Nothing much to report so I'm going My Dear letters.
--------
Dear Tommy,
Good gracious we need to have a religion lesson. Granted, it was adorable when you informed us seriously that when people die, they go to Venus.
Signed,
A-Better-Crack-Out-That-Bible,
Amber
--------
Dear Gordon Ramsay (from Hell’s Kitchen),
You scare me. And turn me on. Which is strange because normally I don’t like the bad boys. Maybe it’s because you wear a spiffy white chef coat? Or because I know you’re really not like that in real life? It’s simply a television persona that you’ve taken on. Apparently you’re a nice guy outside of that. Of course, if you met me and tried my cooking, you may get a little mean.
“Am-bah,” you might say, “This beef tastes like it came out of a box.”
“That’s because it did,” I’ll reply meekly. Then I’ll lift up the Hormel lid and give a cautious smile. “I think it rocks. You just stick it in the microwave for 4 minutes and wal-ah. Dinner!”
Then you’d probably stalk out and mutter something like, “Crazy Americans..”
But seriously. Hormel dinners are delicious.
Signed,
A-Boxed-Beef-Loving,
Amber
--------------
Dear Simon Cowell (from American Idol),
You also turn me on. Plus, I’m intrigued by the fact that you always leave your shirt unbuttoned which leaves a tuft of your chest hair sticking out. It’s probably because I’m married to someone without chest hair so I’m not sure what it’s like. Would I get a rug burn during the—ahem—act? Or would it be soft? Maybe it would tickle me. I’m extremely ticklish.
You’d be appalled by my singing though. If we became friends you might ask me to sing a few lines “just because you were curious.” I’d explain that I was awful, god awful, but you’d insist. So I’d do it because I have this compulsion to please people and then you’ll immediately look horrified and say bluntly, “Was that an angry cat or your voice?”
Signed,
A-I-Promise-I-Can't-Sing,
Amber
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Dear Lost Writers,
Still confused as ever. Need answers.
Thanks.
Signed,
A-What-Is-UP-with-the-island,
Amber
-------------
Dear Tom,
It must be nice to have a PIP (poop in peace.) I can’t even remember the last time I’ve had a PIP without a child gaping at me. Or talking to me as though I weren’t taking a crap less than a foot away from them. But you, you get to go into the bathroom, shut the door and leisurely do your business without an audience. It’s not fair.
Also, telling me that my area “down there” resembles a forest and that you’re worried an Ogre is going to jump out and say, “get thee away!” is not going to get you laid. Maybe if you offered to watch the children while I enjoyed a long hot bath then I could get “cleaned up.”
Signed,
Your-Not-As-Hairy-As-You-Make-It-Sound-Wife,
Amber
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Plex is Back
I'm pleased to announce that Plex the Magic Robot has been found.
I discovered him in my Crock Pot. I suppose Natalie was messing in the cupboards, as she knows she isn’t allowed to do, and stuffed poor Plex inside of it. I went to pull the Crock Pot out because I must set it on the counter to remind myself to put the meat in the next day. Otherwise I will completely forget. I’m not kidding.
As I set my beloved Crock Pot on the counter—-seriously, I love it-- it’s thrilling to be able to toss chicken and some cream of chicken soup on top and not have to do anything else. Well, okay, I guess you have to flick the switch on. But that’s not a big deal. At least you don’t have to measure things and figure out what certain items on a recipe are. I can’t tell you how many times that I’ve decided that yes, I will make that Rachael Ray recipe—only to be stumped by an ingredient. Of course I look it up but then comes the adventure of finding such an item. To be honest, usually I just go back to things that I know I can make. (Read: spaghetti. Or chicken with soup on top.)
Oops. I went off into a tangent. Anyhow. As I was saying, I set my Crock Pot on the counter and thank goodness I looked inside of it before quickly dumping the meat in. I did a quick glance inside and that’s when I saw Plex staring back out at me.
“There you are, Plex!” I said, behaving as though he were a live being.
Tom, who is usually comatose when he’s in front of the computer called back, “Did you say something to me?”
I grabbed Plex and rushed out beside Tom. “No. I found PLEX!”
And Tom, who had no idea who he was when he went missing, still looked baffled. “Who the hell is Plex?” he repeated, clicking one of his pixilated soldier men from his game. (Company of Heroes I think.)
Ugh.
I didn’t care though. I was just pleased that Plex had been found. Natalie was napping at the time so I had to wait for her to wake up. I figured she’d be thrilled. I set Plex neatly on the couch and waited.
When I went to get Natalie I told her cheerfully that we found someone special.
Natalie, who is a total grump when she first wakes up (hrm, wonder where she gets that from?), could care less. She had her face pressed into my shoulder and one of her hands was slapping at my arm repeatedly. I tried to get her to LOOK at Plex when we came downstairs. I even did a full circle while pointing wildly at the freaky robot on our couch but she would not, under any circumstances, lift her head from my shoulder.
So I had to go, “Natalie, look. It’s Plex.”
That got her attention. She peeked up and then pointed. “Plex,” she said. I expected her to squeal with delight and wiggle from my arms. But no. She just re-buried her face.
Hrm.
I set her down and told her again that Plex was back. PLEX. You know, the thing you’ve been wailing about for the past two days? At first Natalie latched herself onto my leg and pressed her face into my knee. But then she let go and started walking slowly over to the couch.
Yes! YES! The big happy reunion scene was about to happen.
I rushed over to get my camera. Because, you know, I take pictures of anything these days. As I was scrambling to get it, Natalie took Plex by the arm and wandered down the hall. I hurried over with my camera in tow and expected to get a look of glee.
Instead, I got this:
She's giving me a look that clearly says, "WTF do you want me to do?"
This is sort of what I was expecting:
You know. A smile. Excitement.
I thought, okay, it's because she just woke up from her nap. I can wait patiently for a better reunion.
But it never happened.
No.
Instead, Natalie simply ABANDONED Plex and then went to play with some PAPER.
I'm not kidding.
She's been looking for Plex for two days. Pathetically calling for him. And all she does is DROP HIM and go for some PAPER? PAPER!
One-year-olds. *Shakes head*
I discovered him in my Crock Pot. I suppose Natalie was messing in the cupboards, as she knows she isn’t allowed to do, and stuffed poor Plex inside of it. I went to pull the Crock Pot out because I must set it on the counter to remind myself to put the meat in the next day. Otherwise I will completely forget. I’m not kidding.
As I set my beloved Crock Pot on the counter—-seriously, I love it-- it’s thrilling to be able to toss chicken and some cream of chicken soup on top and not have to do anything else. Well, okay, I guess you have to flick the switch on. But that’s not a big deal. At least you don’t have to measure things and figure out what certain items on a recipe are. I can’t tell you how many times that I’ve decided that yes, I will make that Rachael Ray recipe—only to be stumped by an ingredient. Of course I look it up but then comes the adventure of finding such an item. To be honest, usually I just go back to things that I know I can make. (Read: spaghetti. Or chicken with soup on top.)
Oops. I went off into a tangent. Anyhow. As I was saying, I set my Crock Pot on the counter and thank goodness I looked inside of it before quickly dumping the meat in. I did a quick glance inside and that’s when I saw Plex staring back out at me.
“There you are, Plex!” I said, behaving as though he were a live being.
Tom, who is usually comatose when he’s in front of the computer called back, “Did you say something to me?”
I grabbed Plex and rushed out beside Tom. “No. I found PLEX!”
And Tom, who had no idea who he was when he went missing, still looked baffled. “Who the hell is Plex?” he repeated, clicking one of his pixilated soldier men from his game. (Company of Heroes I think.)
Ugh.
I didn’t care though. I was just pleased that Plex had been found. Natalie was napping at the time so I had to wait for her to wake up. I figured she’d be thrilled. I set Plex neatly on the couch and waited.
When I went to get Natalie I told her cheerfully that we found someone special.
Natalie, who is a total grump when she first wakes up (hrm, wonder where she gets that from?), could care less. She had her face pressed into my shoulder and one of her hands was slapping at my arm repeatedly. I tried to get her to LOOK at Plex when we came downstairs. I even did a full circle while pointing wildly at the freaky robot on our couch but she would not, under any circumstances, lift her head from my shoulder.
So I had to go, “Natalie, look. It’s Plex.”
That got her attention. She peeked up and then pointed. “Plex,” she said. I expected her to squeal with delight and wiggle from my arms. But no. She just re-buried her face.
Hrm.
I set her down and told her again that Plex was back. PLEX. You know, the thing you’ve been wailing about for the past two days? At first Natalie latched herself onto my leg and pressed her face into my knee. But then she let go and started walking slowly over to the couch.
Yes! YES! The big happy reunion scene was about to happen.
I rushed over to get my camera. Because, you know, I take pictures of anything these days. As I was scrambling to get it, Natalie took Plex by the arm and wandered down the hall. I hurried over with my camera in tow and expected to get a look of glee.
Instead, I got this:
She's giving me a look that clearly says, "WTF do you want me to do?"
This is sort of what I was expecting:
You know. A smile. Excitement.
I thought, okay, it's because she just woke up from her nap. I can wait patiently for a better reunion.
But it never happened.
No.
Instead, Natalie simply ABANDONED Plex and then went to play with some PAPER.
I'm not kidding.
She's been looking for Plex for two days. Pathetically calling for him. And all she does is DROP HIM and go for some PAPER? PAPER!
One-year-olds. *Shakes head*
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Help. I'm Lost.
Plex, the magical robot off Yo Gabba Gabba is missing.
Plex also goes by the name "creepy robot off that creepy children's show with that creepy DJ Lance who has bright orange hair" and "Who the hell is Plex?" (From Tom, the aloof husband, who probably couldn't even name his son's teacher if pressed.)
If found, please contact Amber. His owner, Natalie, misses him deeply and has been roaming the house moaning, "Plex! Plex? Where ARE you?" over and over. It was sweet at first but is now pushing on the irritating side. I mean, the child has tons of other toys. So Plex is missing? Go play with creepy Brobee. Or that princess doll that you HAD to have while we were at DisneyWorld and have only looked at twice.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Go Away, Snow
So I was in a deep sleep. Dreaming of jumping into the television screen and tearing the cartoon WiiFit to pieces.
"You think I'm unbalanced? Take THAT, WiiFit!" (I did a perfect high kick at this point like I was the next Karate Kid or something. The truth is, I can barely kick my leg two feet off the ground.)
"You want to know why I gained one pound? Take THAT, WiiFit!" (I tossed an angry punch into its middle.)
I was about to go for the grand finale of hurling the evil rectangular torture device (seriously, it feels like one sometimes) when...
...the phone rang.
Huh?
In the dream, I thought it was the WiiFit making the noise. As though the sound were its last defense mechanism or something. I wasn't sure what it was about to do. Blow up?
My eyes snapped open in confusion.
Where's that ringing coming from? How do I shut it up? Natalie, is that you?
Then I realized it was the phone. My hands started to feel around on the bed, looking for it. Thank goodness Tom was at work. Otherwise he would have gotten a few pats from my palm all over her face. I picture my hand slapping his cheeks lightly and him going, "What the hell?"
I managed to find the phone and I somehow remembered to push the on button.
"Ewwo?" I garbled out.
Sleep. Wanna go back to sleep. It's still sort of dark in here. What's happening? Did Tom hit something?
It turned out it was my favorite (sarcasm) automated voice yakking to me. Cheerfully.
"This is your 5:15 call from the Laramie County automated phone service.."
Ugh.
5:15!
Last time they called at 6:30 and that was hard enough.
Now they've updated it to FIVE freakin' FIFTEEN?
It gave me a list of the schools that were closed due to heavy snow.
Tommy's was not listed.
So basically, I was disturbed for nothing. I didn't get to watch my WiiFit break into smitherines a la David Letterman when he tosses things off that building.
Hmph.
After I hung up I sort of tossed the phone beside me. I may have uttered an expletive.
Then I rolled over and attempted to get back to sleep. Which took awhile, because I'm not like my husband, who is quite capable of placing his head on his pillow and falling asleep in a matter of minutes.
Yeah, we were dumped with snow. A lot of it.
Most of the time I wouldn't care. I just simply wouldn't leave the house.
But.
Gymboree is currently having a $4.99 sale. Of course the sale seems to only be for Kid Girls but for $4.99, heck, I'll buy ahead, you know? I'd pick up a bunch of size 3s. Plus they had some jeans for Kid Boys and Tommy always needs jeans. He's constantly wearing the knees of his pants until they're a bright silver and then I retire those to Play Clothes. So basically, after buying him eight pairs of jeans for the school year, he's now down to three good ones. Oh, of course he has other pants mixed in--khakis, corduroys, and these awful pull on pants that he loves and I hate. But I would have loved to get him some new pants. For FIVE bucks. I mean seriously.
But the snow kept falling. And falling. And, oh, falling.
I even yelled at it last night. I peeked out the window and moaned, "Please stop. I need to get to the sale. Could you PLEASE stop?"
And Tom looked at me as though I had grown another head. And yeah, it was silly of me to do.
But $4.99, people.
For clothes that are originally $32!
I'm sorry, but that's a kick ass deal.
Obviously I didn't go to the sale. My daughter's safety comes first. Notice I said my daughter. Because if it were just me I'd have gone even though I hate driving on snow. My poor PT Cruiser, it slides all over the place. It's like a ride at Disney in my vehicle when it's snowy.
So I'm here. Not shopping. Even though Tom, who always gripes that we have too many clothes in this house and did I realize that FIVE totes in the garage are filled with clothes--said I ought to go.
Huh?
"You need to learn how to drive in the snow sometime," he said with a shrug.
"But. I'll DIE," I spluttered dramatically. I pictured my PT Cruiser doing a spin into a light post and my air bag deflating and me suffocating into it. With a Gymboree bag beside me.
Then.
Then someone mentioned that their Target finally went 75% off for the remaining toys.
And I'm wondering if mine did too! Even though I just popped in yesterday, before the snow got too bad.
Oh well.
I tell myself it just wasn't meant to be.
So all you people with the nice weather? If you shop the $4.99 Gymboree sale, think of me. Stuck in my home in cold Wyoming.
Tom's next assignment better be to someplace warm.
"You think I'm unbalanced? Take THAT, WiiFit!" (I did a perfect high kick at this point like I was the next Karate Kid or something. The truth is, I can barely kick my leg two feet off the ground.)
"You want to know why I gained one pound? Take THAT, WiiFit!" (I tossed an angry punch into its middle.)
I was about to go for the grand finale of hurling the evil rectangular torture device (seriously, it feels like one sometimes) when...
...the phone rang.
Huh?
In the dream, I thought it was the WiiFit making the noise. As though the sound were its last defense mechanism or something. I wasn't sure what it was about to do. Blow up?
My eyes snapped open in confusion.
Where's that ringing coming from? How do I shut it up? Natalie, is that you?
Then I realized it was the phone. My hands started to feel around on the bed, looking for it. Thank goodness Tom was at work. Otherwise he would have gotten a few pats from my palm all over her face. I picture my hand slapping his cheeks lightly and him going, "What the hell?"
I managed to find the phone and I somehow remembered to push the on button.
"Ewwo?" I garbled out.
Sleep. Wanna go back to sleep. It's still sort of dark in here. What's happening? Did Tom hit something?
It turned out it was my favorite (sarcasm) automated voice yakking to me. Cheerfully.
"This is your 5:15 call from the Laramie County automated phone service.."
Ugh.
5:15!
Last time they called at 6:30 and that was hard enough.
Now they've updated it to FIVE freakin' FIFTEEN?
It gave me a list of the schools that were closed due to heavy snow.
Tommy's was not listed.
So basically, I was disturbed for nothing. I didn't get to watch my WiiFit break into smitherines a la David Letterman when he tosses things off that building.
Hmph.
After I hung up I sort of tossed the phone beside me. I may have uttered an expletive.
Then I rolled over and attempted to get back to sleep. Which took awhile, because I'm not like my husband, who is quite capable of placing his head on his pillow and falling asleep in a matter of minutes.
Yeah, we were dumped with snow. A lot of it.
Most of the time I wouldn't care. I just simply wouldn't leave the house.
But.
Gymboree is currently having a $4.99 sale. Of course the sale seems to only be for Kid Girls but for $4.99, heck, I'll buy ahead, you know? I'd pick up a bunch of size 3s. Plus they had some jeans for Kid Boys and Tommy always needs jeans. He's constantly wearing the knees of his pants until they're a bright silver and then I retire those to Play Clothes. So basically, after buying him eight pairs of jeans for the school year, he's now down to three good ones. Oh, of course he has other pants mixed in--khakis, corduroys, and these awful pull on pants that he loves and I hate. But I would have loved to get him some new pants. For FIVE bucks. I mean seriously.
But the snow kept falling. And falling. And, oh, falling.
I even yelled at it last night. I peeked out the window and moaned, "Please stop. I need to get to the sale. Could you PLEASE stop?"
And Tom looked at me as though I had grown another head. And yeah, it was silly of me to do.
But $4.99, people.
For clothes that are originally $32!
I'm sorry, but that's a kick ass deal.
Obviously I didn't go to the sale. My daughter's safety comes first. Notice I said my daughter. Because if it were just me I'd have gone even though I hate driving on snow. My poor PT Cruiser, it slides all over the place. It's like a ride at Disney in my vehicle when it's snowy.
So I'm here. Not shopping. Even though Tom, who always gripes that we have too many clothes in this house and did I realize that FIVE totes in the garage are filled with clothes--said I ought to go.
Huh?
"You need to learn how to drive in the snow sometime," he said with a shrug.
"But. I'll DIE," I spluttered dramatically. I pictured my PT Cruiser doing a spin into a light post and my air bag deflating and me suffocating into it. With a Gymboree bag beside me.
Then.
Then someone mentioned that their Target finally went 75% off for the remaining toys.
And I'm wondering if mine did too! Even though I just popped in yesterday, before the snow got too bad.
Oh well.
I tell myself it just wasn't meant to be.
So all you people with the nice weather? If you shop the $4.99 Gymboree sale, think of me. Stuck in my home in cold Wyoming.
Tom's next assignment better be to someplace warm.
Friday, January 23, 2009
I Know This Much To Be True....
I know this much to be true....
That my WiiFit HATES me. Heaven forbid I miss one day of using it. I'm sorry, WiiFit. But I'm sort of, I don't know, taking care of children. And cleaning the house that they like to destroy. That counts as working out, right? I mean I'm bending down, scooping up toys, throwing toys in appropriate bins, bending down, scooping up toys...etc..etc..
I know this much to be true....
That the show Lost rocks. Though one of the characters on the show reminds me of Jon Gosselin from Jon and Kate plus 8. It's hard for me to take him seriously now. Whenever he speaks, I almost expect 8 kids to jump out from behind the bushes or something.
I know this much to be true....
That my new pink drill rocks. I am woman. Watch me drill.
I know this much to be true....
That the second I look away, Natalie is going to color on the walls. Even if I hide all the crayons. She still manages to find one. I think she has a secret stash somewhere. Thank goodness for Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.
I know this much to be true....
I love my peacoat. Even though it itches my neck a little bit.
I know this much to be true....
That the movie Anne of Green Gables rocks. I even watched it with the Director's Commentary. I'm a nerd.
I know this much to be true....
That I buy my daughter too many shoes. (I'm ashamed to say that not only are all those compartments filled, but that there are more shoes stored in the closet. And, um, under her dresser.)[Please note: I only have 3 pairs of shoes.]
I know this much to be true....
That I eat too many of these! Which in turn causes my WiiFit to yell at me. Which in turns causes me to cry. Which in turn makes me run eat another Reeses Peanut Butter cup. Dr. Phil would totally go off on me.
"Amber. We don't live to eat. We eat to LIVE."
"But...surely when talking about peanut butter cups that doesn't apply? Right?"
"Okay. I'm done with her."
"Dr. Phil, wait!"
"GOODbye!"
I know this much to be true....
That Natalie hates when her Daddy leaves.
I know this much to be true....
That I will never pee alone until the kids move out. It seems the second I sit on the commode, they have questions that must be answered NOW. Also, my husband Tom loves to use the last of the toilet paper and, while he comprehends how to fire (and take apart) a semi-automatic weapon, he doesn't seem to understand how to replace the toilet paper roll. Even though, as you can see, the new rolls are sitting less than two feet away. I'm baffled.
That my WiiFit HATES me. Heaven forbid I miss one day of using it. I'm sorry, WiiFit. But I'm sort of, I don't know, taking care of children. And cleaning the house that they like to destroy. That counts as working out, right? I mean I'm bending down, scooping up toys, throwing toys in appropriate bins, bending down, scooping up toys...etc..etc..
I know this much to be true....
That the show Lost rocks. Though one of the characters on the show reminds me of Jon Gosselin from Jon and Kate plus 8. It's hard for me to take him seriously now. Whenever he speaks, I almost expect 8 kids to jump out from behind the bushes or something.
I know this much to be true....
That my new pink drill rocks. I am woman. Watch me drill.
I know this much to be true....
That the second I look away, Natalie is going to color on the walls. Even if I hide all the crayons. She still manages to find one. I think she has a secret stash somewhere. Thank goodness for Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.
I know this much to be true....
I love my peacoat. Even though it itches my neck a little bit.
I know this much to be true....
That the movie Anne of Green Gables rocks. I even watched it with the Director's Commentary. I'm a nerd.
I know this much to be true....
That I buy my daughter too many shoes. (I'm ashamed to say that not only are all those compartments filled, but that there are more shoes stored in the closet. And, um, under her dresser.)[Please note: I only have 3 pairs of shoes.]
I know this much to be true....
That I eat too many of these! Which in turn causes my WiiFit to yell at me. Which in turns causes me to cry. Which in turn makes me run eat another Reeses Peanut Butter cup. Dr. Phil would totally go off on me.
"Amber. We don't live to eat. We eat to LIVE."
"But...surely when talking about peanut butter cups that doesn't apply? Right?"
"Okay. I'm done with her."
"Dr. Phil, wait!"
"GOODbye!"
I know this much to be true....
That Natalie hates when her Daddy leaves.
I know this much to be true....
That I will never pee alone until the kids move out. It seems the second I sit on the commode, they have questions that must be answered NOW. Also, my husband Tom loves to use the last of the toilet paper and, while he comprehends how to fire (and take apart) a semi-automatic weapon, he doesn't seem to understand how to replace the toilet paper roll. Even though, as you can see, the new rolls are sitting less than two feet away. I'm baffled.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Ch-Ch-Changes
Let me start off by saying that I love Tom dearly.
But sharing a bed with him is like sharing a bed with a fish out of water.
It's all *flop flop floppity flop*!
Mind you, I've been used to having the bed to myself for two years. Tom used to work the night shift. Now he's back on the day shift.
I miss stretching out in the bed.
I think Tom does too. He's used to sprawling out as he slept during the day. Because sometimes I'll be in a deep sleep and I'll feel his foot pressing against me.
"Hello?" I scream out. "HUMAN BEING HERE!"
(Will totally admit that I'm a total biz-nitch when my sleep is distrubed.)
And, when we're facing the same direction in bed, I get to be bathed in his stale breath. I'm not saying that my breath smells like roses--but he's a man, he has a bigger mouth, therefore there is more garbage-smelling laced air blowing in my direction. So that wakes me up. I'll be in a deep sleep, maybe even having my favorite dream where I can eat all the chocolate I want and not gain a pound--and then suddenly, the chocolate tastes off, the sweet scent no longer fills the air and I'll realize, crap, it's because my husband's mouth is like two inches away from my own.
I'm also getting used to having him around on his days off.
I sometimes feel like I have to entertain him. Sometimes he'll be pacing around the house--he does this when he's bored--and I'll ask him to please stop and if he wants something to do, well, there's a pile of laundry waiting to be folded and put away.
"I was...about to watch TV," he'll quickly say and settle onto the couch.
And put it on..CARTOONS.
He claims it's for the kids. But sometimes he'll switch it on and there are no children to be found.
On comes Spongebob. The same episode that we've seen over and over again.
How can he watch the same episode over and over again?
"I can tell you what happens," I'll speak up. "Gary is only hanging around Patrick because he has a cookie in his pocket."
Tom will give me a Look. "I KNOW that," he'll say, indignant.
"Then why watch it?" I'll question.
"Because," he'll say. "There's nothing else on."
"Rachael Ray is on," I'll remind him.
He'll make a face. And okay, I admit Rachael Ray isn't the best show ever--I never pay full attention to it, I basically just drool over her dishes and marvel at the fact that nothing ever burns--but I'd much rather have that on than cartoons.
I sometimes wonder if I'm the only mother who doesn't keep the channel on cartoons all day.
On the forum I write it, most of the mothers admit that their television is always tuned to Noggin.
Seriously?
I'd go nuts having to hear children's programming all day. Granted, they may argue that they'd go nuts without children's programming. Because then their kids would be bouncing off the walls.
I just always felt like it was best to teach kids to entertain themselves.
And, like I said, I'd go INSANE if I had to hear that winter song that Zee or whoever that thing is, sings after every danged show.
I have relented and I do let the kids watch their shows from 4-5 so I can write my novel.
Although I barely even get to do that.
Because at 430 I have to start dinner. And sometimes the kids get the case of the "I needs" so I'll have to abandon my computer and tend to them.
Tom knows that I let them watch TV from 4-5.
But he doesn't like what I put on.
They get to watch Blue's Clues which is followed by the ultra annoying Max and Ruby. The show is about two rabbits and the sister, Ruby, is constantly watching over her little brother Max. Where are the parents? Why should Ruby have to watch Max all the time?
Tom, obviously, does not like those programs. He once tried to change the channel and was met by two angry shrieks from the kids.
Then Tom starts to bug me.
"Whatcha doing?" he'll ask as I'm on the computer.
"Trying to write my novel."
Then he'll do what he knows I HATE. He'll read over my shoulder.
So I'll minimize the screen.
"Could you not do that?" I'll ask in a testy voice.
"Do what?" He'll look genuinely shocked.
"Read. Over my shoulder. Go watch TV." And I'll pat his arm like he's one of the children. But sometimes, well, he ACTS like one.
"I don't like this show," Tom will respond like a petulant child.
"Well. I'm sorry. I'm busy." And then I'll try to go back to my novel but sometimes Tom just HOVERS and I'll have to stop again.
"WHAT?" I'll screech.
"Are you almost done?" he'll wonder. "I'd like to play my game."
Oh for--
And usually I'll just get off because he'll have ruined my writing vibe anyhow.
Then I'll start making dinner, which Tom rarely likes. I must prefer cooking when he's still at work. Because then he can't say much when the meal is finished. But if I'm starting to cook it, he'll sigh and say something like, "Sloppy Joes again?"
To which I'll reply, "You know, YOU could always make something."
And that basically shuts him up.
I just need my space is all.
But sharing a bed with him is like sharing a bed with a fish out of water.
It's all *flop flop floppity flop*!
Mind you, I've been used to having the bed to myself for two years. Tom used to work the night shift. Now he's back on the day shift.
I miss stretching out in the bed.
I think Tom does too. He's used to sprawling out as he slept during the day. Because sometimes I'll be in a deep sleep and I'll feel his foot pressing against me.
"Hello?" I scream out. "HUMAN BEING HERE!"
(Will totally admit that I'm a total biz-nitch when my sleep is distrubed.)
And, when we're facing the same direction in bed, I get to be bathed in his stale breath. I'm not saying that my breath smells like roses--but he's a man, he has a bigger mouth, therefore there is more garbage-smelling laced air blowing in my direction. So that wakes me up. I'll be in a deep sleep, maybe even having my favorite dream where I can eat all the chocolate I want and not gain a pound--and then suddenly, the chocolate tastes off, the sweet scent no longer fills the air and I'll realize, crap, it's because my husband's mouth is like two inches away from my own.
I'm also getting used to having him around on his days off.
I sometimes feel like I have to entertain him. Sometimes he'll be pacing around the house--he does this when he's bored--and I'll ask him to please stop and if he wants something to do, well, there's a pile of laundry waiting to be folded and put away.
"I was...about to watch TV," he'll quickly say and settle onto the couch.
And put it on..CARTOONS.
He claims it's for the kids. But sometimes he'll switch it on and there are no children to be found.
On comes Spongebob. The same episode that we've seen over and over again.
How can he watch the same episode over and over again?
"I can tell you what happens," I'll speak up. "Gary is only hanging around Patrick because he has a cookie in his pocket."
Tom will give me a Look. "I KNOW that," he'll say, indignant.
"Then why watch it?" I'll question.
"Because," he'll say. "There's nothing else on."
"Rachael Ray is on," I'll remind him.
He'll make a face. And okay, I admit Rachael Ray isn't the best show ever--I never pay full attention to it, I basically just drool over her dishes and marvel at the fact that nothing ever burns--but I'd much rather have that on than cartoons.
I sometimes wonder if I'm the only mother who doesn't keep the channel on cartoons all day.
On the forum I write it, most of the mothers admit that their television is always tuned to Noggin.
Seriously?
I'd go nuts having to hear children's programming all day. Granted, they may argue that they'd go nuts without children's programming. Because then their kids would be bouncing off the walls.
I just always felt like it was best to teach kids to entertain themselves.
And, like I said, I'd go INSANE if I had to hear that winter song that Zee or whoever that thing is, sings after every danged show.
I have relented and I do let the kids watch their shows from 4-5 so I can write my novel.
Although I barely even get to do that.
Because at 430 I have to start dinner. And sometimes the kids get the case of the "I needs" so I'll have to abandon my computer and tend to them.
Tom knows that I let them watch TV from 4-5.
But he doesn't like what I put on.
They get to watch Blue's Clues which is followed by the ultra annoying Max and Ruby. The show is about two rabbits and the sister, Ruby, is constantly watching over her little brother Max. Where are the parents? Why should Ruby have to watch Max all the time?
Tom, obviously, does not like those programs. He once tried to change the channel and was met by two angry shrieks from the kids.
Then Tom starts to bug me.
"Whatcha doing?" he'll ask as I'm on the computer.
"Trying to write my novel."
Then he'll do what he knows I HATE. He'll read over my shoulder.
So I'll minimize the screen.
"Could you not do that?" I'll ask in a testy voice.
"Do what?" He'll look genuinely shocked.
"Read. Over my shoulder. Go watch TV." And I'll pat his arm like he's one of the children. But sometimes, well, he ACTS like one.
"I don't like this show," Tom will respond like a petulant child.
"Well. I'm sorry. I'm busy." And then I'll try to go back to my novel but sometimes Tom just HOVERS and I'll have to stop again.
"WHAT?" I'll screech.
"Are you almost done?" he'll wonder. "I'd like to play my game."
Oh for--
And usually I'll just get off because he'll have ruined my writing vibe anyhow.
Then I'll start making dinner, which Tom rarely likes. I must prefer cooking when he's still at work. Because then he can't say much when the meal is finished. But if I'm starting to cook it, he'll sigh and say something like, "Sloppy Joes again?"
To which I'll reply, "You know, YOU could always make something."
And that basically shuts him up.
I just need my space is all.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Bloody Wal-Mart
Finally.
The season premiere of Lost begins tonight.
It's one of my favorite shows. Even though I usually wind up confused when it's over.
And wishing that Charlie (Dominic Monaghan) was back.
It's a magic island. Surely he can arise from the dead?
Anyhow.
Today I had to run to Wal-Mart. On the way inside I passed a man muttering to himself and a woman sliding into one of those motorized carts while announcing, "I can walk. But these things are so fun!"
Wal-Mart is seriously beginning to scare me.
I headed to the bakery section to drool over the desserts and somehow ended up with six cupcakes in my cart.
About twenty minutes later I started unloading my items at the checkout line--I'm always stupified on how I can walk in for a few things [in this case I was picking up Tom's energy drinks and Gatorade which are surprisingly cheaper at Wal-Mart than the commissary] and walk out with a cartful. But I always make the mistake of walking down the food aisles.
And then the baby section. Ooo baby barrettes! Would go perfectly with Natalie's new outfit.
And the big kid section.
Madagascar underpants? Tommy would LOVE them.
The checkout lady rang up my items and to be honest, she looked like she was about to keel over. She was on oxygen and I felt bad when I saw her struggle slightly to pass the Gatorade over the scanner.
"Here. I'll take that," I quickly said after the drinks rang up. I carefully took them from her hands.
Then I started digging through my purse for my wallet. I seriously need to clean out my purse. It's disgusting. It's littered with change, trash and a few yogurt raisins that fell out of the plastic bag that I had quickly stuffed into my purse as a snack for Natalie. Although I don't know why I even bother. The kid rarely eats. Instead she takes a raisin between her thumb and forefinger and squishes it.
"You're supposed to EAT it," I'll explain and then pop one in my mouth.
Natalie will immediately look insulted--hey--that's MY snack--but she'll clamp her mouth shut when I try to pass one through her lips.
I usually give up. All the experts say that you mustn't force feed children. That they'll eat when they're hungry.
Which I try to remind myself but sometimes it's difficult when you have a twenty pound nearly two-year-old who still wears the 12-18 sizes.
When I found my debit card I took it out, waiting for the total.
My chest clenched as I saw the total rising higher and higher. $39.67...to $42.64..to $52.68..
STOP.
STOP RISING DAMN YOU.
I always argue inwardly with the Total, as though it were a real thing, something that enjoys mocking me.
"Ouch," I heard the check out lady suddenly say.
I glanced up at her and noticed that she was bleeding from her arm.
Ew.
Oh EW.
Blood makes me quesy.
I nearly passed out when she pressed a finger to her wound and then LICKED IT.
I was grateful that she had finished ringing my items up at least.
"Are you..." I forced myself to say even though the room was starting to spin...."okay?"
Ew. Blood. Ew.
Don't pass out.
Don't pass out.
The checkout lady opened a drawer and started rifling through it. She pulled out a band-aid--and handed it to me.
"Could you put this on me?" she asked.
Oh ew.
EW.
EW!
This would NOT happen at Target!
I tried my best to hide my disgust even though I was close to vomiting.
And passing out.
Ew. What if I passed out in my VOMIT?
EW.
And what would poor Natalie think. She'd freak out if her Mommy crumpled to the ground.
What if someone kidnapped her while I was passed out?
It happens.
"Sure," I said weakly and took the band-aid.
I held my breath as the check out lady moved her wound towards me. She rested her elblow on the little platform beside the credit/debit swipper. She had a small knick on her arm and I tried not to look at the small amount of blood that sat on top of it.
Ew.
I quickly put on the band-aid--sloppily--but I just wanted to get out of there.
Then I rushed to the bathrooms and washed my hands. I mean, I didn't get any blood on me but you never can tell. I remember watching that old 80s show Life Goes On. And Kelly--I think her name was Kelly? I can't recall. Anyhow, she fell in love with this guy with AIDS and she got some of his blood on her so she rushed home and was washing her hands off frantically.
Not that I'm saying that the woman had AIDS.
But you just never know.
To get my mind off the blood I decided to go to Burger King. I wanted to try that new Angry Whopper. Which, by the way, makes me giggle. I picture a cartoon hamburger all pissed off. And for some reason, the angry hamburger is running around with a spatula shouting profanities.
Anyhow, when I went to order the angry whopper I nearly giggled when I said the words.
"I'd like an angry whopper please..." (Teehee.)
I got the four piece chicken tenders for Natalie, even though she only ended up eating one.
My angry whopper was tasty though. I took off the bacon to make myself feel better about the calories. I mean, well, I guess I saved myself like 50 calories from removing the bacon. That's something.
Right?
The season premiere of Lost begins tonight.
It's one of my favorite shows. Even though I usually wind up confused when it's over.
And wishing that Charlie (Dominic Monaghan) was back.
It's a magic island. Surely he can arise from the dead?
Anyhow.
Today I had to run to Wal-Mart. On the way inside I passed a man muttering to himself and a woman sliding into one of those motorized carts while announcing, "I can walk. But these things are so fun!"
Wal-Mart is seriously beginning to scare me.
I headed to the bakery section to drool over the desserts and somehow ended up with six cupcakes in my cart.
About twenty minutes later I started unloading my items at the checkout line--I'm always stupified on how I can walk in for a few things [in this case I was picking up Tom's energy drinks and Gatorade which are surprisingly cheaper at Wal-Mart than the commissary] and walk out with a cartful. But I always make the mistake of walking down the food aisles.
And then the baby section. Ooo baby barrettes! Would go perfectly with Natalie's new outfit.
And the big kid section.
Madagascar underpants? Tommy would LOVE them.
The checkout lady rang up my items and to be honest, she looked like she was about to keel over. She was on oxygen and I felt bad when I saw her struggle slightly to pass the Gatorade over the scanner.
"Here. I'll take that," I quickly said after the drinks rang up. I carefully took them from her hands.
Then I started digging through my purse for my wallet. I seriously need to clean out my purse. It's disgusting. It's littered with change, trash and a few yogurt raisins that fell out of the plastic bag that I had quickly stuffed into my purse as a snack for Natalie. Although I don't know why I even bother. The kid rarely eats. Instead she takes a raisin between her thumb and forefinger and squishes it.
"You're supposed to EAT it," I'll explain and then pop one in my mouth.
Natalie will immediately look insulted--hey--that's MY snack--but she'll clamp her mouth shut when I try to pass one through her lips.
I usually give up. All the experts say that you mustn't force feed children. That they'll eat when they're hungry.
Which I try to remind myself but sometimes it's difficult when you have a twenty pound nearly two-year-old who still wears the 12-18 sizes.
When I found my debit card I took it out, waiting for the total.
My chest clenched as I saw the total rising higher and higher. $39.67...to $42.64..to $52.68..
STOP.
STOP RISING DAMN YOU.
I always argue inwardly with the Total, as though it were a real thing, something that enjoys mocking me.
"Ouch," I heard the check out lady suddenly say.
I glanced up at her and noticed that she was bleeding from her arm.
Ew.
Oh EW.
Blood makes me quesy.
I nearly passed out when she pressed a finger to her wound and then LICKED IT.
I was grateful that she had finished ringing my items up at least.
"Are you..." I forced myself to say even though the room was starting to spin...."okay?"
Ew. Blood. Ew.
Don't pass out.
Don't pass out.
The checkout lady opened a drawer and started rifling through it. She pulled out a band-aid--and handed it to me.
"Could you put this on me?" she asked.
Oh ew.
EW.
EW!
This would NOT happen at Target!
I tried my best to hide my disgust even though I was close to vomiting.
And passing out.
Ew. What if I passed out in my VOMIT?
EW.
And what would poor Natalie think. She'd freak out if her Mommy crumpled to the ground.
What if someone kidnapped her while I was passed out?
It happens.
"Sure," I said weakly and took the band-aid.
I held my breath as the check out lady moved her wound towards me. She rested her elblow on the little platform beside the credit/debit swipper. She had a small knick on her arm and I tried not to look at the small amount of blood that sat on top of it.
Ew.
I quickly put on the band-aid--sloppily--but I just wanted to get out of there.
Then I rushed to the bathrooms and washed my hands. I mean, I didn't get any blood on me but you never can tell. I remember watching that old 80s show Life Goes On. And Kelly--I think her name was Kelly? I can't recall. Anyhow, she fell in love with this guy with AIDS and she got some of his blood on her so she rushed home and was washing her hands off frantically.
Not that I'm saying that the woman had AIDS.
But you just never know.
To get my mind off the blood I decided to go to Burger King. I wanted to try that new Angry Whopper. Which, by the way, makes me giggle. I picture a cartoon hamburger all pissed off. And for some reason, the angry hamburger is running around with a spatula shouting profanities.
Anyhow, when I went to order the angry whopper I nearly giggled when I said the words.
"I'd like an angry whopper please..." (Teehee.)
I got the four piece chicken tenders for Natalie, even though she only ended up eating one.
My angry whopper was tasty though. I took off the bacon to make myself feel better about the calories. I mean, well, I guess I saved myself like 50 calories from removing the bacon. That's something.
Right?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Always Check The Homework
This made me laugh so I had to share it. Someone on the message board that I write at shared it.
This also made me realize that I have to make sure to check my children's homework before they turn it in.
This also made me realize that I have to make sure to check my children's homework before they turn it in.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Fake Plastic Smiles
So, there's this kid that Tommy plays with.
I'll call him Blake.
Basically Blake irritates me. He's shown up at ten in the morning on weekends. And he doesn't ring the doorbell just once. He rings it over. And over. And over. Again.
One time I hoped Blake would get the message and go home. It was too early to deal with other people's children after all. But no. He kept ringing the doorbell and even started shouting, "Tommy? TOMMY?"
Blake also showed up on Thanksgiving. And Christmas. Wanting to play.
"No," I told him firmly.
"Please?" he begged.
What is with children talking back to adults? I find that a lot of them try to argue if I tell them no. In my day if an adult told me no, I dropped it. But not the kids of 2009. Oh no. If you give them a response that they're not happy with, well, they yak your ear off.
Blake always asks if Tommy can play when he sees me waiting at the bus stop after school.
"It's too cold," I explain to him.
"It isn't too cold for me," he'll answer brightly.
"Well, it is for Tommy," I respond sharply.
Sometimes he'll show up at the house anyway.
"I told you before. It's too cold," I'll say firmly.
Sometimes he likes to invite himself in. "Can I come in?" And then he'll start to reach for the handle of the screen door.
"No," I'll snap.
Sometimes I do allow him to come in. But then I always regret it. Because the boys will be playing in Tommy's room and then Blake will always come down the stairs.
"Excuse me? Tommy's Mom?"
And that's another thing. I've told him to call me Miss Amber. More than once. Actually, I wouldn't mind if kids just called me Amber. But I know parents can have issues with that. The whole respect thing. Which doesn't even matter because as I said before, most of the kids of today don't even HAVE respect. What I would HATE to be called is Ma'am. Yikes. I am not a ma'am. I am only 26 thankyouverymuch.
"Yes?" I'll say tightly.
"Tommy keeps bouncing on his bed. I don't like that," he'll tell me seriously.
I'll alert the media. Heaven forbid that Tommy JUMPS ON HIS OWN BED!
Of course I can't say that.
So I force a smile and shout out, "Tommy. Please don't jump on your bed. Your friend doesn't like it."
But then five minutes later Blake will be back downstairs.
"Tommy's Mom?"
UGH.
WHAT?
"Yes?" At this point I have a scary smile plastered on my face because I just want to be LEFT ALONE.
"Tommy is playing with Transformers. I don't want to play with Transformers. Tell him to stop playing with Transformers."
For the love of--
So I'll go upstairs and remind Tommy that he has a guest and could he please play something that his guest wants to play?
Sometimes Tommy gets annoyed. "But why?" he'll ask.
And I'll have to re-explain the concept of a guest.
One time they started to play hide and seek. Blake couldn't find Tommy. So he came downstairs and was all, "Tommy's Mom? I can't find Tommy. Tell him to come out now. I'm mad."
You know what, Blake? I'm mad too. This is my quiet time. From 4 until 5 I allow the kids to watch irritating children's TV and that's the time that I like to dedicate to writing my novel. But I can't write my novel because you keep BUGGING me.
I don't say this.
Instead I force the scary smile on my face and try to use my nurturing voice. "Let's go see about finding that silly Tommy!" I try to be cheerful. I really do.
More often than not I end up sending Blake home after a half hour of him coming inside.
I make up some excuse.
"Tommy is helping me with dinner," I'll usually say. "So it's time for you to go home."
"But why?" Blake will always ask.
Are you DEAF? I just SAID why!
"Because he's helping me make dinner," I'll repeat gently.
Then Blake will usually screw his face up and be all, "Fine. I'm mad at Tommy anyway. He played Transformers and I didn't want to do that. I'm NEVER coming back to Tommy's house AGAIN!"
I have to chew my lower lip to keep from laughing.
Fine by me, kid.
Instead I say solemnly, "I'm sorry to hear that, Blake."
Sometimes Blake will say, "Well, I like YOU. But not TOMMY!" and he'll gesture wildly at Tommy.
In the past Tommy would get upset over this. He'd be all, "But why, Blake?"
Now Tommy knows that Blake uses empty threats and doesn't mean half of what he says. So Tommy will just shrug and go, "Well, I like you Blake."
Blake will look offended that Tommy no longer pouts and gets upset and will more often than not, stomp out of the house.
"GoodBYE!" he'll screech over his shoulder.
But sometimes he doesn't bother going home. Two seconds later he's at the door.
"Tommy's Mom? I don't want to walk home by myself. Can you walk me home?"
I'll have to explain that it's too cold and that I don't want to bring the baby out.
"Please?" he'll say.
"I can't bring the baby out. You'll be fine. It's not dark out. Bye bye now." And then I'll shut the door.
But then he'll ring the doorbell AGAIN.
"Please? I'm really scared," he'll continue.
Kid. Your home is like FOUR houses away.
Eventually I'll have to send Tommy out to walk him home. Sometimes Blake doesn't like this.
"I didn't ask for Tommy. I asked for YOU."
"Well sorry. I can't go outside with the baby."
So really, can you blame me for being annoyed?
I'll call him Blake.
Basically Blake irritates me. He's shown up at ten in the morning on weekends. And he doesn't ring the doorbell just once. He rings it over. And over. And over. Again.
One time I hoped Blake would get the message and go home. It was too early to deal with other people's children after all. But no. He kept ringing the doorbell and even started shouting, "Tommy? TOMMY?"
Blake also showed up on Thanksgiving. And Christmas. Wanting to play.
"No," I told him firmly.
"Please?" he begged.
What is with children talking back to adults? I find that a lot of them try to argue if I tell them no. In my day if an adult told me no, I dropped it. But not the kids of 2009. Oh no. If you give them a response that they're not happy with, well, they yak your ear off.
Blake always asks if Tommy can play when he sees me waiting at the bus stop after school.
"It's too cold," I explain to him.
"It isn't too cold for me," he'll answer brightly.
"Well, it is for Tommy," I respond sharply.
Sometimes he'll show up at the house anyway.
"I told you before. It's too cold," I'll say firmly.
Sometimes he likes to invite himself in. "Can I come in?" And then he'll start to reach for the handle of the screen door.
"No," I'll snap.
Sometimes I do allow him to come in. But then I always regret it. Because the boys will be playing in Tommy's room and then Blake will always come down the stairs.
"Excuse me? Tommy's Mom?"
And that's another thing. I've told him to call me Miss Amber. More than once. Actually, I wouldn't mind if kids just called me Amber. But I know parents can have issues with that. The whole respect thing. Which doesn't even matter because as I said before, most of the kids of today don't even HAVE respect. What I would HATE to be called is Ma'am. Yikes. I am not a ma'am. I am only 26 thankyouverymuch.
"Yes?" I'll say tightly.
"Tommy keeps bouncing on his bed. I don't like that," he'll tell me seriously.
I'll alert the media. Heaven forbid that Tommy JUMPS ON HIS OWN BED!
Of course I can't say that.
So I force a smile and shout out, "Tommy. Please don't jump on your bed. Your friend doesn't like it."
But then five minutes later Blake will be back downstairs.
"Tommy's Mom?"
UGH.
WHAT?
"Yes?" At this point I have a scary smile plastered on my face because I just want to be LEFT ALONE.
"Tommy is playing with Transformers. I don't want to play with Transformers. Tell him to stop playing with Transformers."
For the love of--
So I'll go upstairs and remind Tommy that he has a guest and could he please play something that his guest wants to play?
Sometimes Tommy gets annoyed. "But why?" he'll ask.
And I'll have to re-explain the concept of a guest.
One time they started to play hide and seek. Blake couldn't find Tommy. So he came downstairs and was all, "Tommy's Mom? I can't find Tommy. Tell him to come out now. I'm mad."
You know what, Blake? I'm mad too. This is my quiet time. From 4 until 5 I allow the kids to watch irritating children's TV and that's the time that I like to dedicate to writing my novel. But I can't write my novel because you keep BUGGING me.
I don't say this.
Instead I force the scary smile on my face and try to use my nurturing voice. "Let's go see about finding that silly Tommy!" I try to be cheerful. I really do.
More often than not I end up sending Blake home after a half hour of him coming inside.
I make up some excuse.
"Tommy is helping me with dinner," I'll usually say. "So it's time for you to go home."
"But why?" Blake will always ask.
Are you DEAF? I just SAID why!
"Because he's helping me make dinner," I'll repeat gently.
Then Blake will usually screw his face up and be all, "Fine. I'm mad at Tommy anyway. He played Transformers and I didn't want to do that. I'm NEVER coming back to Tommy's house AGAIN!"
I have to chew my lower lip to keep from laughing.
Fine by me, kid.
Instead I say solemnly, "I'm sorry to hear that, Blake."
Sometimes Blake will say, "Well, I like YOU. But not TOMMY!" and he'll gesture wildly at Tommy.
In the past Tommy would get upset over this. He'd be all, "But why, Blake?"
Now Tommy knows that Blake uses empty threats and doesn't mean half of what he says. So Tommy will just shrug and go, "Well, I like you Blake."
Blake will look offended that Tommy no longer pouts and gets upset and will more often than not, stomp out of the house.
"GoodBYE!" he'll screech over his shoulder.
But sometimes he doesn't bother going home. Two seconds later he's at the door.
"Tommy's Mom? I don't want to walk home by myself. Can you walk me home?"
I'll have to explain that it's too cold and that I don't want to bring the baby out.
"Please?" he'll say.
"I can't bring the baby out. You'll be fine. It's not dark out. Bye bye now." And then I'll shut the door.
But then he'll ring the doorbell AGAIN.
"Please? I'm really scared," he'll continue.
Kid. Your home is like FOUR houses away.
Eventually I'll have to send Tommy out to walk him home. Sometimes Blake doesn't like this.
"I didn't ask for Tommy. I asked for YOU."
"Well sorry. I can't go outside with the baby."
So really, can you blame me for being annoyed?
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Food Talk with Tom
"Amber," Tom said this morning, her voice sounding a tad on the irritated side. "A question."
I had just woken up and stumbled down the stairs. I am not a morning person. What I wanted to do was climb back into bed and bury myself under the covers. But I couldn't. Instead I blinked up at my husband in confusion, wondering how he could have forgotten one of my rules.
No speaking to me first thing in the morning. Until I've had a few minutes to wake up. Otherwise the conversation will not go well. Because I'll either A) blantantly ignore you or B) only offer grunts as a response.
"What is THIS about?" Tom continued, understanding that after seven years of marriage that I wasn't going to speak right away. He held up a box of Frosted Flakes in his right hand with a look of disgust.
Oh. Hello Michael Phelps.
I even sort of smiled. Sort of. I think only one half of my lip was pulled up and my teeth were probably bared in a frightening fashion. But again, after seven years of marriage, my appearance in the morning doesn't send Tom cowering in fear. It probably did in the beginning. He probably looked at me that first time we spent the night together and was all, "Sweet JESUS! Okay. Don't look afraid. She'll be insulted and then I'll have to sit through an hour lecture about how she doesn't wake up like those irritating Hollywood starlets in the movies. Mmmm....Lindsay Lohan. Shit! Can't think of another woman when in bed with wife! Don't let her know that I thought of another woman while in bed with her. This will cause ANOTHER lecture and I really have to pee!"
I realized that the room had gone quiet.
I then realized that Tom was waiting for a response on why I bought the cereal.
I imagine he assumed that I bought it because Michael Phelps was on the front.
Please, like I would DO that. I'm 26. I don't buy products with celebrity crushes on the cover anymore. Maybe when I was 16. (Mmmm, Jonathan Taylor Thomas crisps..) But I'm 26, dangit. I don't DO that anymore.
"It was on sale," I croaked out. My voice startled Natalie, who was on my hip. She jumped slightly and looked momentarily horrified.
Who is this lady? She sort of resembles my Mom but what is UP with that scary voice?
Tom looked at me with disbelief. "Right," he said slowly, as though speaking to a complete imbecile.
"It was!" I shouted indignantly. Hello! I'm 26. I don't BUY things with celebrities on the cover anymore. Didn't he comprehend this? "The cereal was $1.99 and I had a dollar coupon off Frosted Flakes. That's why I bought it. The cereal was NINETY NINE CENTS!" If I hadn't been half asleep (and the baby hadn't been on my hip) I'd have probably thrown out my arms dramatically in a TA-DA LOOK AT ME I ONLY SPENT NINETY NINE CENTS ON CEREAL fashion.
The look on Tom's face showed me that he still didn't believe me. "Uh huh," he said, setting the box down. He stared down at Michael Phelps. "Hey you. She's MINE."
This made me giggle for some reason. And I was slightly turned on.
Tom is FIGHTING for me. Well, okay, he's fighting with a BOX but still..
"And," Tom continued moving to the fridge. He opened it. I was hoping that he'd argue more with the box. Even though that would have made no sense. "What is with all of these!" He gestured to the cookies that I had bought.
Mmm. My mouth watered as I looked at them.
"Oh," I explained. "Those mint ones were on sale for a buck. Who can pass up cookies for a buck?"
Tom rolled his eyes with a look that clearly stated that HE could pass up cookies for a buck. "And those?" he asked, jabbing his finger at the Valentine themed cookies.
"Pink chocolate chips and happy looking heart characters!" I answered with a grin.
Micheal Phelps and the thought of cookies was helping me to wake up.
"But," I added, reaching over to pick up some berries. "I got healthy stuff too."
The commissary was having a berry sale. All those berries were .99 cents. I was thrilled. Usually I don't bother buying them because they're usually over three bucks. And no way am I forking over three bucks for a couple of berries.
And strawberries were on sale for $1.50. I also got those. I'm going to make strawberry shortcake on Friday. Yum.
(Holy crap the WiiFit is going to sense all of the junk food and totally yell at me. I just KNOW it.)
"I really need to go grocery shopping with you," Tom said. "Then maybe you wouldn't come home with MEN on the cereal boxes." Tom gestured to Michael Phelps who was sitting abandoned on the counter. "And cookies. With PINK chocolate chips." He raised his voice a few octaves at that. I think he was trying to sound like me but he really only sounded like a terrible drag queen.
Now I'm aching for some cookies. Maybe I'll make those mint ones. I love mint. Tom is strange and does not. He was all, "Why can't you get REGULAR chocolate chip cookies with REGULAR non-colored chocolate chips?"
Erm. Because they aren't as FUN.
I had just woken up and stumbled down the stairs. I am not a morning person. What I wanted to do was climb back into bed and bury myself under the covers. But I couldn't. Instead I blinked up at my husband in confusion, wondering how he could have forgotten one of my rules.
No speaking to me first thing in the morning. Until I've had a few minutes to wake up. Otherwise the conversation will not go well. Because I'll either A) blantantly ignore you or B) only offer grunts as a response.
"What is THIS about?" Tom continued, understanding that after seven years of marriage that I wasn't going to speak right away. He held up a box of Frosted Flakes in his right hand with a look of disgust.
Oh. Hello Michael Phelps.
I even sort of smiled. Sort of. I think only one half of my lip was pulled up and my teeth were probably bared in a frightening fashion. But again, after seven years of marriage, my appearance in the morning doesn't send Tom cowering in fear. It probably did in the beginning. He probably looked at me that first time we spent the night together and was all, "Sweet JESUS! Okay. Don't look afraid. She'll be insulted and then I'll have to sit through an hour lecture about how she doesn't wake up like those irritating Hollywood starlets in the movies. Mmmm....Lindsay Lohan. Shit! Can't think of another woman when in bed with wife! Don't let her know that I thought of another woman while in bed with her. This will cause ANOTHER lecture and I really have to pee!"
I realized that the room had gone quiet.
I then realized that Tom was waiting for a response on why I bought the cereal.
I imagine he assumed that I bought it because Michael Phelps was on the front.
Please, like I would DO that. I'm 26. I don't buy products with celebrity crushes on the cover anymore. Maybe when I was 16. (Mmmm, Jonathan Taylor Thomas crisps..) But I'm 26, dangit. I don't DO that anymore.
"It was on sale," I croaked out. My voice startled Natalie, who was on my hip. She jumped slightly and looked momentarily horrified.
Who is this lady? She sort of resembles my Mom but what is UP with that scary voice?
Tom looked at me with disbelief. "Right," he said slowly, as though speaking to a complete imbecile.
"It was!" I shouted indignantly. Hello! I'm 26. I don't BUY things with celebrities on the cover anymore. Didn't he comprehend this? "The cereal was $1.99 and I had a dollar coupon off Frosted Flakes. That's why I bought it. The cereal was NINETY NINE CENTS!" If I hadn't been half asleep (and the baby hadn't been on my hip) I'd have probably thrown out my arms dramatically in a TA-DA LOOK AT ME I ONLY SPENT NINETY NINE CENTS ON CEREAL fashion.
The look on Tom's face showed me that he still didn't believe me. "Uh huh," he said, setting the box down. He stared down at Michael Phelps. "Hey you. She's MINE."
This made me giggle for some reason. And I was slightly turned on.
Tom is FIGHTING for me. Well, okay, he's fighting with a BOX but still..
"And," Tom continued moving to the fridge. He opened it. I was hoping that he'd argue more with the box. Even though that would have made no sense. "What is with all of these!" He gestured to the cookies that I had bought.
Mmm. My mouth watered as I looked at them.
"Oh," I explained. "Those mint ones were on sale for a buck. Who can pass up cookies for a buck?"
Tom rolled his eyes with a look that clearly stated that HE could pass up cookies for a buck. "And those?" he asked, jabbing his finger at the Valentine themed cookies.
"Pink chocolate chips and happy looking heart characters!" I answered with a grin.
Micheal Phelps and the thought of cookies was helping me to wake up.
"But," I added, reaching over to pick up some berries. "I got healthy stuff too."
The commissary was having a berry sale. All those berries were .99 cents. I was thrilled. Usually I don't bother buying them because they're usually over three bucks. And no way am I forking over three bucks for a couple of berries.
And strawberries were on sale for $1.50. I also got those. I'm going to make strawberry shortcake on Friday. Yum.
(Holy crap the WiiFit is going to sense all of the junk food and totally yell at me. I just KNOW it.)
"I really need to go grocery shopping with you," Tom said. "Then maybe you wouldn't come home with MEN on the cereal boxes." Tom gestured to Michael Phelps who was sitting abandoned on the counter. "And cookies. With PINK chocolate chips." He raised his voice a few octaves at that. I think he was trying to sound like me but he really only sounded like a terrible drag queen.
Now I'm aching for some cookies. Maybe I'll make those mint ones. I love mint. Tom is strange and does not. He was all, "Why can't you get REGULAR chocolate chip cookies with REGULAR non-colored chocolate chips?"
Erm. Because they aren't as FUN.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The WiiFit is Mean
So, I got a WiiFit for Christmas.
And I always meant to try it out right away but it didn't happen.
I had taken it out of the box on Christmas morning and glanced through the instructions.
But then the WiiFit sat in the corner of the room.
Waiting.
And waiting.
Then my best friend Jennifer called. She wanted to know how I liked my WiiFit because she was tempted to buy one.
"Erm," I answered. "I actually haven't tried it out yet."
It had been a little over a week since Christmas at that point.
Really, I had MEANT to try it out.
But the housework came first. And okay, so did coming online.
Jennifer seemed stunned that I hadn't tried it out yet.
Actually, Tom was surprised too.
"I thought you really wanted a WiiFit," he reminded me.
"I did!" I argued. "I just...no time.." I shrugged and tried to look cute. I may have even batted my eyelashes.
Tom ended up trying it out first. He did it during the night when I was asleep.
When I woke up he informed me that it was pretty cool.
"Though my BMI is overweight," Tom admitted. He made a face. "My Mii is all fat.."
For some reason Tom pronounces Mii ME-AH.
"Tom," I said, because this irritates me. "It's ME. You know, Nintendo WII. So you have a ME."
Tom blinked at me for a few seconds and then went, "Anyhow. The games are pretty cool. I'm awful at this one where soccer balls are hurled at you and you have to get out of the way."
I decided when Natalie went down for her nap that I would try out the WiiFit.
I pulled the board out and picked my Mii.
Then it told me my BMI.
Normal.
Yay.
Then it lectured me on the importance of proper balance.
And then it tested my balance.
I was bluntly told that I was unbalanced and that I may want to work on that.
It even asked me, "Do you fall down a lot?"
EXCUSE ME?
I had the urge to give the WiiFit the finger.
Another thing that is startling (insulting?) about the WiiFit is that when you stand it on it, sometimes it'll go "OHHHHH," in this surprised voice.
As though you are ultra heavy or something.
The games are fun. I did the short run and one minute in my breathing became heavy.
"What's that sound?" Tom asked from his computer game.
"I'm....RUNNING..." I gasped out.
Then I tried this snowboarding game where you have to go between flags.
I was told that I was unbalanced again.
Just call me Unbalanced Amber.
I tried to do Yoga but found I couldn't hold my position. I tried to do the Tree and kept toppling over.
My trainer told me that I was unbalanced (that word again!) and that maybe I want to work on easier positions before coming back.
Rude. Was the fake trainer KICKING me out? Of a FAKE Yoga room??!
I picked the male trainer too. You get to choose between a male or a female and I thought the male would be nicer. I've seen The Biggest Loser. That Jillian scares the everloving CRAP out of me.
Plus I giggle at some of the positions for Yoga. I just cannot take a position called the downward dog seriously.
So I mainly stick to the Aerobics and the Balancing games. Even though I'm unbalanced.
I've been getting on the WiiFit for four days in a row. I've been told if you skip a few days then you get lectured when you get back on.
I do not want to be lectured by my WiiFit.
It already calls me Unbalanced.
I don't want to be known as Unbalanced AND Lazy.
And I always meant to try it out right away but it didn't happen.
I had taken it out of the box on Christmas morning and glanced through the instructions.
But then the WiiFit sat in the corner of the room.
Waiting.
And waiting.
Then my best friend Jennifer called. She wanted to know how I liked my WiiFit because she was tempted to buy one.
"Erm," I answered. "I actually haven't tried it out yet."
It had been a little over a week since Christmas at that point.
Really, I had MEANT to try it out.
But the housework came first. And okay, so did coming online.
Jennifer seemed stunned that I hadn't tried it out yet.
Actually, Tom was surprised too.
"I thought you really wanted a WiiFit," he reminded me.
"I did!" I argued. "I just...no time.." I shrugged and tried to look cute. I may have even batted my eyelashes.
Tom ended up trying it out first. He did it during the night when I was asleep.
When I woke up he informed me that it was pretty cool.
"Though my BMI is overweight," Tom admitted. He made a face. "My Mii is all fat.."
For some reason Tom pronounces Mii ME-AH.
"Tom," I said, because this irritates me. "It's ME. You know, Nintendo WII. So you have a ME."
Tom blinked at me for a few seconds and then went, "Anyhow. The games are pretty cool. I'm awful at this one where soccer balls are hurled at you and you have to get out of the way."
I decided when Natalie went down for her nap that I would try out the WiiFit.
I pulled the board out and picked my Mii.
Then it told me my BMI.
Normal.
Yay.
Then it lectured me on the importance of proper balance.
And then it tested my balance.
I was bluntly told that I was unbalanced and that I may want to work on that.
It even asked me, "Do you fall down a lot?"
EXCUSE ME?
I had the urge to give the WiiFit the finger.
Another thing that is startling (insulting?) about the WiiFit is that when you stand it on it, sometimes it'll go "OHHHHH," in this surprised voice.
As though you are ultra heavy or something.
The games are fun. I did the short run and one minute in my breathing became heavy.
"What's that sound?" Tom asked from his computer game.
"I'm....RUNNING..." I gasped out.
Then I tried this snowboarding game where you have to go between flags.
I was told that I was unbalanced again.
Just call me Unbalanced Amber.
I tried to do Yoga but found I couldn't hold my position. I tried to do the Tree and kept toppling over.
My trainer told me that I was unbalanced (that word again!) and that maybe I want to work on easier positions before coming back.
Rude. Was the fake trainer KICKING me out? Of a FAKE Yoga room??!
I picked the male trainer too. You get to choose between a male or a female and I thought the male would be nicer. I've seen The Biggest Loser. That Jillian scares the everloving CRAP out of me.
Plus I giggle at some of the positions for Yoga. I just cannot take a position called the downward dog seriously.
So I mainly stick to the Aerobics and the Balancing games. Even though I'm unbalanced.
I've been getting on the WiiFit for four days in a row. I've been told if you skip a few days then you get lectured when you get back on.
I do not want to be lectured by my WiiFit.
It already calls me Unbalanced.
I don't want to be known as Unbalanced AND Lazy.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Orgasmic Childbirth
So on Friday night after we (read: I) had tucked the kids to bed, Tom and I watched 20/20.
It was about Extreme Parenting so I was immediately intrigued.
Tom was not.
"Can't I switch it to The Military Channel?" he asked.
"No," I answered, settling down on the couch to watch. I had a glass of ice water beside me, even though I wanted a tall glass of diet Dr. Pepper. With a bowl of chocolates to nibble on. But I have this rule that I can't eat after 8. Which, believe me, is not an easy thing to do. My stomach seems to start to rumble at around 7:30 and I try to shut it up with water. But I have a stubborn stomach because it continues to rumble and it's all, "What's this crap? WATER? We don't want water! Bring on the chocolates! Bring on the chocolates!"
And because Natalie enjoys watching that creepy Yo Gabba Gabba show where Brobee (freaky green one) crones about having a party in his tummy while shoving food down his throat my mind inevitably thinks about the song and then my stomach is all, "We'd like a party in here. There's no party with water."
Well, too bad stomach. It's not my fault that you digest dinner in what seems like a matter of minutes. With the small dessert that I have afterwards.
Anyhow, the 20/20 program started and the first story was about Orgasmic Childbirth or something like that. Apparently you can have an orgasm while giving birth. I was unaware of this. I thought back to my births and remembered the pain and the feeling like I was being ripped apart and COULD I PLEASE HAVE MORE DRUGS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD?
An orgasm would be the farthest thing from my mind when attempting to push out a human being.
But apparently it can be done.
An "expert" was on there talking about it and she said cheerfully, "Well, you know, the baby is coming down the pelvis and OTHER THINGS go up there and cause orgasms. So why not then?"
Um. I'll tell you why not then.
Because not only are you dealing with excruciating pain, but you're also dealing with a bunch of disgusting stuff being expelled from you. Blood. Leftover amniotic fluid. Poop.
That mixed with a huge case of the ouchies does not get me in the mood to have an orgasm.
But one lady who was giving birth on the screen (under a tree! In a pool!) apparently had an orgasm. She was on her knees and she suddenly went, "OOOOOOOOOOhhhhh," in a way that made me blush on the couch and not want to make eye contact with Tom.
Who, by the way, was playing his computer game but the second he heard that noise his neck whipped over to the TV ("one day you're gonna get whiplash, Tom,") and he went, "What the f*ck?" Because when the children are in bed, the swear words tend to pour from his mouth in a way that could make truck drivers turn red.
"She's...she's..." I tried to explain.
But then the narrator explained about the orgasm and put me out of my misery.
"While giving BIRTH?" Tom asked incrediously.
"Apparently," I squeaked out. "It can be done."
I was grateful when that story ended and a new one began.
This was about Extended Breastfeeding.
And I watched in disbelief as this woman nursed a nine-year-old.
Erm.
The mother said something like, "It gives her comfort. Why should I take that away from her?"
Uh.
Because after her friends catch wind of this story she's going to be mocked for life. And if she gets upset at school some bastard kid is going to be all, "Sorry, I can't breastfeed you to give you COMFORT!"
What if some bully calls her TitGirl?
I mean really.
Tommy self weaned at 22 months.
I'm working on Natalie. But she'll be cut off at the age of two. She will not be traumatized. She'll find her comfort in other ways. Like, I don't know, cuddling in my arms? MINUS the breast. I imagine she'll be fine.
After that story one about Reborning began. That's where women buy those realistic dolls and treat them as babies. One woman had over 10 and had an entire room dedicated to her dolls. Complete with a real changing table. She even had her granddaughter's come over and celebrate one of her doll's birthdays.
If I were the granddaughter I'd be all, "Grandma? The crap? I hate to break this to you but this doll isn't real and also, the way it's staring at me is creeping me out."
The last story was about homebirthing. Some do it without midwives these days.
No thank you.
I need to give birth in a hospital.
With the drugs.
My hat is off to the women who choose to give birth at home. But it is not for me.
This one woman gave birth in a pool set up in her living room. After she gave birth to her baby she said something like, "I touched the eternal.."
Which caused Tom and I to crack up.
For the rest of the night we used that line.
"Mmmm. This sandwich is good. I touched the eternal," Tom said with a laugh.
"I had an epidural when I gave birth. I TOUCHED the eternal," I added dramatically.
Tom held his glass of Sunkist up. "This drink is delicious. I TOUCHED the eternal..."
Then we exploded with laughter, both knowing full well that we were being incredibly immature.
"I'm glad you didn't want to give birth at home," Tom continued. "I don't mean to be rude but there is no way I'd have climbed in that bathtub with you. Did you see all that STUFF floating around in there after that woman gave birth?"
I made a face. "I did. Ew. I remember all the stuff that came out of me when I had the kids. I would not want to be swimming in it. Plus, ew, suppose she pooped in there? Giving birth with a turd floating around? No thanks!"
So yeah. I'll give birth on a hospital bed where the nurses can clean that stuff off of me.
It was an interesting program.
In it I learned that I'd A) never have an orgasmic childbirth B) never would nurse my children past the age of two C) never buy a fake baby (especially when I found out that a lot of them cost over a thousand bucks!) and D) never give birth at home. In a bathtub. With (maybe) turds floating around.
"Can I change the channel now?" Tom begged when the show was over.
"Yeah," I said and tossed him the remote.
He switched it to The Military Channel which seriously can put me to sleep.
So I finished putting the rest of the Christmas decorations away.
And now the house looks bare and I miss the glowing lights of the Christmas tree. (Which is now resting in a special tree bag in the garage.)
Ahh well. Onto decorating the house for Valentines Day I suppose..
It was about Extreme Parenting so I was immediately intrigued.
Tom was not.
"Can't I switch it to The Military Channel?" he asked.
"No," I answered, settling down on the couch to watch. I had a glass of ice water beside me, even though I wanted a tall glass of diet Dr. Pepper. With a bowl of chocolates to nibble on. But I have this rule that I can't eat after 8. Which, believe me, is not an easy thing to do. My stomach seems to start to rumble at around 7:30 and I try to shut it up with water. But I have a stubborn stomach because it continues to rumble and it's all, "What's this crap? WATER? We don't want water! Bring on the chocolates! Bring on the chocolates!"
And because Natalie enjoys watching that creepy Yo Gabba Gabba show where Brobee (freaky green one) crones about having a party in his tummy while shoving food down his throat my mind inevitably thinks about the song and then my stomach is all, "We'd like a party in here. There's no party with water."
Well, too bad stomach. It's not my fault that you digest dinner in what seems like a matter of minutes. With the small dessert that I have afterwards.
Anyhow, the 20/20 program started and the first story was about Orgasmic Childbirth or something like that. Apparently you can have an orgasm while giving birth. I was unaware of this. I thought back to my births and remembered the pain and the feeling like I was being ripped apart and COULD I PLEASE HAVE MORE DRUGS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD?
An orgasm would be the farthest thing from my mind when attempting to push out a human being.
But apparently it can be done.
An "expert" was on there talking about it and she said cheerfully, "Well, you know, the baby is coming down the pelvis and OTHER THINGS go up there and cause orgasms. So why not then?"
Um. I'll tell you why not then.
Because not only are you dealing with excruciating pain, but you're also dealing with a bunch of disgusting stuff being expelled from you. Blood. Leftover amniotic fluid. Poop.
That mixed with a huge case of the ouchies does not get me in the mood to have an orgasm.
But one lady who was giving birth on the screen (under a tree! In a pool!) apparently had an orgasm. She was on her knees and she suddenly went, "OOOOOOOOOOhhhhh," in a way that made me blush on the couch and not want to make eye contact with Tom.
Who, by the way, was playing his computer game but the second he heard that noise his neck whipped over to the TV ("one day you're gonna get whiplash, Tom,") and he went, "What the f*ck?" Because when the children are in bed, the swear words tend to pour from his mouth in a way that could make truck drivers turn red.
"She's...she's..." I tried to explain.
But then the narrator explained about the orgasm and put me out of my misery.
"While giving BIRTH?" Tom asked incrediously.
"Apparently," I squeaked out. "It can be done."
I was grateful when that story ended and a new one began.
This was about Extended Breastfeeding.
And I watched in disbelief as this woman nursed a nine-year-old.
Erm.
The mother said something like, "It gives her comfort. Why should I take that away from her?"
Uh.
Because after her friends catch wind of this story she's going to be mocked for life. And if she gets upset at school some bastard kid is going to be all, "Sorry, I can't breastfeed you to give you COMFORT!"
What if some bully calls her TitGirl?
I mean really.
Tommy self weaned at 22 months.
I'm working on Natalie. But she'll be cut off at the age of two. She will not be traumatized. She'll find her comfort in other ways. Like, I don't know, cuddling in my arms? MINUS the breast. I imagine she'll be fine.
After that story one about Reborning began. That's where women buy those realistic dolls and treat them as babies. One woman had over 10 and had an entire room dedicated to her dolls. Complete with a real changing table. She even had her granddaughter's come over and celebrate one of her doll's birthdays.
If I were the granddaughter I'd be all, "Grandma? The crap? I hate to break this to you but this doll isn't real and also, the way it's staring at me is creeping me out."
The last story was about homebirthing. Some do it without midwives these days.
No thank you.
I need to give birth in a hospital.
With the drugs.
My hat is off to the women who choose to give birth at home. But it is not for me.
This one woman gave birth in a pool set up in her living room. After she gave birth to her baby she said something like, "I touched the eternal.."
Which caused Tom and I to crack up.
For the rest of the night we used that line.
"Mmmm. This sandwich is good. I touched the eternal," Tom said with a laugh.
"I had an epidural when I gave birth. I TOUCHED the eternal," I added dramatically.
Tom held his glass of Sunkist up. "This drink is delicious. I TOUCHED the eternal..."
Then we exploded with laughter, both knowing full well that we were being incredibly immature.
"I'm glad you didn't want to give birth at home," Tom continued. "I don't mean to be rude but there is no way I'd have climbed in that bathtub with you. Did you see all that STUFF floating around in there after that woman gave birth?"
I made a face. "I did. Ew. I remember all the stuff that came out of me when I had the kids. I would not want to be swimming in it. Plus, ew, suppose she pooped in there? Giving birth with a turd floating around? No thanks!"
So yeah. I'll give birth on a hospital bed where the nurses can clean that stuff off of me.
It was an interesting program.
In it I learned that I'd A) never have an orgasmic childbirth B) never would nurse my children past the age of two C) never buy a fake baby (especially when I found out that a lot of them cost over a thousand bucks!) and D) never give birth at home. In a bathtub. With (maybe) turds floating around.
"Can I change the channel now?" Tom begged when the show was over.
"Yeah," I said and tossed him the remote.
He switched it to The Military Channel which seriously can put me to sleep.
So I finished putting the rest of the Christmas decorations away.
And now the house looks bare and I miss the glowing lights of the Christmas tree. (Which is now resting in a special tree bag in the garage.)
Ahh well. Onto decorating the house for Valentines Day I suppose..
Friday, January 2, 2009
To The Movies I Went..
So yesterday I went to see Marley and Me.
It was only fair since Tom went to see Valkyrie. He said it was good enough for him to want it on DVD.
I couldn't decide what I wanted to see. It was between Marley and Me or Benjamin Button. Aniston versus Pitt. Who, I'm sorry to say, I do not find attractive. He is much too pretty boy for me. Plus I don't like the fact that he checked out of the marriage and turned to Angelina Jolie. And I think the reason why Angelina wants to adopt so many children is to try to clear her Karma. Because she knows she's in deep sh*t for stealing a husband so she's all, "Maybe if I help impoverished kids then all will be okay again.."
I went back and forth for awhile and then opted for Marley and Me simply because it was a shorter movie. And because I'm still mad at Brad Pitt.
I headed off yesterday afternoon. I stood in line to get my ticket and was behind a bunch of old ladies. One of them shuffled up to the counter and shouted, "ONE TICKET FOR MAGGIE AND ME!"
The woman on the other side of the glass replied back, "You mean, Marley and Me?"
"MAGGIE AND ME!" the old lady practically screamed.
Her friend nudged her. "Debbie, you're talking too loud again. Not everyone is near deaf like you."
I bought my ticket and got in the long concession stand line.
I love movie theater popcorn. Swimming in butter. And salt. And SnoCaps. For those who don't know, SnoCaps are chocolate chips with little white candies on them. I always dump those into my popcorn. Tom is disgusted with this. When we got a popcorn the last movie we saw together (and it's been so long I can't even remember what movie that was..) he was horrified when I dumped the candy on top of the popcorn.
"Okay, now you've ruined it," Tom complained.
"You kidding me?" I answered, taking a huge bite. Mmmm butter and chocolate. "It's delicious. Try some!" I pressed the bag close to his face and he backed away as though I was trying to get him to eat brussel sprouts or something.
"No thanks. I'm good. I'll just stick to my nachos," Tom fumed.
Whatevs.
More popcorn and chcolate for me.
I used to be able to get SnoCaps at Wal-Mart or Target for .99 cents.
I can't find them there anymore. I'm wondering if the movie theaters caught on that people were sneaking them in and made a deal with stores not to sell them anymore?
Because I had to fork over THREE dollars for the same SnoCaps at the theater.
It was painful, let me tell you.
THREE dollars for candy.
I reluctantly handed over the last of my Christmas cash and then hurried to theater number 5.
I knew it would be packed. Because when I was standing in line, basically everyone who came up to buy tickets were buying them for the 1:30 of Marley and Me.
Mainly old people.
Old people must love those dog movies or something.
Actually, it's probably a relief for them to find a movie that's not filled with swearing, sex and booze.
I mean geez. Some of the movies of today are shocking to me.
I was able to find a good seat.
I settled down and immediately set to dumping the SnoCaps on top of the popcorn. Then I shook the bag and took a bite.
Mmmm. Butter and chocolate.
Then the previews began.
I counted eight of them.
They did have a preview for a movie I want to see though.
Confessions of a Shopaholic.
Based on the hilarious books.
The woman in the movie reminds me of myself. Only instead of going crazy for name brand clothing for myself, I go crazy for children's clothing. And I don't have debt.
Here's a preview of the movie:
Then Marley and Me started. Now, people had warned me that it got sad towards the end. And that I should bring a tissue.
I didn't listen.
I should have listened.
Because the last half hour of the movie made me cry my eyes out. I had to use the sleeves of my shirt to dry my eyes. It was amusing because you could hear a cacophony of sniffles going off every few seconds.
I was a little annoyed at one point though. During a poignant scene, someone's CELL PHONE went off.
Hello?
Did they miss that HUGE sign that came on the screen before the movie started?
The one that read: PLEASE TURN OFF YOUR CELL PHONES.
It even had a picture of a cell phone turning off. So not being able to read is not an excuse.
When that woman's cell phone rang a bunch of people went "SHHHHH!" at once.
Then the lady beside me started texting. Her bright screen was distracting and I wanted to snatch the phone from her hands and throw it across the room.
You do NOT text while in a movie theater.
Other than those moments, I had an enjoyable time. I liked the movie. I was glad that it didn't have elaborate sex scenes in it like I imagine Benjamin Button did. I hate when movies have elaborate sex scenes. In Marley and Me it just showed the two main characters kissing passionately and then it cut to the next scene. That's what more movies need to do. I'd rather not SEE people going at it. If if I wanted to see that sort of thing, I'd rent a porno.
When the movie ended, we all filtered out of the theater. The teenager workers who were waiting to clean up shook their heads and one went, "Why is everyone always crying after this movie?"
His friend replied, "Dude, the dog (edited so as not to give away ending)..."
Seriously. All the women coming out of there had tissues in their hands and red faces.
I drove home and when I walked through the door Tom raised an eyebrow at me.
"What's wrong with your face?" he asked bluntly.
See, I'm not a pretty crier. Some women are. Me? Well, my face gets these awful red splotches and my nose starts to run and extra spit fills my mouth so I feel like I have to swallow every two seconds.
"The movie had a sad ending," I answered with a sniff. I started tearing up just thinking about it.
I told Tom what that ending was and the heartless bastard simply went, "It happens."
Ugh.
Natalie marched over to me and went, "BOOB!" and tugged on my leg. "BOOB!"
"She's been asking for boob for the past hour," Tom explained.
Oh.
I was slightly insulted. I mean she didn't ask for ME. She was just asking for my BOOB.
I gave her some breastmilk and then she gave me a little smack and walked away. Like she was punishing me for leaving.
Well, excuse me!
So bottom line is that I highly recommend Marley and Me.
But don't be stupid like I was: bring a freakin' tissue because you'll probably need it if you're one of those types who cry during movies.
Oh, and please turn off your cell phone.
It was only fair since Tom went to see Valkyrie. He said it was good enough for him to want it on DVD.
I couldn't decide what I wanted to see. It was between Marley and Me or Benjamin Button. Aniston versus Pitt. Who, I'm sorry to say, I do not find attractive. He is much too pretty boy for me. Plus I don't like the fact that he checked out of the marriage and turned to Angelina Jolie. And I think the reason why Angelina wants to adopt so many children is to try to clear her Karma. Because she knows she's in deep sh*t for stealing a husband so she's all, "Maybe if I help impoverished kids then all will be okay again.."
I went back and forth for awhile and then opted for Marley and Me simply because it was a shorter movie. And because I'm still mad at Brad Pitt.
I headed off yesterday afternoon. I stood in line to get my ticket and was behind a bunch of old ladies. One of them shuffled up to the counter and shouted, "ONE TICKET FOR MAGGIE AND ME!"
The woman on the other side of the glass replied back, "You mean, Marley and Me?"
"MAGGIE AND ME!" the old lady practically screamed.
Her friend nudged her. "Debbie, you're talking too loud again. Not everyone is near deaf like you."
I bought my ticket and got in the long concession stand line.
I love movie theater popcorn. Swimming in butter. And salt. And SnoCaps. For those who don't know, SnoCaps are chocolate chips with little white candies on them. I always dump those into my popcorn. Tom is disgusted with this. When we got a popcorn the last movie we saw together (and it's been so long I can't even remember what movie that was..) he was horrified when I dumped the candy on top of the popcorn.
"Okay, now you've ruined it," Tom complained.
"You kidding me?" I answered, taking a huge bite. Mmmm butter and chocolate. "It's delicious. Try some!" I pressed the bag close to his face and he backed away as though I was trying to get him to eat brussel sprouts or something.
"No thanks. I'm good. I'll just stick to my nachos," Tom fumed.
Whatevs.
More popcorn and chcolate for me.
I used to be able to get SnoCaps at Wal-Mart or Target for .99 cents.
I can't find them there anymore. I'm wondering if the movie theaters caught on that people were sneaking them in and made a deal with stores not to sell them anymore?
Because I had to fork over THREE dollars for the same SnoCaps at the theater.
It was painful, let me tell you.
THREE dollars for candy.
I reluctantly handed over the last of my Christmas cash and then hurried to theater number 5.
I knew it would be packed. Because when I was standing in line, basically everyone who came up to buy tickets were buying them for the 1:30 of Marley and Me.
Mainly old people.
Old people must love those dog movies or something.
Actually, it's probably a relief for them to find a movie that's not filled with swearing, sex and booze.
I mean geez. Some of the movies of today are shocking to me.
I was able to find a good seat.
I settled down and immediately set to dumping the SnoCaps on top of the popcorn. Then I shook the bag and took a bite.
Mmmm. Butter and chocolate.
Then the previews began.
I counted eight of them.
They did have a preview for a movie I want to see though.
Confessions of a Shopaholic.
Based on the hilarious books.
The woman in the movie reminds me of myself. Only instead of going crazy for name brand clothing for myself, I go crazy for children's clothing. And I don't have debt.
Here's a preview of the movie:
Then Marley and Me started. Now, people had warned me that it got sad towards the end. And that I should bring a tissue.
I didn't listen.
I should have listened.
Because the last half hour of the movie made me cry my eyes out. I had to use the sleeves of my shirt to dry my eyes. It was amusing because you could hear a cacophony of sniffles going off every few seconds.
I was a little annoyed at one point though. During a poignant scene, someone's CELL PHONE went off.
Hello?
Did they miss that HUGE sign that came on the screen before the movie started?
The one that read: PLEASE TURN OFF YOUR CELL PHONES.
It even had a picture of a cell phone turning off. So not being able to read is not an excuse.
When that woman's cell phone rang a bunch of people went "SHHHHH!" at once.
Then the lady beside me started texting. Her bright screen was distracting and I wanted to snatch the phone from her hands and throw it across the room.
You do NOT text while in a movie theater.
Other than those moments, I had an enjoyable time. I liked the movie. I was glad that it didn't have elaborate sex scenes in it like I imagine Benjamin Button did. I hate when movies have elaborate sex scenes. In Marley and Me it just showed the two main characters kissing passionately and then it cut to the next scene. That's what more movies need to do. I'd rather not SEE people going at it. If if I wanted to see that sort of thing, I'd rent a porno.
When the movie ended, we all filtered out of the theater. The teenager workers who were waiting to clean up shook their heads and one went, "Why is everyone always crying after this movie?"
His friend replied, "Dude, the dog (edited so as not to give away ending)..."
Seriously. All the women coming out of there had tissues in their hands and red faces.
I drove home and when I walked through the door Tom raised an eyebrow at me.
"What's wrong with your face?" he asked bluntly.
See, I'm not a pretty crier. Some women are. Me? Well, my face gets these awful red splotches and my nose starts to run and extra spit fills my mouth so I feel like I have to swallow every two seconds.
"The movie had a sad ending," I answered with a sniff. I started tearing up just thinking about it.
I told Tom what that ending was and the heartless bastard simply went, "It happens."
Ugh.
Natalie marched over to me and went, "BOOB!" and tugged on my leg. "BOOB!"
"She's been asking for boob for the past hour," Tom explained.
Oh.
I was slightly insulted. I mean she didn't ask for ME. She was just asking for my BOOB.
I gave her some breastmilk and then she gave me a little smack and walked away. Like she was punishing me for leaving.
Well, excuse me!
So bottom line is that I highly recommend Marley and Me.
But don't be stupid like I was: bring a freakin' tissue because you'll probably need it if you're one of those types who cry during movies.
Oh, and please turn off your cell phone.
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