The Ultrasound

Last week we went in for the standard 18-20 week anatomy scan of the baby. For weeks, the boy has stressed about his reaction if it wasn't a boy. I assured him that, if he were to swear out loud, it would be okay - he's surely not the first dad to be pissed off that they're having a girl instead of the coveted boy.

Instead, I was the one swearing. No, more like demanding that the ultrasound tech take it back. She lead me on, first of all. Which is entirely unfair to a hormonally imbalanced pregnant woman who has had just about enough of tween drama.

"See those three little dots right there?" she asked.

"Uh-huh....." I responded dreamily, my eyes quickly misting with tears at our good fortune to have a boy. 3 dots surely means two testicles and a little turtle, right?

"It's a girl!"

I nearly punched her in the face. A girl?!? What?!? How am I supposed to deal with that? How, when I am FORTY-TWO-years-old am I going to deal with a whining tween coming home from school, rolling her eyes and telling me how wrong I am about everything that comes out of my mouth.

At nearly FIFTY, how am I supposed to deal with horny boys and eating disorders? I am not prepared for such things.

In the elevator, the boy tried to console me, "maybe there's still time honey - maybe one will grow."

My reply? "Honey, if it's this small now, I don't want it to be a boy. No son of mine will bear that burden."

Of course, now the guilt is setting in. My rational side is telling me that I waited a long time for this baby. I should be thrilled, even if it is a girl. I should feel blessed and overjoyed that we will soon be parents for a second time.

Instead, I'm a neurotic mess (this seems to be a golden thread that runs throughout my life). So, welcome to the family Ella Alexandra. Your mom's a neurotic nut job, your dad has decided not to put you up for sale on eBay as was his original plan if you were a girl and your sister has already picked out your wardrobe for the next 5 years of your life. We love you, even if we are crazy as hell.

This Much I Know

Being pregnant is a lot like having constant PMS.

If you're a man, you only know that this means I'm being bitchy.

If you're a woman, you know that this means I'm tired, bitchy, feeling ginormous, having headaches, not sleeping well, have swelling feet and back pain.

So, here's the scoop. I'm totally not complaining - I'm only stating the absolute truth. My family is currently walking on eggshells, not sure if I'm going to be Happy Harriette or Psycho Sally at any given moment. But the other night tops all others to date.

Our neighbors are away doing who knows what and their just-barely-21-year-old children decided to throw a party the other night. Now, our bedroom window faces their house, so all of their wonderful yelling, bottle throwing and illegal firework playing assaulted us like Lionel Richie - all night long.

Just as I dozed off, I woke up to go to the bathroom (of course - what's a full night's sleep?) As I stumble downstairs, willing myself to not completely wake up thinking my chances of falling right back to sleep are greater if I can at least keep my eyes half closed, I go tinkle and flush. No sooner had I walked out of the bathroom and laid one foot on the hallway floor when I heard the tell-tale sign of a toilet that was not going to flush. No, it was definitely filling, quickly.

And before I could reach the plunger, it over-flowed.

Does life get any worse than being pregnant, half-asleep and plunging a toilet while cursing whoever took the offending shit that clogged it? It only gets worse when you realize that you still need to clean up the bathroom floor and you're now definitely fully awake.

Not surprisingly, no one in the house will admit to being the offending shitter and I've been Psycho Sally for two days.

Holy Shit. It's Stacie.

Summer vacation is half-way over and our 1st trimester is at a close.

Hallelujah.

Overall, I'm not as crazy as I thought I would be with the kid home all the time, and my moodiness has nearly disappeared. What I am totally disgusted with is the weather - why has it rained all summer?

Last week my sister came for a visit, which was fun, and the weather was good so we weren't cooped up inside. Although, between a 14-year-old girl and a 10-year-old girl, I think we definitely came to the conclusion that military school might be in order for our oldest - at least if she gets that moody and mouthy.

And it wasn't even moody and mouthy to my face (or the kid's), it was behind closed doors and via email, which was a little disheartening. If you think your niece is being a spoiled snotty bitch, tell her to her face - don't waste your time emailing all your friends about how you can't wait until she gets her ass kicked in middle school so that you can laugh in her face and then forget to sign out of your email so I end up reading it.

Yikes.

Of course, I didn't want to confront her because I felt a little bit like I had invaded her privacy. And, I know for sure that my kid can be a spoiled snotty bitch, absolutely. In fact, I've told her as much on occasion. But to email it and then act sweet to her face? Not okay.

And, before you think I'm throwing stones in glass houses, bear in mind that if I'm bitchy to someone in my blog, I'm bitchy to their face; that includes the neighbors across the street.

So, we'll see what the rest of the summer brings. I'm feeling like the "other kid" is a girl, but the heartbeat is at 126 which is old-wives-tale boy-range. The boy is hoping for a boy - and after last week with my sister, it's become an absolute necessity for him. In fact, the other day he asked, "if it's a girl and I swear out loud at the ultrasound, do you think the doctor will be mad at me?"

I've assured him that it probably happens more often than he knows.

And So Summer Vacation Shall Commence

So today begins my unravelling. Really.

At noon today, summer vacation will begin.

Summer vacation is always a challenge at our house. The kid is just old enough that she feels she should be able to run free and rampant all over town, yet not quite old enough to make that happen. Which means that I either have to a) drive her everywhere, or b) tell her she can't go and listen to her whine and complain until I want to rip my eyes out (or maybe hers).

And did I mention that I'm finally pregnant? That's right, months and months of endlessly pissing on ovulation sticks has finally paid off. 6 pregnancy tests later (I had to make sure none were defective) and we are expecting. My future MIL can now rest soundly knowing that "certainly, it's not Dan's fault that you can't carry a baby. There's nothing in his family history that would cause a problem." And I can rest soundly knowing that a little bit of Prometrium goes a hell of a long way in keeping things in place - bless the drug companies, bless them.

However, early pregnancy means that I'm generally in a terrible mood, tired and bitchy all the time - which should make this summer even more enjoyable. Currently, it's a rare occasion when I'm awake past 7:30 - I'm a real winner.

Not that I'm AT ALL irritated that I'm pregnant mind you - that's what we've been aiming for. But I'm notoriously neurotic, and pregnancy is only compounding the issue. Of course, we're early in the pregnancy and so I'm neurotic about every ache and pain that I might have, but after seeing the heart beat earlier this week, I'm pretty confident that this kid is sticking around. And so we'll have "The Kid" and, "The Other Kid." Along with two dogs and a cat in our hobbit house.

If I'm not certifiably crazy now, I sure as hell will be by next summer.

The Dilemma

This morning when I got up and tinkled, I realized, too late, that we were out of toilet paper.

I looked in the bathroom cabinet. Nil.

I looked for a box of tissues. Nada.

Dammit. Now what? Ugh. Drip Dry.

So I come downstairs to look in what we lovingly refer to as "the bomb shelter." The big closet in the basement that stores the bottled water, the canned goods, the Coleman camping stove, and tons of candles. It is also where we usually store our year's supply of toilet paper and paper towels.

Do you think that I found any there? Hell no.

How does someone carry the last package of toilet paper upstairs and NOT mention that. Like, "hey, by the way, the next time you run to BJ's, can you pick up some TP? We're about to run out." This shit happens all the time in this house and it drives me nuts.

It's why I have a "running low list" on the fridge. As a big fat reminder that, when you notice we're almost out of butter or you drink the last of the milk, you write it on the list. Dog food, on the list. Cat litter, on the list. Toilet paper? NOT ON THE LIST!! The whole purpose of the list is so that, the next time someone goes to the store and says, "do we need anything while I'm out?" Someone else can read the list and say, "oh yeah, can you pick up butter, milk, and TOILET PAPER???"

What's worse is that the kid had a friend spend the night last night and so this morning, after my bathroom debacle, I was digging through every cabinet I could find to locate even just a few napkins that I could cut up into little squares of toilet paper. I hate to think what will happen when she goes home.

"Geez mom, Syd's family just has cut up napkins for toilet paper. It's so weird. Do you think they can't afford toilet paper?" Christ.

Anyway, moving on.....I also have a very special note to write here at the end of this blog. A note for someone that is currently overseas and who, although we're no longer friends, seems to read this blog regularly. Please stay safe.

Oh, and I also want you to know that, although I said that I would never talk to any of your friends again, that was before Facebook and some of your friends have "friended" me. I accepted that invitation - I hope that's alright. I wasn't really sure how to say no because I felt like it was pretty complicated. The only exception is Wendy - she hates me. Ok, that's it. I'll resume not speaking to you again.

This Goes Out to All Those Hunting Widows......

Some of my friends are "hunting widows." And while their husbands are out hunting, they piss and moan about how they're home all by themselves.

WTF? Are you kidding me?

How long is hunting season? A month? Maybe 6 weeks?

Here's the deal. Embrace it. Sit your ass on the couch in your underwear and watch endless seasons of old 90's sitcoms like the original 90210 or TIVO soap operas and enjoy the drama. Give the kids a little Dramamine and pour yourself a glass of wine. For Christ's Sake, ENJOY IT!!

But please, stop bitching about it. And here's why.

Because I can't take it. See, I'm a "snow widow." My season lasts 6 months because I live in Maine. While your husband is out slaughtering food to throw on your table, mine is out plowing everyone else's driveway and hoping his clients will pay the invoices, while I snow blow ours. And let's not forget about the roof rake, shall we?

So please, please don't bitch about being a hunting widow. Of course, unless you're a vegetarian and having a dead animal hanging in your garage grosses you out. Then you're entitled.

Happy New Year - A Little Bit Late.....

The beginning of my New Year has been hectic and crazy. Even though I've gotten a ton done, I feel like I've gotten nothing done; it's frustrating.

So how about you? Anything exciting? Did you get what you wanted for Christmas? Did you paint the town red on New Year's Eve?

I spent much of the week between Christmas and New Year's playing my new Wii Fit. I'm a big fan of the hula-hooping. And I'm pretty effing awesome at it too. Though I'm sure that I look absolutely ridiculous swinging my hips around.

New Year's Eve we were invited to a party - two hours before it started - and had to decline. Sometimes I wonder why babysitter issues never occur to people who have no children. So, it was a 6-hour Disney marathon and an amped up kid poking me to open my eyes as the ball dropped at midnight. Truly, it's pretty pathetic.

On the bright side, the boy finally (after much nagging from the kid) decided to teach her how to ice skate. I was thoroughly impressed. He took her out, got her fitted for skates, and took her to the pond, all in the same day. The next day, they took me with them, and the sight of them whizzing around the pond and laughing together was enough to make my breath catch in my throat.

I've been waiting a really long time to see them find some common ground. Then, when she took a spill, he was by her side brushing her off before I could even comprehend what had happened.

I know that I spend a lot of time picking on him when I write this blog, but I've got to be honest: I couldn't have ended up with a better man in my life.

I'm going to sign off before I start getting all weepy and shit.

My Whiney Ass Can't Stop Complaining.

I got this really hair-brained idea lately that I should start keeping a gratitude journal. Nothing fancy, just a few notes every morning about the things in my life that I'm grateful for. The purpose of the exercise was to try and pep me up. Make me a happy gal. Get me out of my funk.

Now, maybe I'm a little sick and twisted, but the shit I'm thankful for is really pretty lame. And when I'm writing down the teeny little stuff that I'm thankful for (that the boy shoveled the driveway before he left for work), I'm thinking about all the really big shit that I'm pissed about (that he waited until the last possible second to try to buy the shoes I asked him for as a Christmas gift and now he can't find them so I'll be the only person at home without anything to open). I realize in the grand scheme of things that this last sentence makes me a) incredibly shallow and b) sound really dumb for complaining about shoes when there's all sorts of people starving in the world.

But here's the deal. I'm not so much pissed about the fact that I won't have a gift under the tree to open, I'm more pissed about the fact that he waits until the last possible minute to do anything. Therefore, most of everything falls in my lap. I'm finding it difficult to turn that into something I'm grateful for in my little gratitude journal.

Other things I'm not grateful for :: all this effing snow, the fact that infertility testing involves the boy sperminating (Sarah's word) in a plastic cup which he's mad at me about, that tomorrow will probably be a snow day which means I'll spend the whole day explaining that "no I can't entertain you right now because I have work to do," to a child that just doesn't get that the world does not revolve around her 24/7. I'm not grateful that it's so effing cold, nor am I grateful for the fact that our firewood supplier screwed us out of 2 cords and $400; I hope he has a shitty holiday. Oh, and I'm also really not grateful that I totally lack willpower and I inhaled almost an entire 9x9 pan of brownies today - for breakfast.

So, what am I grateful for? I'm grateful for my job - I love the fact that I get paid to sit home and write every single day. I'm grateful that I had most of my holiday shopping done way ahead of time and that I have a snowblower and I'm not afraid to use it. I'm grateful that my daughter gave up her crusade to keep us from running the dishwasher because I couldn't take one more sinkful of dirty dishes. And mostly, I'm grateful for the fact that even though it's really effing cold out, it's pretty darn purty looking.

Ok, so I'm not a total grinch. And now I'm going to sign off, go put my feet up by the fire, knit some more, drink a big fat glass of Pinot, and finish watching The Wizard of Oz with the kid.

Happy Holidays!

Playing Russian Roulette with Auntie Flo

I've noticed that since I've declared that I don't care if we ever get pregnant, the boy has suddenly become incredibly invested in things.

It's sort of the same thing that happened when I was half-heartedly trying to plan a wedding and he kept putting things off; I finally came home and said, "I've decided I don't want to marry you. I've got the pretty ring, the house, the two dogs, the kid, and a decent tax bracket, why the hell do I need to be bound to you 'till death do us part?" Suddenly he was picking out colors and place settings.

This whole getting pregnant thing has almost become this 007-style mission for him. He maps ovulation cycles and when it's time, he becomes Barry White, whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Of course, I can only laugh because he's about as far from Barry White (or romantic) as you could get.....but he tries.

Our months have become compartmentalized and we live on an ever moving roller coaster of emotions. Now, some of you have asked why we don't just adopt. And we've considered that. But when we look at the numbers, we ask ourselves, "should we really spend that much money to bring another child home when we could be investing it in the future of the perfectly perfect child we already have?" And our answer is always the same, "no."

So until we give up, or decide to throw college for the kid into the hands of fate, my months shape up like this:

Days 1-10 :: Waiting for Barry White to visit.

Days 10-15 :: Shagging shamlessly and reminiscing about what life was like when we were "just dating."

Days 15-27 :: Life is back to normal. But every now and again, I look out the front window and see Auntie Flo parked in her 1983 Lincoln Towncar. The window is cracked, and she looks comfortable out there, in her plush velour seats with her Virginia Slim dangling from her lips. She's staring at the house though, not a good sign.

Day 28 :: Even though I'm not counting days, I know when day 28 arrives. I'm not productive on these days because Auntie Flo is usually not late for the party, but sometimes she gets sidetracked at someone else's house. When she doesn't show up, I secretly smile and go back to praying.

Day 29 :: Sometimes, there's still no Auntie Flo. Maybe she got in a car wreck. Don't know, don't care. I shadow box in front of the calendar, taunting her. "Whatcha got, huh? You think you can take me? I don't think so!" I'm childish, I know. I repeat this exercise every day until I feel it's safe to open, "the cabinet."

Day T-0 :: On the rare months we get this far, this happens to be any day I feel confident. It could be Day 30, it could be Day 35. I open the cabinet and take out the sacred box. Carefully unwrapping that little package, like I'm Charlie and it's holding my Golden Ticket. I haven't seen Auntie Flo's Towncar out front lately, so I think it's safe.

But, of course, it never is. Before I can even get the packaging open, I hear the screeching of tires as she swings into the driveway. She doesn't even knock, she just bursts through the door, smoking her Virginia Slim, cackling like an old hen at a Friday night Bingo game, and waving a tiny little pistol.

"Sorry I'm late kid."

"Geez, you shouldn't have."

"Oh honey, you should know I'd never let you down." This bitch is sarcastic!

I smirk. "Listen, do what you need to, and get the hell out. Your ass is so not invited to Thanksgiving dinner."

**Auntie Flo's picture, courtesy of Daily Mail UK**

Deadbeat Blogger

Wow! Where the hell have I been? I honestly didn't realize that it's been almost two weeks since I posted anything here.

So, what have I been up to? Well, for one, I've got all sorts of friends having babies right now. So, I've been doing my best to generally avoid them and keep to myself. And yes, I'm still pining away for a baby. Ugh. Does this nonsense ever stop? Like, at some point can I just get over it?

The boy thinks the scenario will play out like this: the kid will be 18 and graduating from high school, toting her pink Samsonite luggage across the world. We'll have our shit packed and our tickets to Europe where we'll make a new life. And then, oops. We're cooking a kid.

At which point, I'll be pissed. I will be angry. Really, truly. Mad as hell.

And speaking of ungrateful mothers......I've recently managed to piss of my someday MIL as well. First, I told her that her son had voted Republican in the election. That almost gave her a heart-attack. Then, I told her that I could see the viewpoint of non-dog owners about dogs running off-leash on So. Portland beaches. For that, I got a tongue lashing. Finally, I told her that we couldn't come over for coffee Sunday morning because we had to rake leaves. She lost her shit on the boy for that one.

She must have really focused her universal energy on being angry at us, because this morning, our dogs got into the cat food and promptly went outside to take individual shits on every single pile of leaves that we've raked up, but not yet bagged.

That's what we get for putting moldy leaves over coffee with the boy's mom. The holiday's are going to be an effing blast this year.

I Think I Give Up.

So, after the skunking last Sunday, things really only got worse.

Is that possible?

Indeed, it is.

Animal control informed us on Sunday that they would not come pick up the skunk. "We only deal with domesticated animals and we only work on Tuesday's and Wednesday's." Ok, great. So what if Kujo is prancing around my neighborhood on a Monday morning, then what? They informed us that we could either put the skunk out with our trash on Friday, or bring it downtown and put it in the police departments dumpster.

When they said "out with the trash Friday," I laughed. Right there on the phone. One of those deep, throaty, sinister laughs. The guy on the other end must have known what was coming because that was when he offered up the dumpster option. But thank God we own a truck, because I sure as shit wasn't putting that thing in the back of the VW.

After leaving the dogs outside for the entire night, in which they howled, whined, barked, and were general assholes, our neighbors were kindly waiting for us in the driveway with pitchforks and torches the next morning. One would think that they would understand, given the fact that we have never left our dogs outside overnight, but since they're not dog people, it was pretty much a lost cause. In the end, I baked some pumpkin chocolate chip bread and tried to make nice.

We finally found a vet to make a house call, since a) I was not putting the smelly heathen beasts in my car, and b)Dodger gets car sick anyway and the thought of cleaning out not only skunk smell but doggie barf too was not high on my priority list. Well, lucky us, Dodger was two months over-due on his rabies vaccination. Guess what? Animal control actually DOES work on Monday's, because they were at our house faster than you can say "shittle skittles."

"Well, since he's two month over-due, and the skunk could potentially be rabid, we are recommending, and asking, that you euthanize your dog."

I might have slapped him. I'm not sure. I am pretty sure that I blacked out for a second.

"Well, sir, while I respect your information, that's not going to happen, so why don't you tell me what the next option might be."

Needless to say, we've been quarantined. The skunk wasn't rabid because it's been living under our shed for months. It's walked by Dan in the driveway. It wasn't acting rabid when the dogs bit it. The fact of the matter was, the fat skunk was just too damn slow to get out of the dogs way.

So, how could we have possibly ended such a fantastic week? Oh, this is classic. My ex-husband came in to town to visit with the kid for two days. Arriving on Thursday night, late, he took a cab to his motel, but when Sunday arrived, he asked me for a ride to the airport, because he wanted to save himself the extra $17.

I'm pretty sure you know what my answer was.

And so the boy stepped up to the plate. He offerred to take the ex to the airport. He says it was in an effort to show the kid that her dad and her step-dad could get along, maybe ease some anxiety. I think it was more likely that he was trying to prove something. Either way, I'm pretty sure that it was probably one of the most uncomfortable moments he's ever had.

I felt so sorry for him that I actually gave him permission to smoke in the car on the way home.

Murphy's Law

"When you think things can't get any worse, you're probably dead wrong."

And so was the story of yesterday. After the dogs were both sprayed by the skunk, we thought the day could not get any worse. We used some pet-store remedy twice on them and left them outside to dry off.

The boy left to run errands and the kid and I started painting her room.

But then I heard Zoe barking.....a bark I had never heard before......in my gut, I knew something was wrong.

So I run downstairs, paint roller still in my hand and poke my head out the kitchen window. And there lay the skunk, half-dead, with the two dogs standing over it, wagging their tails, wanting to play.

Needless to say, things went downhill from there pretty quickly. The stench of being sprayed by a skunk, not once, but twice, plus shoving their faces in it after they ripped open its belly, is almost too much to bear. Our entire neighborhood smells like skunk, my office smells like skunk, our skin smells like skunk, and our dogs are living outside on the deck until I can figure out how in the hell to get the smell off of them.

Dodger got it so bad that his normally white paws are yellow. Yellow for Christsakes!!

And so today I will try Rachel's method with the peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap. However, I did read online that if you don't treat it within twelve hours, your kind of effed and that the smell, at that point, will stay with them for two years. Yikes. I'm hoping the first, second, third, and fourth treatment of the Skunk-Off counts for something.

And here I thought I would get some work done today.

And We Dance Again

Two weeks ago, I talked about our friendly skunk and his love of the boy's shoes.

Well, he's arrived again.  In fact, he's living under our shed.  Which in the grand scheme of things is a nuisance,  but as long as he doesn't spray anything, I really don't care.

Keywords, "as long as."

This morning, when the boy let the dogs out, they immediately bee-lined for the back of the yard; at first, he thought there was just a dog on the other side of the fence.  But then he saw Dodger shaking something in his mouth.

Dear Sweet Gentle Jesus; it was the skunk. 

And so now, we've got two dogs that smell like a skunk.  And they're not happy to just be sprayed and then sit at the back door, begging to be let in.  No, they're instead laying in front of the shed, with their noses as far as possible underneath it.  Like, "please, just come back out to play. Please? We were having such fun."

Are dogs are such idiots that they're not even phased by the fact that they've been sprayed.  While my friend Rachel had this happen not so long ago, her dog apparently was upset at being sprayed; ours not so much.

And here I thought it was going to be a quiet day of painting the kid's room.

 

The County Fair

So, we recently visited the county fair. As was the case last year, there were far too many women wearing mom jeans, and a lot of obnoxious teenagers hitting the hippie lettuce and acting like idiots. It was truly an experience.

This year, the kid brought a friend with her, which was great because it meant that the boy and I didn't have to ride on anything. This particular friend of hers is quite funny. When you first meet her, she's a little bit quiet and sort of shy. When she and the kid get together though, you couldn't ask for a more chatty-Cathy combo. I'm sure they boy was absolutely thrilled as we drove up to the fair.

"blah, blah, blah.....Oh My Gosh! Nick Jonas is SO Cute!!!! If I ever say him in person I'd be like 'aagghh! I love you Nick!!! aaaggghhh!' (and yes, they were actually screeching). Blah, blah, blah....I can't wait to eat fried dough.....I can't wait to have cotton candy.....I can't wait.....blah, blah, blah....." It was a non-stop stream of pre-tween chatter. To be honest, I'm not sure how their teacher handles them each day; I think I'd gouge my eyeballs out.

Speaking of which, I was pretty sure that by the end of our fair adventure, the boy was ready to take his own out. As the night wound down, the kid wanted to go on that pirate ship thing that runs like a giant pendulum. Her friend was so not okay with that, so Dan went in her place. As they were standing in line, there was a girl who was probably 13, with only one mission standing right behind them; to see if she could scream the loudest. It was similar to this.

Now imagine how happy he was to stand in line in front of her for 5 minutes.

As they approached the pirate ship, it looked like the boy and the kid would be the last two to squeeze on, escaping the girl.

Ha! Now imagine how happy he was to be sitting right across from her during the entire ride. I was certain that, by the end of it, he would reach across and punch her in the face - really. I know I would have.

By the end of the night, he was so completely spent, he didn't even speak. Or maybe he was just in a bad mood. I don't know. What I do know is this: he will probably never go to the fair again.

I Think I Smell a Skunk

For the last several days, I've been sitting in my office and smelling the very distinct stench of skunk. And I've pretty much lived with it because I figured that if there was a skunk spraying his stuff all over the yard, I was not wanting to get involved.

So today, the boy comes home and I mention it to him. Thinking maybe he knows something about the skunk, or maybe, perhaps, he should be aware of the skunk so that he doesn't let the dogs out at night to get sprayed.....

M: Hey honey, I think we've got a skunk hanging out in the yard. Do you smell that?
B: Smell what?
M: The skunk smell.
B: I don't smell anything.
M: Well, come in my office and sniff. It smells like skunk in here.

So, in he walks, and he takes a great, big, giant sniff.

B: Oh, that?
M: Um, yeah.
B: That's just my shoes. They're right over there (as he points in the general direction of the corner of MY office.)
M: Were they sprayed by a skunk?
B: Yeah, I think so. I put them in here to air out.

*****Silence......******

M: So let me get this straight. Your shoes were sprayed by a skunk, and you decided that it was a good idea to not only bring them in the house, but to leave them in my office, where I work every single day, so that I might enjoy the breathtaking scent of skunk?
B: Well, I didn't put that much thought in to it. I just brought them in so they didn't get sprayed again.
M: Why didn't you leave them downstairs in the "man cave?"
B: Well, I didn't want the room I hang out in to smell like skunk.

Really. What the eff is that about?

Allergic to 31

I realize that I've been an ass and have completely ignored and neglected this little blog as of late. But I have an excuse.

I turned 31.

And I seemingly had some adverse reaction to it which left me cranky and wanting to do nothing but mope around the house in sweatpants and wife beaters. It was pretty ugly.

Then this weekend, the boy and I had a date night with our friends who recently moved back to the area. It was nice. We headed to Frog and Turtle, where they were also celebrating a birthday. Apparently, all I really needed to get out of my funk was a glass of wine, two vodka tonics, an order of Poutine, and some roasted vegetable and goat cheese crepes. Awesome.

Now instead of trekking just 3.5 miles every morning, I've upped the ante to 5 because the fresh cheese curds from that Poutine seem to have made an immediate beeline for my ass.

But, it was damn good going down.

An Ego Boost For Sure

So earlier today I was over at Saving with Style to post about Clothes Off Our Back - an auction site where you can grab celebrity gear and know that you money is going to fight childhood hunger. Now, before you groan and click away.......Imagine my surprise when I saw this.


Crack me right the f*ck up. I'm thinking about blowing this up to poster size and hanging it in the house somewhere. Do you think I can just point to the sign every time the boy or the kid argues with me?

The Skeeziness of Bob's

Several month's ago, the kid took apart her bed, hauled it all to the curb, and declared that she didn't want it anymore. In fact, what she wanted was to have her bed on the floor - it was "cozier."

Well, the novelty of that horse and pony show has worn off, and she now wants a new bed.

We tried to talk her into taking our bed, so we could move up a size. After all, what kid doesn't want a full size bed? Apparently, ours.

"A full size bed isn't as versatile."
"What?!" Me, mildly annoyed because I really want a queen size bed
"I don't have as many options with a full size bed." Eye rolling and exasperation included.
"Sydnie. What in God's name are you talking about?!?"
"Um, in case you hadn't noticed, I like to rearrange my room. And with a full size bed, I can only put it in two places and I don't want that."
"So, you want to keep making your friends sleep on the floor when they spend the night?"
"That's their problem, not mine."

As she stands, shrugging her shoulders, I am completely annoyed that she (a) is clearly so not budging on this bed thing, and (b) that she isn't considering her friends.

So, off to bed shop we go. Actually, it was Dan and her that went first, because he thought I might need some quiet time to get work done. But it wasn't an hour later that they called and had to come home to get me. And all together, we made a trip to Bob's Discount Furniture.

Say what you want about Bob's, but I'll tell you this, the pit has deals you can't beat. Especially when you're trying to shop for a twin size bed on the cheap.

The first thing I notice when I enter the store is the dead goldfish floating in their little pond at the entrance. Nice. Real nice.

Then we get the salesman. Short in stature, he is of Hispanic decent and has one of those thin mustaches. Not like Juan Valdez in the coffee commercials, but instead one of those very thin, almost penciled in mustaches that makes him look greasy. Wearing a cheap suit, he's got a gold Folex and too many man-rings.

"You folks just looking around?"
"Yep."
"Can I help you find anything?"
"Nope."
"Well, if you need anything, I'll be within eye sight."
"Yep, we know, thanks."

And off we went - Dan in one direction, the kid and I in the other. And guess who that greasy bastard followed all over the store?

Dan. Guess he doesn't know who holds the purse strings. Needless to say, we came home empty handed.

I'm Getting Sappy

For any of you that read this regularly, this is going to catch you by surprise. I'm going to get a little sappy here.

One of the things that I truly love about working from home is the ability to respond to noon-time phone calls that go a little something like this:

"Mom! Can you come to my show at noon?"
"It's noon right now."
"Well, it starts at 12:30."
"Ok, I'll be right there."
"Thanks mom, I love you!"

And then you get to go to camp, be dragged around while the kid tells all her friends that her mom was able to make it to the noon-time show, revel in the fact that all the kids say, "wow, that's your mom? She looks so young!" (Thank God for anti-aging products!) And then you get to watch the show.

And I love that when the performance is over, you have to breath deep because your heart is in your throat and the tears are just about to come; you realize that your child is really happy, really having fun, and growing up way too fast.

Then you slip on the face-blockers, climb in the station wagon, and go back to work again.

I'm Gonna Warn You Now.....

This post will be primarily nonsense. Not nonsense like bullshit, but nonsense like, not making any sense.

Some of you might wonder where I've been; other's of you are probably glad I haven't written. Either way, I've just been hella busy, so if you count on me to bring a little sunshine to your life, I apologize for my absence.

If you only read this blog because I'm like a train wreck and you just can't look away, I'll apologize for coming back.

So, what have I been up to? Well, I finally got my website up and running - thank God. I wrote a whole bunch of stuff for Upromise, including a post about affordable fashion at Kmart (yes, really), the line of clothing that mark. offers, and the decided addiction that women have when it comes to shoes.

I've also been over at About, pulling together some new content, and recognizing that I really need to spend about three days doing nothing but writing about baby clothes.

The Stacie-hater from Sanford posted a comment again, on my last post, and then an old high school classmate came to my defense; thanks for having my back Jami. Jami, like my friend Rachel, is truly far too nice, and clean-mouthed, to actually be friends with me; sometimes I think it might be a pity things with these Michigan girls....lol......I will say though, she had some things to say to that chick from Sanford.

Oh, and just so no one feels left out, here's proof that I make fun of everyone, including myself.