband's murder and promise to purger herself on the stand if asked if it's premeditated, and she's willing to turn a blind eye when you're at your worst (and simultaneously best) moment of your life giving birth to your daughter. (She'll even take pictures for you, but not the seriously gross, gory ones that freak me out. Because NO ONE wants to relive that mess!)
She's the kind of friend that helps you stalk your favorite hockey team until midnight and won't judge you when you try to squeeze your 8 month pregnant ass out a window 5 stories up just to see if you see your dream husband boarding the tour bus.
(Note, that's as far as the window would open, so that's as far as I could squeeze out.)
Abby is the kind of friend that hates the same people I hate. And helps plan their demise with me. Because honestly, I'm a sick and twisted individual who watches too much CSI and NCIS, clearly. But she'll hop on board without a second thought and she’ll bring the Oreos.
She's also the kind of friend that helps you talk through all your troubles, and prays for you when you think you've just hit one of your lowest points (when in actuality, you could probably slouch even further down, but she won't let you totally tail-spin out of control with that kind of thinking).
But most importantly, she's the kind of girl that when it really counts, she's all in and there for you. She's truly willing to risk her life for her country, beliefs, and friends.
Finding this kind of friend isn't easy. We've found out during our years of friendship, that where we grew up isn't far from each other. Our mothers are very similar in a lot of ways. In fact, they have mutual friends. Turns out we could have met sooner!
But timing is everything.
My mom and her best friend are about to celebrate their 40th anniversary as friends. That's longer than a lot of marriages I know. They have gone through marriages, child birth/ child rearing, divorce, long distances, pretty much everything that can test a friendship. And through it all, they're relationship has endured.
It's truly awesome to see that. Especially in this day and age where women being catty and getting into stupid bickering matches is what makes a top-rated TV show (don't get me wrong, I can't wait to see what happens next with the new chick on RHWofBH). It's nice to see that's not reality everywhere.
It's that kind of endurance and longevity I pray for in my friendship with Abby. Because without her, I have no idea who I'll laugh with when it comes time to heckle Penguins fans in Pittsburgh. And I'm going to need someone to gossip with me when we become snow leopards in the nursing home and we're hitting on all the younger guys!
Because she's that kind of best friend. The kind of best friend you want to have for the rest of your life.
And she's the kind of woman I hope my daughter grows into.
She's the kind of friend that'll laugh at your jokes even if you're not that funny, help you plot your husband's murder and promise to purger herself on the stand if asked if it's premeditated, and she's willing to turn a blind eye when you're at your worst (and simultaneously best) moment of your life giving birth to your daughter. (She'll even take pictures for you, but not the seriously gross, gory ones that freak me out. Because NO ONE wants to relive that mess!)
She's the kind of friend that helps you stalk your favorite hockey team until midnight and won't judge you when you try to squeeze your 8 month pregnant ass out a window 5 stories up just to see if you see your dream husband boarding the tour bus.
Abby is the kind of friend that hates the same people I hate. And helps plan their demise with me. Because honestly, I'm a sick and twisted individual who watches too much CSI and NCIS, clearly. But she'll hop on board without a second thought and she’ll bring the Oreos.
She's also the kind of friend that helps you talk through all your troubles, and prays for you when you think you've just hit one of your lowest points (when in actuality, you could probably slouch even further down, but she won't let you totally tail-spin out of control with that kind of thinking).
But most importantly, she's the kind of girl that when it really counts, she's all in and there for you. She's truly willing to risk her life for her country, beliefs, and friends.
Finding this kind of friend isn't easy. We've found out during our years of friendship, that where we grew up isn't far from each other. Our mothers are very similar in a lot of ways. In fact, they have mutual friends. Turns out we could have met sooner!
But timing is everything.
My mom and her best friend are about to celebrate their 40th anniversary as friends. That's longer than a lot of marriages I know. They have gone through marriages, child birth/ child rearing, divorce, long distances, pretty much everything that can test a friendship. And through it all, they're relationship has endured.
It's truly awesome to see that. Especially in this day and age where women being catty and getting into stupid bickering matches is what makes a top-rated TV show (don't get me wrong, I can't wait to see what happens next with the new chick on RHWofBH). It's nice to see that's not reality everywhere.
It's that kind of endurance and longevity I pray for in my friendship with Abby. Because without her, I have no idea who I'll laugh with when it comes time to heckle Penguins fans in Pittsburgh. And I'm going to need someone to gossip with me when we become snow leopards in the nursing home and we're hitting on all the younger guys!
Because she's that kind of best friend. The kind of best friend you want to have for the rest of your life.
And she's the kind of woman I hope my daughter grows into.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Running: Still Hating Life
So, after a couple weeks of running, I still pretty much hate it. I mean, I truly hate its stinking guts. It's awful.
Listening to Abby telling me about how her boyfriend went on a run before his race just makes me want to pull a Tonya Harding on his Nancy Kerrigan knee. I mean seriously. Who the HELL RUNS BEFORE A RACE?!?!?!
Jerk.
Makes all the rest of us look bad. Me in particular.
Because no matter how hard I try right now, I am not exactly getting any faster. I will say I am going further, but we're not talking by leaps and bounds.
And then this morning on a friend's status update (which by the way, I hate the fancy Facebook update) I come across this little gem:
(And I still hate everything about it!)
And my first thought is: Jackass! I am bitter because I am a turtle and a mile is a long, long, LONG distance. Two miles is twice as long, three sucks thrice as much and well whatever the 5K is, 3 point whatever miles, sucks even more. And no matter what I do, a mile's measurement is never going to get shorter. Unless somehow I can take over the world and be THE world leader, it's just not going to happen.
The only thing that is going to happen is I'm going to just have to suck it up and run more and find some kind of motivation.
Lucky for me, I came across this touching story.
Really kid? Now you're just making me look bad. Because not only am I crying over how touching it is that this kid had so much compassion for another athlete, he also had the ability to carry him a half mile, then continue on his damn race.
I feel like a slug. I better not see a double amputee on skates again today (I say again, because a couple weeks ago I met one at a hockey game for wounded warriors), or I might want to off myself, which is the same feeling I get when I run.
Basically, I'm still waiting for that so called 'runner's high' everyone's (my running friends that is) talking about.
Listening to Abby telling me about how her boyfriend went on a run before his race just makes me want to pull a Tonya Harding on his Nancy Kerrigan knee. I mean seriously. Who the HELL RUNS BEFORE A RACE?!?!?!
Jerk.
Makes all the rest of us look bad. Me in particular.
Because no matter how hard I try right now, I am not exactly getting any faster. I will say I am going further, but we're not talking by leaps and bounds.
And then this morning on a friend's status update (which by the way, I hate the fancy Facebook update) I come across this little gem:
(And I still hate everything about it!)
And my first thought is: Jackass! I am bitter because I am a turtle and a mile is a long, long, LONG distance. Two miles is twice as long, three sucks thrice as much and well whatever the 5K is, 3 point whatever miles, sucks even more. And no matter what I do, a mile's measurement is never going to get shorter. Unless somehow I can take over the world and be THE world leader, it's just not going to happen.
The only thing that is going to happen is I'm going to just have to suck it up and run more and find some kind of motivation.
Lucky for me, I came across this touching story.
Really kid? Now you're just making me look bad. Because not only am I crying over how touching it is that this kid had so much compassion for another athlete, he also had the ability to carry him a half mile, then continue on his damn race.
I feel like a slug. I better not see a double amputee on skates again today (I say again, because a couple weeks ago I met one at a hockey game for wounded warriors), or I might want to off myself, which is the same feeling I get when I run.
Basically, I'm still waiting for that so called 'runner's high' everyone's (my running friends that is) talking about.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
The Art of Compromise SUCKS
The last few weeks since Stoofy returned home from Washington has had its ups and downs. Just like every time we reunite after a separation, there's some getting used to and getting back into the swing of things.
Mostly, it's a fight over compromise. When we have to go our own ways for deployments (or this last time, he was our "advanced party" for our move west, which didn't transpire) we have no choice but to become independent of one another. He has to learn to fend for himself when it comes to eating and doing laundry. I have to suck it up and take out the trash and get the oil changed.
When we reunited, it's a matter of relinquishing a bit of that independence and depending on one another to work as a team. It's all about compromise. And let's just go ahead and say it: I DON'T LIKE TO COMPROMISE.
Honestly, what's the point when I'm right? (I should probably stop writing this if I ever have a dream of running for Congress some day... oh wait, no one there compromises either. I'll fit right in!) I mean, who wants to give up the TV remote to watch another mind numbing episode of Family Guy when I still need to catch up on my RHWofNJ, RHWofBH, and Jersey Shore? Uh, not this Betty.
And if you ask Stoofy who's right during our 'disagreements' he'll tell you he's right. So, there you have it... two stubborn, unwilling to compromise people... married.... FOR-EV-ER. (How the hell did this even happen? Oh yeah... LOVE)
Our latest issue to find a compromise on: Elly's sleep patterns. She's had a dedicated bedtime for about 2.5 months... until daddy came home and decided to put her to sleep when he feels like it. And semi-dedicated nap times through the day? Yeah, those are long gone and nap time is when he feels like it.
Now, I've tried to be flexible, I've tried to explain it's good to have a set routine. Kids thrive on routine. According to him, this is his routine. (It's like you can see the speeding train about to de-rail and yet, no one does anything to stop it. You can see how this is about to work out, right?)
Ok, fine. I'll give in. Except, now the consequence is she wakes up screaming for an hour and a half at 2 in the morning. And who gets the privilege of waking up, calming her down, and waiting for her to cry it out? Me. Stoofy snores right through it all, since that's his contribution to the compromise according to him. And each morning he wakes up wondering why I didn't come to bed. Seriously?
And this is why compromise sucks. I hate it and I don't like to do it. I want it my way damn it! And I want some fucking sleep!!!!
So here's my compromise to him: When she wakes up screaming tonight (because I know she will), I'll be elbowing him until he's awake, and he can come stand next to me and wait for her to fall back asleep (two hours later). The compromise? All three of us can be sleep deprived and miserable. Because fair is fair!
I think it'll only take one night of that for him to compromise and see it my way again! :-) Because if mama ain't happy, nobody happy!
Mostly, it's a fight over compromise. When we have to go our own ways for deployments (or this last time, he was our "advanced party" for our move west, which didn't transpire) we have no choice but to become independent of one another. He has to learn to fend for himself when it comes to eating and doing laundry. I have to suck it up and take out the trash and get the oil changed.
When we reunited, it's a matter of relinquishing a bit of that independence and depending on one another to work as a team. It's all about compromise. And let's just go ahead and say it: I DON'T LIKE TO COMPROMISE.
Honestly, what's the point when I'm right? (I should probably stop writing this if I ever have a dream of running for Congress some day... oh wait, no one there compromises either. I'll fit right in!) I mean, who wants to give up the TV remote to watch another mind numbing episode of Family Guy when I still need to catch up on my RHWofNJ, RHWofBH, and Jersey Shore? Uh, not this Betty.
And if you ask Stoofy who's right during our 'disagreements' he'll tell you he's right. So, there you have it... two stubborn, unwilling to compromise people... married.... FOR-EV-ER. (How the hell did this even happen? Oh yeah... LOVE)
Our latest issue to find a compromise on: Elly's sleep patterns. She's had a dedicated bedtime for about 2.5 months... until daddy came home and decided to put her to sleep when he feels like it. And semi-dedicated nap times through the day? Yeah, those are long gone and nap time is when he feels like it.
Now, I've tried to be flexible, I've tried to explain it's good to have a set routine. Kids thrive on routine. According to him, this is his routine. (It's like you can see the speeding train about to de-rail and yet, no one does anything to stop it. You can see how this is about to work out, right?)
Ok, fine. I'll give in. Except, now the consequence is she wakes up screaming for an hour and a half at 2 in the morning. And who gets the privilege of waking up, calming her down, and waiting for her to cry it out? Me. Stoofy snores right through it all, since that's his contribution to the compromise according to him. And each morning he wakes up wondering why I didn't come to bed. Seriously?
And this is why compromise sucks. I hate it and I don't like to do it. I want it my way damn it! And I want some fucking sleep!!!!
So here's my compromise to him: When she wakes up screaming tonight (because I know she will), I'll be elbowing him until he's awake, and he can come stand next to me and wait for her to fall back asleep (two hours later). The compromise? All three of us can be sleep deprived and miserable. Because fair is fair!
I think it'll only take one night of that for him to compromise and see it my way again! :-) Because if mama ain't happy, nobody happy!
Friday, September 16, 2011
The Meaning of Mom
Mom, mommy, mama, mother, mum... It all means the same thing. They all refer to the woman responsible for raising you.
Moms come in all shapes, sizes and forms. Most moms have given birth to their kids, but not all moms have to. Some women raise kids that aren't theirs, but still care for them as if they are. I'd call those women heroes. (Anyone willing to take on someone else's kid needs a medal!) Either way, it doesn't really matter how you became a mom, it still means the same thing.
If there's one thing I've learned in the last 6.5 months, it's that being a mom is seriously hard work! And what's really crazy is this is ONLY THE BEGINNING! It only gets harder from here folks. FML. (Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't take back a second of it and Elly is easily the best thing I've ever done in my life!)
If you look up what MOM means in the dictionary, you just simply get a woman who raises a child. I find that to be completely lame. So here's what I've got so far as to what being a MOM means:
Incubator
Milk maid/ dairy cow
Storyteller
Human paper towel
Sherpa
Pacifier
Photographer
Disciplinarian
Magician
Short-order cook
Hostage Negotiator
Baker
Guidance counselor
Taxi driver
Caregiver
Alarm clock
Telephone operator
Maid
Zookeeper
Mediator
Endless ATM/ Money tree
White noise
Fashion consultant
Listener
Mathematician
Seamstress
Fortune teller
Diaper gene
Teacher
Firefighter
Coach
Party planner
Nag
Confidant
Doctor
Back scratcher
Hair stylist
Personal assistant/ Scheduler
Instruction manual
Travel guide
Toy/ jungle gym
Scout leader
It reads more like a job listing than a definition. I think it's because ultimately, mom's really have to do it ALL. Not that dad isn't there to help here and there, but when your kid is crying in the middle of the night, dad isn't likely to hear a thing (or at least Stoofy doesn't!). But mom, she doesn't sleep a wink, so she can be there in a flash if needed.
Moms come in all shapes, sizes and forms. Most moms have given birth to their kids, but not all moms have to. Some women raise kids that aren't theirs, but still care for them as if they are. I'd call those women heroes. (Anyone willing to take on someone else's kid needs a medal!) Either way, it doesn't really matter how you became a mom, it still means the same thing.
If there's one thing I've learned in the last 6.5 months, it's that being a mom is seriously hard work! And what's really crazy is this is ONLY THE BEGINNING! It only gets harder from here folks. FML. (Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't take back a second of it and Elly is easily the best thing I've ever done in my life!)
If you look up what MOM means in the dictionary, you just simply get a woman who raises a child. I find that to be completely lame. So here's what I've got so far as to what being a MOM means:
Incubator
Milk maid/ dairy cow
Storyteller
Human paper towel
Sherpa
Pacifier
Photographer
Disciplinarian
Magician
Short-order cook
Hostage Negotiator
Baker
Guidance counselor
Taxi driver
Caregiver
Alarm clock
Telephone operator
Maid
Zookeeper
Mediator
Endless ATM/ Money tree
White noise
Fashion consultant
Listener
Mathematician
Seamstress
Fortune teller
Diaper gene
Teacher
Firefighter
Coach
Party planner
Nag
Confidant
Doctor
Back scratcher
Hair stylist
Personal assistant/ Scheduler
Instruction manual
Travel guide
Toy/ jungle gym
Scout leader
It reads more like a job listing than a definition. I think it's because ultimately, mom's really have to do it ALL. Not that dad isn't there to help here and there, but when your kid is crying in the middle of the night, dad isn't likely to hear a thing (or at least Stoofy doesn't!). But mom, she doesn't sleep a wink, so she can be there in a flash if needed.
Monday, September 12, 2011
BOOBS!
I couldn't come up with anything catchier than the word BOOBS for a blog all about boobs. Because honestly, boobs are generally pretty catchy all on their own. Or at least mine are. (They catch plenty of food I accidentally drop, which in turn leaves a stain. They're the reason I need new clothes... that and my little drool monster.)
To say I have big boobs would be to say Niagara Falls is just a waterfall. It's a bit of an understatement... considering they're in your face. I've been blessed with the bosom, but I wouldn't consider it a happy blessing.
And it seems the older I get, the bigger they get. I wish it was like when you're a kid and every year your relatives send you a check for how old you turned that year. (By the way, I'll be anxiously waiting at my mailbox this November for a box full of $29 checks people!) Instead, with each birthday candle I get an extra ounce of flesh hanging off my chest. Awesome. I'm worried that by the time I hit retirement, my boobs will be collecting a Social Security payment all of their own.
And having a baby hasn't made the problem any better. In fact, it's only made it worse. Because I am the Dairy Queen. And when the Dairy Queen is full, the girls have increased a whole cup-size. I don't even know how that is freakin' possible? But it is!
When I was pregnant, I grew huge. And I got worried that when the milk came in it would be unbearable. I was worried I wouldn't even know if the milk had come in yet because how would I be able to tell? A very wise friend of mine explained to me that if you have to ask, then it hasn't come in yet... because YOU'LL KNOW IT! She said it's like you all of a sudden have bocce balls.
HAHAHAHAHAHA! Bocce balls. As if! Let's try bowling balls!
At least that's what they feel like! Don't even get me started on the dangers of running before pumping milk. Do you remember those old Dolly Parton jokes you told (and barely understood) in elementary school about how when she comes back from a jog she's got two black eyes? Yeah, there's some truth in that fucking joke. And it's painfully not that funny.
Another huge problem (pun intended) with big boobs is finding clothes that fit. Over the weekend Abby and I went shopping for grown-up clothes for her new job and my job interview (I aced it by the way!). And I had two great dressed that I tried on and they fit perfectly... except in the chesticle region.
And as I look in the mirror and realize there's nothing I could do but laugh, I shout across the dressing room door to Abby and say, "The dress looks good, but my boobs are too big for it!"
To which she replies, "That's something you'll never hear me say in my life."
Because as much as it sucks to have jumbotrons, it can't possibly be any better to have barely there's either. Maybe she and I can find a 2 for 1/ bosom buddy special at the plastic surgeons?
To say I have big boobs would be to say Niagara Falls is just a waterfall. It's a bit of an understatement... considering they're in your face. I've been blessed with the bosom, but I wouldn't consider it a happy blessing.
And it seems the older I get, the bigger they get. I wish it was like when you're a kid and every year your relatives send you a check for how old you turned that year. (By the way, I'll be anxiously waiting at my mailbox this November for a box full of $29 checks people!) Instead, with each birthday candle I get an extra ounce of flesh hanging off my chest. Awesome. I'm worried that by the time I hit retirement, my boobs will be collecting a Social Security payment all of their own.
And having a baby hasn't made the problem any better. In fact, it's only made it worse. Because I am the Dairy Queen. And when the Dairy Queen is full, the girls have increased a whole cup-size. I don't even know how that is freakin' possible? But it is!
When I was pregnant, I grew huge. And I got worried that when the milk came in it would be unbearable. I was worried I wouldn't even know if the milk had come in yet because how would I be able to tell? A very wise friend of mine explained to me that if you have to ask, then it hasn't come in yet... because YOU'LL KNOW IT! She said it's like you all of a sudden have bocce balls.
HAHAHAHAHAHA! Bocce balls. As if! Let's try bowling balls!
At least that's what they feel like! Don't even get me started on the dangers of running before pumping milk. Do you remember those old Dolly Parton jokes you told (and barely understood) in elementary school about how when she comes back from a jog she's got two black eyes? Yeah, there's some truth in that fucking joke. And it's painfully not that funny.
Another huge problem (pun intended) with big boobs is finding clothes that fit. Over the weekend Abby and I went shopping for grown-up clothes for her new job and my job interview (I aced it by the way!). And I had two great dressed that I tried on and they fit perfectly... except in the chesticle region.
And as I look in the mirror and realize there's nothing I could do but laugh, I shout across the dressing room door to Abby and say, "The dress looks good, but my boobs are too big for it!"
To which she replies, "That's something you'll never hear me say in my life."
Because as much as it sucks to have jumbotrons, it can't possibly be any better to have barely there's either. Maybe she and I can find a 2 for 1/ bosom buddy special at the plastic surgeons?
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Mommy Moisturizer
As a new mom about to get out of the military and join the world of it-matters-what-you-look-like, I've begun to care more about my beauty regiment. I'm also very fortunate to have a daughter who cares just as much about my looks as I do now.
She cares so much that she's willing to help moisturize my face daily.... With her mouth.
It's my own fault, honestly. I taught her 'KISSES!' so she now loves to give them.
She gives me, Stoofy, the dog, the carpet, blanket, mirror, Bumbo tray, table, toys and any other objects she can yank toward her mouth KISSES!
But she's a sloppy kisser. Not only does she kiss with her entire mouth open (including when she kisses the dog) she drools like a hound.
She's also an incredibly aggressive kisser. When she wants to land one on me, she grasps my hair in both of her little jaws-of-life claws and yanks my face into her mouth.
She actually tries to consume my chin. It's not like I've got a Leno chin or anything,
but that doesn't stop her from kissing/eating/drooling on it.
She also tries to kiss/eat my cheeks and in doing so gets her slobber all over my face. She's kind enough to wipe it off, but ends up just smearing it further around my face.
And this becomes my mommy moisturizer. She's locking in moisture with her drool. Talk about disgusting!!!
You remember the scene in 'Turner & Hootch' where Tom Hanks finds drool trails all over his house and car and you cringe at the thought of it? Yeah, I live that every day.
Unlike the commercials you see about some magical serum that will turn back the hands of time to beautiful, youthful skin, this slobber actually turns back the clock TOO FAR! It makes me break out like a 13 year old hitting puberty. (I actually have a pizza face.) I can't remember when I had zits this bad on my cheeks!
But alas, they're there. And it doesn't look like there's an end to it soon. Because even though I'd rather not have a pizza face, I still wouldn't traded it for the mommy moisturizing kisses I get on a daily basis.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
She cares so much that she's willing to help moisturize my face daily.... With her mouth.
It's my own fault, honestly. I taught her 'KISSES!' so she now loves to give them.
She gives me, Stoofy, the dog, the carpet, blanket, mirror, Bumbo tray, table, toys and any other objects she can yank toward her mouth KISSES!
But she's a sloppy kisser. Not only does she kiss with her entire mouth open (including when she kisses the dog) she drools like a hound.
She's also an incredibly aggressive kisser. When she wants to land one on me, she grasps my hair in both of her little jaws-of-life claws and yanks my face into her mouth.
She actually tries to consume my chin. It's not like I've got a Leno chin or anything,
She also tries to kiss/eat my cheeks and in doing so gets her slobber all over my face. She's kind enough to wipe it off, but ends up just smearing it further around my face.
And this becomes my mommy moisturizer. She's locking in moisture with her drool. Talk about disgusting!!!
You remember the scene in 'Turner & Hootch' where Tom Hanks finds drool trails all over his house and car and you cringe at the thought of it? Yeah, I live that every day.
Unlike the commercials you see about some magical serum that will turn back the hands of time to beautiful, youthful skin, this slobber actually turns back the clock TOO FAR! It makes me break out like a 13 year old hitting puberty. (I actually have a pizza face.) I can't remember when I had zits this bad on my cheeks!
But alas, they're there. And it doesn't look like there's an end to it soon. Because even though I'd rather not have a pizza face, I still wouldn't traded it for the mommy moisturizing kisses I get on a daily basis.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Friday, September 9, 2011
Recuperation from the Military
Since joining the military in 2004, I've lived by certain standards because it's my job. The things I've had to change or alter are things you (the non-military you) probably take for granted.
My hair is a certain length because the best hair style to fit my face is an "in between" style that is too long to wear down in the military, but too short to pull up in accordance with military regulation. So I can't have it. I instead have a bushy rat's nest.
My nails are a certain length because that's how long I can have them. They aren't painted because what's the point if they can only be clear or flesh tone? (I actually remember the year they began to allow french tips in the Navy! THRILLING!!!) Might as well leave them be. (Unless you're in the USMC and wearing your dress uniform. Then you get the privilege of wearing red or shades of coral! SNAZZY!)
I stopped wearing earrings because it was too hard to find the specific ones I could wear in uniform in my jewelry box. And finding regulation earrings isn't exactly an easy task. (Yes, there's even a regulation for the size and type of earrings you can wear! There's a regulation for EVERYTHING!!!!)
I've never been too adventurous in the eye shadow department, but even if I had, there's no point to it... plain jane is what I can wear.
Men's boots and shoes are my every day accessory to my khaki top and black slacks. I couldn't tell you if big belts or skinny jeans are 'in' this season. But I can tell you the exact measurement from the shoulder to the bottom of your service ribbons and name tag. And if you don't have your warfare pins correctly measured, I'll call you out on it.
Last night with Abby and my new Canadian friend, I had a revelation! I seriously need a full recuperation from my service. And I'm not just talking about Veteran Affairs compensation for various disability ailments. I mean, I deserve a military funded make-over to prepare myself to be in the world of NO REGULATION!
I mean, other than no white after Labor Day, no ICP (Insane Clown Posse, aka Freaks) clothes other than on Halloween, and spandex is a bad idea for EVERYONE, there doesn't seem to be many rules when it comes to fashion. Or maybe I'm just naive. Maybe there are rules and I don't know them.
I'm pretty sure one of the rules is don't show up to an interview with gnarly man-feet. That's probably going to be a problem since I have man-feet...they're crusty, dry, and cracked. The nails are hap-hazardly polished. I have calluses that ordinarily you wouldn't see in boots, but now that I'm about to enter the working world and I have to wear pretty shoes, I'm going to need to get filed off. Pedicures will be required. It might take an industrial team... or hungry fish. (If you haven't seen the pedicures by fish, check them out. Nothing says 'I want to feel pretty' like getting eaten by fish!)
I'm going to need an entire head treatment too. We're talking deep conditioner, full cut and style, and whatever face potions can help erase the decade worth of worry lines I got in half that time. Not to mention I'm going to need some de-brainwash treatments to get all the damn rules and regulations out of my brain and make room for whether argyle socks, leggings or tights go best with my outfit for the day.
My hair is a certain length because the best hair style to fit my face is an "in between" style that is too long to wear down in the military, but too short to pull up in accordance with military regulation. So I can't have it. I instead have a bushy rat's nest.
My nails are a certain length because that's how long I can have them. They aren't painted because what's the point if they can only be clear or flesh tone? (I actually remember the year they began to allow french tips in the Navy! THRILLING!!!) Might as well leave them be. (Unless you're in the USMC and wearing your dress uniform. Then you get the privilege of wearing red or shades of coral! SNAZZY!)
I stopped wearing earrings because it was too hard to find the specific ones I could wear in uniform in my jewelry box. And finding regulation earrings isn't exactly an easy task. (Yes, there's even a regulation for the size and type of earrings you can wear! There's a regulation for EVERYTHING!!!!)
I've never been too adventurous in the eye shadow department, but even if I had, there's no point to it... plain jane is what I can wear.
Men's boots and shoes are my every day accessory to my khaki top and black slacks. I couldn't tell you if big belts or skinny jeans are 'in' this season. But I can tell you the exact measurement from the shoulder to the bottom of your service ribbons and name tag. And if you don't have your warfare pins correctly measured, I'll call you out on it.
Last night with Abby and my new Canadian friend, I had a revelation! I seriously need a full recuperation from my service. And I'm not just talking about Veteran Affairs compensation for various disability ailments. I mean, I deserve a military funded make-over to prepare myself to be in the world of NO REGULATION!
I mean, other than no white after Labor Day, no ICP (Insane Clown Posse, aka Freaks) clothes other than on Halloween, and spandex is a bad idea for EVERYONE, there doesn't seem to be many rules when it comes to fashion. Or maybe I'm just naive. Maybe there are rules and I don't know them.
I'm pretty sure one of the rules is don't show up to an interview with gnarly man-feet. That's probably going to be a problem since I have man-feet...they're crusty, dry, and cracked. The nails are hap-hazardly polished. I have calluses that ordinarily you wouldn't see in boots, but now that I'm about to enter the working world and I have to wear pretty shoes, I'm going to need to get filed off. Pedicures will be required. It might take an industrial team... or hungry fish. (If you haven't seen the pedicures by fish, check them out. Nothing says 'I want to feel pretty' like getting eaten by fish!)
I'm going to need an entire head treatment too. We're talking deep conditioner, full cut and style, and whatever face potions can help erase the decade worth of worry lines I got in half that time. Not to mention I'm going to need some de-brainwash treatments to get all the damn rules and regulations out of my brain and make room for whether argyle socks, leggings or tights go best with my outfit for the day.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Taking a PJ Day
If you live on the East Coast then you're getting dumped on right now. And by dumped on I mean rain not being defecated on. (Unless you pissed off Lady Luck/ Karma/ or some sick, twisted fucker, then that's not only gross, but your own fault. Or you could just be a mother of a child with IBS.)
It's super soggy out, standing water everywhere, reports of flooding coming from all over the region. Basically we're ankle deep in a monsoon. So in the last couple weeks I've survived an earthquake, hurricane and now a monsoon. So that would make me a what? A quakecanesooner? QUICK! Someone get me a glass of wine... or better yet, a cookie!
And the more the clouds roll in, the rain falls, and the temperatures drop, I can't help but feel like a waterlogged slug. I don't feel like doing anything. I just want to wrap up in my quilt and lay on the couch in my pajamas. The problem with that plan is that I'm now a mother. PJ days as I once knew them are over.
Don't get me wrong, I still wear my 'jammies' all day long, but it's because I never got a free moment to shower or change that day. Now that Elly is growing at the speed of light, she's also on the move and needs more exciting play time. So I'm busy coming up with fun things to entertain her. Often this involves singing and dancing through the house to Katy Perry.
As much as I love spending time relaxing all day in my shorts and t-shirt pj's, I feel like a bum if I don't get dressed too many days in a row. In fact, getting dressed and doing something with my hair (and GASP! putting on makeup) is more of a treat nowadays for me.
It's like PJ days have become the norm and pretty days are the new treat. I need to get back to a life where putting on pretty clothes feels ho-hum and laying around in my PJs feels like a treat. I'm thinking the first step to weening myself off the PJ routine will be to get myself a pair of pajamajeans. I mean, they're pajamas, they're jeans, they're the best for crazy moms looking to wear clothes but still hang out around the house in their jammies!
Maybe my first step to wearing pretty clothes should be to stop watching infomercials in my PJs and start going to a shopping mall in real clothes!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
It's super soggy out, standing water everywhere, reports of flooding coming from all over the region. Basically we're ankle deep in a monsoon. So in the last couple weeks I've survived an earthquake, hurricane and now a monsoon. So that would make me a what? A quakecanesooner? QUICK! Someone get me a glass of wine... or better yet, a cookie!
And the more the clouds roll in, the rain falls, and the temperatures drop, I can't help but feel like a waterlogged slug. I don't feel like doing anything. I just want to wrap up in my quilt and lay on the couch in my pajamas. The problem with that plan is that I'm now a mother. PJ days as I once knew them are over.
Don't get me wrong, I still wear my 'jammies' all day long, but it's because I never got a free moment to shower or change that day. Now that Elly is growing at the speed of light, she's also on the move and needs more exciting play time. So I'm busy coming up with fun things to entertain her. Often this involves singing and dancing through the house to Katy Perry.
As much as I love spending time relaxing all day in my shorts and t-shirt pj's, I feel like a bum if I don't get dressed too many days in a row. In fact, getting dressed and doing something with my hair (and GASP! putting on makeup) is more of a treat nowadays for me.
It's like PJ days have become the norm and pretty days are the new treat. I need to get back to a life where putting on pretty clothes feels ho-hum and laying around in my PJs feels like a treat. I'm thinking the first step to weening myself off the PJ routine will be to get myself a pair of pajamajeans. I mean, they're pajamas, they're jeans, they're the best for crazy moms looking to wear clothes but still hang out around the house in their jammies!
Maybe my first step to wearing pretty clothes should be to stop watching infomercials in my PJs and start going to a shopping mall in real clothes!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
I HATE RUNNING
I don't think the title of this blog does my feelings justice. I truly fucking hate running. I would do just about anything else. Actually there is only one thing I'd rather do less than run, and that would be go to work at my current military job.
So if you're keeping tabs, here's how it goes from LEASET to GREATEST things I'd rather do with my time:
10) Report for military duty
9) Run
8) Get my legs cut off by a dull butter knife
7) Lose an eye to a red-hot pitchfork
6) Have each and every fingernail pulled out one-by-one by a Viet Cong prison camp dictator
5) Drink my husband's weight in melted butter
4) Drink my weight in milk
3) Eat salads five days a week
2) Eat oreos for every meal
And ultimately, 1) I'd much rather just wake up and magically be skinny.
But needless to say, if I'm ever going to get my perky ass back without having a baby in the next few months, running is my best option.
Why am I running? I actually would really like to join a roller derby team. But to do that, I actually need to be in some kind of shape other than round. And I'm not nearly ready for wheels yet. So I'm trying to set some attainable goals to get to the derby queen goal. First up... run even just a little, then run a 5k in December (granted, it's a Hot Chocolate 5K. So after I complete it I get a hunk of chocolate. Good enough motivation for me!) Prove to Stoofy (and myself, honestly) that I can set these goals and achieve them, buy a pair of skates and find a Fresh Meat club and get skating!!!
So, I've put on my big girl pants (literally) and my running shoes and got my ass moving. Here's what I've learned in the last few nights of running:
1) It's fucking dark running at night. You'd think that running on base would provide some better lighting, but you'd be wrong.
2) Frogs or toads or whatever the fuck is hoping alongside me on the sidewalk are gross and scary and need to stop following me.
3) I run as fast as my 79 year old grandmother mall-walks.
4) I am a little bitch when it comes to running. And I run with a constant monologue of bitching, that and the sweet motivational tunes of Ke$ha.
5) Running past the wounded warrior transition barracks makes me feel guilty about being a little bitch, so I suck it up and run faster.
6) Constantly going through the list of things I'd rather do than run helps take my mind off of the running.
7) I hate the assholes I see with 26.2 stickers on their cars.
8) I'd really like to slash their tires.
9) But if I did that, then I'd have to stop running and then I'd never keep going.
10) Lucky for those assholes!
So if you see a crazy ass woman "running" down the road in the dark with her glow-in-the-dark safety belt, talking to herself, yell something motivational. But if you've got a "I <3 runners" sticker on your car, I'll probably flip you the bird because I fucking hate running.
Want to win ad space on The Bloggess? Link up your best post at lovelinks on free fringes like I did!
So if you're keeping tabs, here's how it goes from LEASET to GREATEST things I'd rather do with my time:
10) Report for military duty
9) Run
8) Get my legs cut off by a dull butter knife
7) Lose an eye to a red-hot pitchfork
6) Have each and every fingernail pulled out one-by-one by a Viet Cong prison camp dictator
5) Drink my husband's weight in melted butter
4) Drink my weight in milk
3) Eat salads five days a week
2) Eat oreos for every meal
And ultimately, 1) I'd much rather just wake up and magically be skinny.
But needless to say, if I'm ever going to get my perky ass back without having a baby in the next few months, running is my best option.
Why am I running? I actually would really like to join a roller derby team. But to do that, I actually need to be in some kind of shape other than round. And I'm not nearly ready for wheels yet. So I'm trying to set some attainable goals to get to the derby queen goal. First up... run even just a little, then run a 5k in December (granted, it's a Hot Chocolate 5K. So after I complete it I get a hunk of chocolate. Good enough motivation for me!) Prove to Stoofy (and myself, honestly) that I can set these goals and achieve them, buy a pair of skates and find a Fresh Meat club and get skating!!!
So, I've put on my big girl pants (literally) and my running shoes and got my ass moving. Here's what I've learned in the last few nights of running:
1) It's fucking dark running at night. You'd think that running on base would provide some better lighting, but you'd be wrong.
2) Frogs or toads or whatever the fuck is hoping alongside me on the sidewalk are gross and scary and need to stop following me.
3) I run as fast as my 79 year old grandmother mall-walks.
4) I am a little bitch when it comes to running. And I run with a constant monologue of bitching, that and the sweet motivational tunes of Ke$ha.
5) Running past the wounded warrior transition barracks makes me feel guilty about being a little bitch, so I suck it up and run faster.
6) Constantly going through the list of things I'd rather do than run helps take my mind off of the running.
7) I hate the assholes I see with 26.2 stickers on their cars.
8) I'd really like to slash their tires.
9) But if I did that, then I'd have to stop running and then I'd never keep going.
10) Lucky for those assholes!
So if you see a crazy ass woman "running" down the road in the dark with her glow-in-the-dark safety belt, talking to herself, yell something motivational. But if you've got a "I <3 runners" sticker on your car, I'll probably flip you the bird because I fucking hate running.
Want to win ad space on The Bloggess? Link up your best post at lovelinks on free fringes like I did!
Sunday, September 4, 2011
In Search of...
My perky ass.
I had it about six months ago and now it's gone. Talk about devastating.
If you're doing the math and realize I'm talking about my pregnant ass, your calculations are correct. When I hit about 4 months into my pregnancy, I began to notice one 'perk' of being pregnant. My ass was on it's way up.
Yup! You read that right. Pregnancy was making my ass defy gravity, mother nature and all that is right in the world.
I have no idea how it was even possible, but I really did have a great ass. So much so that my BFF even noticed!
A: Did you get those Reebok butt shoes you wanted?
B: No, why?
A: Well, your butt was looking extra perky and I thought the shoes were helping out.
B: Nope, but thanks for noticing my ass!!! It does look good, doesn't it? ;-)
Who knew that when my pelvis bones spread to prepare for a watermelon to pass through, it would help put a little extra lift in my step.
But now, six months later, it's gone. My hips have shrunk, my swelling is gone and long gone are the days of having a hot ass.
Now, there's got to be a way to get it back. I'm not saying I'm trying to get knocked up again. Hell no! (I need another baby like another hole in the head right now. Don't get me wrong, I love my daughter, but now is not the time.)
I just want my perky ass back without any pain. And I think that's where the problem is.
To get it back, I'd need to do something crazy like run or Zumba. And let me just say, uh no, to both if I can help it.
My other option could be butt implants. But that's wrong on so many serious levels. Plus, if I'm going under the knife, I'm getting my thighs done!
The last option would to be pregnant again. But that seriously wasn't fun or painless. The whole process of my pelvic bones spreading was painful enough to know it's not fun. My friend once described it as a bunch of Keebler Elves chiseling away at your joints. Uh, yeah. No thanks for now.
So I guess it's run or live without my perky ass. Talk about the ultimate let down!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I had it about six months ago and now it's gone. Talk about devastating.
If you're doing the math and realize I'm talking about my pregnant ass, your calculations are correct. When I hit about 4 months into my pregnancy, I began to notice one 'perk' of being pregnant. My ass was on it's way up.
Yup! You read that right. Pregnancy was making my ass defy gravity, mother nature and all that is right in the world.
I have no idea how it was even possible, but I really did have a great ass. So much so that my BFF even noticed!
A: Did you get those Reebok butt shoes you wanted?
B: No, why?
A: Well, your butt was looking extra perky and I thought the shoes were helping out.
B: Nope, but thanks for noticing my ass!!! It does look good, doesn't it? ;-)
Who knew that when my pelvis bones spread to prepare for a watermelon to pass through, it would help put a little extra lift in my step.
But now, six months later, it's gone. My hips have shrunk, my swelling is gone and long gone are the days of having a hot ass.
Now, there's got to be a way to get it back. I'm not saying I'm trying to get knocked up again. Hell no! (I need another baby like another hole in the head right now. Don't get me wrong, I love my daughter, but now is not the time.)
I just want my perky ass back without any pain. And I think that's where the problem is.
To get it back, I'd need to do something crazy like run or Zumba. And let me just say, uh no, to both if I can help it.
My other option could be butt implants. But that's wrong on so many serious levels. Plus, if I'm going under the knife, I'm getting my thighs done!
The last option would to be pregnant again. But that seriously wasn't fun or painless. The whole process of my pelvic bones spreading was painful enough to know it's not fun. My friend once described it as a bunch of Keebler Elves chiseling away at your joints. Uh, yeah. No thanks for now.
So I guess it's run or live without my perky ass. Talk about the ultimate let down!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Saturday, September 3, 2011
That's not fair!
We live in a world of haves and have nots. I have a lot compared to a lot of people in the world. (Actually, I have too much stuff now that it's time to pack up and move again. So I've been having a garage sale trying to get rid of my crap and allow others to have more crap in their life... all for the low low price of $2 a bag!)
So is life.
I've accepted this as the way it goes. Well, for the most part.
I have more than a lot of others. Yet, people who have more than me still approach me and tell me thank you. Why? Because I'm in the military. I chose many years ago to raise my hand and pledge an oath to serve our country. And every day I'm grateful I did.
My service has given me a lot to be thankful for. I met my husband because of the military, I've traveled the world, and I've made the best friends a Betty could ever ask for.
I've gotten a few free meals and free drinks. I've attended concerts and sporting games on someone else's dime. I've received discounted clothes, shoes and vacations. I've even gotten tax free computers, furniture and a breast pump. I think the best thing I ever got super cheap from being in the military was my hospital stay when I was in labor with Elly. FREE!!! BOOO-YAAAAAH Bitches!!!! (The stretch marks and puking were just an extra bonus thrown in by Mother Nature.)
I'm very grateful that in this day and age, the American public feels strongly about supporting the troops. There are endless programs out there supporting us- everything from job initiatitaves (let's hope that helps me out soon), home programs, to helping out around the holidays. And Sears is one of the companies helping out the military.
They have a program called Heroes on the Homefront and every year service members can register to win a gift card for the holidays. A friend of mine got $100 last year. Not bad considering he'd gotten back from Afghanistan and just had a baby. Thanks Sears!!!
But the registration this year was a bit of a cluster fuck. It was yesterday, but the system had a technical glitch. So they scrapped those and did it again today. Although, not everyone knew about the update. Needless to say, a lot of people ended up not getting registered before the deadline today.
And once that happened, so did all the bitching!!! THAT'S NOT FAIR!!! I DIDN'T GET REGISTERED!! BUT... BLAH BLAH BLAH!
Are you serious people? This is a gift for God's sake. You are not fucking entitled to it. It's not yours just because your husband is deployed. It's not yours just because you've been stationed a few sucky places with a few sucky chains of commands. It's not yours just because you have to stand duty this holiday weekend. IT IS A GIFT!!!
If you were lucky enough to get registered. Good for you. You still might not get a gift card. And if you bitch about that, then maybe you should stay away from me. Because I might just punch you square in the face you ungrateful snot.
Like I said before, the world is full of haves and have nots. Accept it! Because honestly, not everything is fair in life and if you can't deal with that, be prepared for me to shoot a word-rocket at your face. It won't be pretty. Until I have more than the orange-toned whorebags I love to watch on the TV, life is never going to be fair!
I have a lot more than a lot of people. But I also have a lot less than other people in this world.
I've accepted this as the way it goes. Well, for the most part.
Some days I get really pissed off that I'm not as smart as the Mark or Randi Zuckerbergs of the world. If I was, then I'd be a billionaire. On the other end of the spectrum, I'm also too smart to be Snooki or JWoww, hooching it up for the entire world to see. If I was that easy or trashy, then I could be a millionaire and be a guest on Regis and Kelli.
Instead, I'm just average. Nothing too special. I am married, I have a kid and a dog. I've got a job (for now). I'm the all-American dream.
I have more than a lot of others. Yet, people who have more than me still approach me and tell me thank you. Why? Because I'm in the military. I chose many years ago to raise my hand and pledge an oath to serve our country. And every day I'm grateful I did.
My service has given me a lot to be thankful for. I met my husband because of the military, I've traveled the world, and I've made the best friends a Betty could ever ask for.
I've gotten a few free meals and free drinks. I've attended concerts and sporting games on someone else's dime. I've received discounted clothes, shoes and vacations. I've even gotten tax free computers, furniture and a breast pump. I think the best thing I ever got super cheap from being in the military was my hospital stay when I was in labor with Elly. FREE!!! BOOO-YAAAAAH Bitches!!!! (The stretch marks and puking were just an extra bonus thrown in by Mother Nature.)
I'm very grateful that in this day and age, the American public feels strongly about supporting the troops. There are endless programs out there supporting us- everything from job initiatitaves (let's hope that helps me out soon), home programs, to helping out around the holidays. And Sears is one of the companies helping out the military.
They have a program called Heroes on the Homefront and every year service members can register to win a gift card for the holidays. A friend of mine got $100 last year. Not bad considering he'd gotten back from Afghanistan and just had a baby. Thanks Sears!!!
But the registration this year was a bit of a cluster fuck. It was yesterday, but the system had a technical glitch. So they scrapped those and did it again today. Although, not everyone knew about the update. Needless to say, a lot of people ended up not getting registered before the deadline today.
And once that happened, so did all the bitching!!! THAT'S NOT FAIR!!! I DIDN'T GET REGISTERED!! BUT... BLAH BLAH BLAH!
Are you serious people? This is a gift for God's sake. You are not fucking entitled to it. It's not yours just because your husband is deployed. It's not yours just because you've been stationed a few sucky places with a few sucky chains of commands. It's not yours just because you have to stand duty this holiday weekend. IT IS A GIFT!!!
If you were lucky enough to get registered. Good for you. You still might not get a gift card. And if you bitch about that, then maybe you should stay away from me. Because I might just punch you square in the face you ungrateful snot.
Like I said before, the world is full of haves and have nots. Accept it! Because honestly, not everything is fair in life and if you can't deal with that, be prepared for me to shoot a word-rocket at your face. It won't be pretty. Until I have more than the orange-toned whorebags I love to watch on the TV, life is never going to be fair!
Drama Free?
Why is it that when someone says they are drama free it really means buckle up for an 'I want to be a reality star on any kind if tv show I can find because my life is so desperately boring I have to invent shit to stir up trouble to have any kind of excitement' ride?
Whenever some one tries to tell me they can't stand drama I usually make a mental note and run as fast as I can away. (And i FUCKING HATE RUNNING!!!) Because it usually means the opposite.
I've got dramatic co-workers I keep an arms-length away (mainly because it's illegal to strangle them, so it's better if they're out of reach), crazy family (which because I'm related to them I can't do a damn thing about), in-laws (virtually the same thing, only now I'm not only tied to them because I'm married, but because I have a kid who carries the crazy gene) and then I have the military.
The military brings a whole new level of drama to anyone's life. You do NOT want to try and play the 'One Up' game with a service member.
I've got sea stories of bat-shit crazy things going on that are what's considered normal in the military.
And I'm worried that because I'm so used to that level of drama in my life being normal I won't be able to realize what is actually normal to civilians when I become one. Am I so used to drama at a level 10, that when faced with a 2 or a 3, I won't even notice and will just laugh at them and make things worse. I don't need a RHofNJ Danielle Staub on my hands.
I'm not going to lie, I actually like a little drama. I like it when I watch the RHofNJ or RHofOC or Jersey Shore. Or even when I follow along on a few facebook pages I'm a fan of because it's like reading my own little US Weekly!
I just like to be an outsider watching the drama unfold. I don't actually want to be in the blast radius when the tables start flipping and wine glasses get thrown.
So I won't say I don't like drama, I just like to watch it, not live it.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Whenever some one tries to tell me they can't stand drama I usually make a mental note and run as fast as I can away. (And i FUCKING HATE RUNNING!!!) Because it usually means the opposite.
I've got dramatic co-workers I keep an arms-length away (mainly because it's illegal to strangle them, so it's better if they're out of reach), crazy family (which because I'm related to them I can't do a damn thing about), in-laws (virtually the same thing, only now I'm not only tied to them because I'm married, but because I have a kid who carries the crazy gene) and then I have the military.
The military brings a whole new level of drama to anyone's life. You do NOT want to try and play the 'One Up' game with a service member.
I've got sea stories of bat-shit crazy things going on that are what's considered normal in the military.
And I'm worried that because I'm so used to that level of drama in my life being normal I won't be able to realize what is actually normal to civilians when I become one. Am I so used to drama at a level 10, that when faced with a 2 or a 3, I won't even notice and will just laugh at them and make things worse. I don't need a RHofNJ Danielle Staub on my hands.
I'm not going to lie, I actually like a little drama. I like it when I watch the RHofNJ or RHofOC or Jersey Shore. Or even when I follow along on a few facebook pages I'm a fan of because it's like reading my own little US Weekly!
I just like to be an outsider watching the drama unfold. I don't actually want to be in the blast radius when the tables start flipping and wine glasses get thrown.
So I won't say I don't like drama, I just like to watch it, not live it.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Grab Ass
I don't know about you, but I have a pain in my ass. It comes and goes every so often and it affects my whole body and mood.
Get your mind out of the gutter because I literally mean a pain in my ass. I have a pinched nerve deep in my fatty, cellulite-dimpled tissue.
It seemed to really develop during my pregnancy. (Don't worry, it's documented in Elly's baby book as evidence when she's a teen so I can tell her she's been a pain in the ass since she was a zygote.) And it's never gone away (much like the stretch marks, also documented for further proof in 13 years).
The thing that helps the most is a deep tissue massage. But since those cost money and I need them so frequently and I'm cheap, I turn to Stoofy for help.
I try and rationalize it as a win-win for both of us: I get pain relief and he gets to grab my ass. But he doesn't see it that way. He sees it as work.
Which I don't get. Why wouldn't he want to help me out? What do you mean kneading my lumpy, dough-like ass isn't sexy? I like it.
And that's when it hits me- I'm old. Grab ass has a new definition and it's lame-o!!!
Dear god! I need an ass intervention!!! Something to perk that sucker up. Do you think Kim Kardashian uses anything special? I hope it's not some extravagant oil potion because I'm on a can of Pam budget.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Get your mind out of the gutter because I literally mean a pain in my ass. I have a pinched nerve deep in my fatty, cellulite-dimpled tissue.
It seemed to really develop during my pregnancy. (Don't worry, it's documented in Elly's baby book as evidence when she's a teen so I can tell her she's been a pain in the ass since she was a zygote.) And it's never gone away (much like the stretch marks, also documented for further proof in 13 years).
The thing that helps the most is a deep tissue massage. But since those cost money and I need them so frequently and I'm cheap, I turn to Stoofy for help.
I try and rationalize it as a win-win for both of us: I get pain relief and he gets to grab my ass. But he doesn't see it that way. He sees it as work.
Which I don't get. Why wouldn't he want to help me out? What do you mean kneading my lumpy, dough-like ass isn't sexy? I like it.
And that's when it hits me- I'm old. Grab ass has a new definition and it's lame-o!!!
Dear god! I need an ass intervention!!! Something to perk that sucker up. Do you think Kim Kardashian uses anything special? I hope it's not some extravagant oil potion because I'm on a can of Pam budget.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
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