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I’m not a bad driver. I’m actually a really good driver. But I have one big problem: getting in and out of the garage. You may remember that I backed into the edge of it a few months ago (no? You forgot? That’s good for me.), but what I didn’t tell you was that one rainy night on the way to Lowe’s I scraped the bottom edge of my car on the retaining wall next to the driveway because I was…I don’t know. Over correcting or something. Of course Michael was in the car with me and was telling me to just back out straight! Just straighten out the wheels!
Only, my brain didn’t get what that meant. I didn’t know HOW to make it go straight. I mean, I was already to the right…and…? My parents are banging their head into the wall reading this, I’m sure. What with the hours of driving instruction they provided more than a decade ago.
I’m not an idiot, I swear. I just…didn’t understand the words coming out of his mouth. Until he said, why don’t, you know, just make the wheel straight.
Oh. That. Right.
Shut up.
At least now I back out of the garage perfectly.
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Speaking of garages, someone needs to explain to me the thought process behind leaving your garage door open all day. Our last house didn’t have a garage, nor did most of the houses on the street, so I didn’t notice it as much. But now that we’re in our new neighborhood I see it all the time. Garage doors left open all day, sometimes with a car in it, sometimes not, but no people around. So what is it? Laziness? The idea that it’s just a little bit easier not to have to use the garage door opener? I DON’T GET IT.
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There is a set of twins that jog on the main road by my house and they always startle me. Before you yell at me for hating on twins (I don’t! Yay twins! I have twin nieces!), let me explain. They’re identical twins; adult women with long blond hair that they wear in ponytails that bounce in unison. To see two of the exact same-looking person doing the exact same thing in just a flash as I drive by is just…surprising. (Troll comment to come: I’m an identical twin! What gives you the right to be surprised by me, you judgmental beyotch? You’re just a mother who can’t drive. H8TR UNFOLLOW GAHHHH!!!!”)
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The baby wants a sausage, egg and cheese on a garlic bagel. I must do what the baby wants.
Christmas Gah
Mind if I brain dump all over you guys? No? Ok, good. You guys, how is Christmas on Sunday? As in, THIS Sunday? I’m hosting this year which means I need to cook dinner for seven people and if my holiday party was any indication, I’m going to make too much food, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but I don’t want to eat baked ham for two weeks. Also, I only just sent out my Christmas cards today! For the record, I ended up designing my own and printing them out as 4×6 photos at CVS. Sure, they’re not your standard fancy card, but it took many, MANY attempts to get one good picture of Owen smiling so by god, I will send that face to 60 people, Christmas in six days or not.
Child Gah
That face, which is turning 18-months old next week. As in, a year and a half. Say what? That face has also recently started to argue with me, which I thought wasn’t supposed to happen until much later when the subject matter would be something like staying out past curfew or, you know, not wanting to eat his vegetables. Instead, he informs me multiple times a day that the toy rhino is not in fact a rhino, but actually a hippo. He conveys this by shaking his head “no” and shouting “IP-PO!” at me until I concede that FINE. I suppose it KIND OF LOOKS LIKE A HIPPO, but it has horns and also? It’s a rhino. I went to college and everything, kiddo. The same goes for a green brontosaurus on a pair of pajamas that is actually an alligator. Duh, Mama.
And because Owen is a rule follower, he must have sneakily been reading up on sleep regressions and heard that there’s one around 18 months. So guess who hit the nail on the head with that again, right on schedule? It hasn’t been awful. Not like four months (omg), or nine months (omiiiiggggoood), but now he’s taken to waking just once in the middle of the night and crying just long enough for me to wake up — and stay awake — for at least an hour. I don’t like 3 a.m. Never have.
Occasionally, he’s not settled himself, and in those cases I am too lazy tired to stand in his room forever, so I’ve been scooping him up and tucking him in next to me in bed. He settles right in and it’s very sweet and reminiscent of his newborn days. After a little bit I bring him back to his crib, but I can’t say I’ve minded the snuggles all that much.
But still, go away, regression. Mama likes her solid sleep.
I’m Old Gah
In two weeks I turn 29. As in, the last year of my 20s. As in, one year away from 30 (which ok, isn’t THAT scary, but I’m still kind of clinging to the “I’m in my 20s!!!!” thing.) Michael’s been there, done that, when it comes to turning 30, so he’s not all that sympathetic about me only turning 29. My birthday is New Year’s Eve and while I feel like I should get a sitter and toast my last 20th year in style, I can’t imagine what we would do and how it would be any better than cupcakes and bubbly drinks at home with my family. Oh god, I really am getting old. Just kidding! I mean…let’s party! On a rooftop! In December! Without a sweater because woo hoo! We are young and crazy!
(Jeez no, it’s cold. Someone go make me a cup of tea.)
I Am Apparently Five Gah
I was grocery shopping yesterday and inexplicably needed chocolate milk. Like, right that very minute. Which is dumb because I never drink chocolate milk and actually, I was going to go to Starbucks for a chai as soon as I was done. But that chocolate milk was right there on the shelf and I WANTED IT. So I bought it.
And drank the whole thing in the car, despite Owen’s pleas from the back to give him whatever was in that bottle. I gave him water instead, because he is the child and I am the adult and I don’t share my chocolate milk.
GAH.
- Remember when I asked you to delurk and you came out of the shadows and linked to your blogs? I’ve been reading you mwahahahah! Well, ok, not all creepy-like. I’ve just turned the tables and have been lurking around quietly. And you guys! How come you didn’t tell me sooner about all your fabulous blogs? I needed some new reads and you delivered. I’m thinking of making a post just to highlight some of my new favorites. Stay tuned!
- We have a new addition to our family. His name is BOB.
If it were physically possible to make out with a jogging stroller, this would be the jogging stroller. I know, who am I? Getting all hot and bothered over a stroller. But this thing is a dream. Turns on a dime, can be pushed with basically one finger and O is the king of our town as he gets pushed along. I had never heard of the BOB before Owen was born, but apparently they are like, a THING around these parts. They are everywhere! Singles, doubles. We must pass at least two on our daily walks.
One woman stopped me the other day (pushing her double BOB) and asked if I had ever seen a higher concentration of them than in our town. Maybe it’s a New England thing? Like how NYC loves their Uppa strollers? Are BOBs big where you are?
Either way, give me a minute while I go stare longingly at him…
…Ok, I’m back.
- Crazy how life changes, eh? Just a year ago the thought of spending hundreds of dollars on a stroller (I KNOW) would have seemed ridiculous when I could spend it on something like shoes. Oh, shoes. I still love you. I’m sorry I’ve been cheating on you for adjustable suspension and breathable mesh.
Speaking of shoes, would anyone be interested if I offered up a pair for sale? They’re not heels, but adorably preppy Sperry Topsiders that I love so much, but no longer fit into. Pregnancy didn’t really seem to make my feet bigger, but it apparently did something in regards to this particular shoe, because they are too tight.
They’ve been worn MAYBE five times and are in perfect condition. I’d offer them up for less than I paid. Would that be weird? They don’t smell, I promise. And if someone buys them, I can buy a new pair that fits. Win!
- Now that I have this fancy jogger, I’m thinking about maybe, you know, jogging with it. I’m not a runner by any means so I would have to start reeeaaallly slow. Maybe even try the Couch to 5k thing? Maybe? But whatever I do, I need some new tunes to run jog walk briskly to. On your mark, get set, give me some songs!
- BOB is calling. Must go. Coming, darling!
I was a total slacker and forgot to take an official belly shot last week, so Belly Friday will have multiple pics next week. At least it will be cool to see progression. (Sorry to lovely reader MB, who checks in every Friday just for those pictures!)
So, the head cold. It’s a LOT better. It peaked Wednesday evening and by this morning it’s not more than a runny nose with some intermediate stuffiness. I still don’t feel 100%, but it’s definitely on the up and up.
While I was searching for sinus relief, a lot of people suggested using a neti pot — a small pot used to irrigate your nasal passages with a salt water solution. My mom, especially, has been suggesting I try one for years. She’s a firm believer in them, yet I’ve resisted.
I don’t know why I’m so weirded out by the neti pot. Well, no, that’s not true. I do know why. It just seems WEIRD. I get the point of it and logically, it probably does exactly what it’s supposed to do. However, in order to make it work, you have to do this:
Ew.
We’ve all seen people doing stupid human tricks like running a piece of string up one nostril and out the other, and although it’s natural that the body is made that way, it always skeeved me out. This is no exception. And yes, I know I’m going to be pushing a human being out of my nether regions and there’s way more going on with that than with a neti pot, but STILL. What can I say, I’m weird!
I’m kind of a believer that things don’t belong up your nose. Your fingers (unless you’re alone and they’re clean, because sometimes, you just need a pick. No judgement here.), drugs…neti pots. It’s kind of an exit only area, if you ask me. I was even grossed out using the saline solution this week.
I’ve asked around and the general conscious is that until you get used to it, the salt runs down your throat and it’s kind of like getting water up your nose in the pool. And you have to do it often to have a noticable effect. Which means lots of neti potting. Meh.
I passed on the neti pot this time around. Maybe if this cold was still raging I would revisit the idea of it, but for the time being, I’ll stick with my tissues.
After nearly eight full-time years in Rhode Island, I still didn’t have a primary care physician. And since I want to do things in my life like start a family and oh, not be sick, I thought it was time to get one. The physical went fine, until they handed me a lab sheet and told me I had to get blood work.
Blood work and I don’t get along. Actually, blood work is a menace to all the women in my family. When we get blood drawn, we pass out. Like a light. Goodbye.
It must be a genetic thing because it has nothing to do with fear. Our bodies just DO NOT LIKE having blood removed from it.
So any time I have to have blood drawn, I nicely explain to the technician my situation and assure them that if I just lie down from the start, I’ll be perfectly fine.
I’ve found that the technician’s response ranges anywhere from indifferent compliance to my request, to outright annoyance (you would think I asked them to remove their own arm), to flat out refusal. (“No, you cannot lie down, but you can sit in this seat and try and slouch yourself down a little.” Yes, TRUE STORY and by the way, it DOESN’T WORK.)
But on occasion, there is a nice tech, who will immediately lead you to the bed, let you lie down, get the needle in on the first try and even give you apple juice afterwards.
The fact that I just enjoyed a cold class of juice and am decidedly NOT passed out right now, is why today is a Smile Friday.
Happy weekend!
Does anyone else…
…brush their teeth before going to the dentist?
…fix their hair before going to the stylist?
…shave their legs and wear the lightest possible clothing ever (for weighing purposes) before going to the doctor?
No?
Um…me neither.
I was just working on this self-reflecting, serious life stuff post when Kodiak asked me to go outside. (Yes, he “asks” by standing up, getting in my face and staring at me until I ask if he wants to go out. He responds with a bark for “yes”.)
Since he’s on leash-only outings until four weeks from surgery, I put it on him and we heading out into the yard.
Let it be known that as a child, I grew up in the woods. Like, the WOODS. With a dirt driveway and deer and squirrels and wild turkeys and raccoons and many other furry woodland creatures in the vicinity. I’ve never been afraid of animals and always got a kick out of it when friends from cities would visit and spaz out when a chipmunk ran across the yard.
So yeah. Not afraid of animals.
That yelp you heard all the way from Rhode Island? That was this blonde chick in her little surburban not wooded town being attacked by a bee who thought it would be funny to swarm around her head and not leave. That louder shriek? Was when she noticed a snake (a garter snake, but still…her brain just registered SNAKE) in the grass by the shed while being attacked by aforementioned bee, all while walking the dog who wanted to sniff and chase the snake omigod leave it, leave it, LEAVE IT!
That laugh you heard? Was her neighbor.
Sigh.
Self-reflection later this week. When there’s no more snakes around.
I want cake.
It’s the same text message each month. I’ll send it to my friend, or she’ll send it to me. Out of the blue, usually in the evening. Cake. I want it.
Men don’t get these cravings, you know? For the life of him, Michael cannot understand why I will suddenly crave a specific food. It changes…sometimes it’s salty, sometimes it’s sweet. Sometimes it’s cake. (Often, it’s cake.)
I combat these monthly cravings by eating something that is not cake. It’s quite depressing and all the while all I can think about is how great some CAKE would taste right now and if I only had some CAKE I would show it who was boss and eat that CAKE all over the place.
Sure, I could go get a slice of cake somewhere. But I don’t want a slice of cake.
I want the whole cake. And then a slice of cake.
This is not cake.
This is Special K. Special K is not cake.
We had a discussion, Special K and I. I told Special K it was going to cure my cravings and pretend to be cake and we would live happily ever after while losing 1 inch from my waist in 2 weeks. (See that claim? Right there on the bottom left corner of the box? That claim is only true if you eat only Special K and not cake.)
Special K tastes nothing like cake.
Am sad.
And craving cake.
I am totally weird about toothbrushes. About a year ago, my dentist recommended I switch over to electric, or suffer the consequences when I eventually scrubbed away my own gums. I believe the words “gum graft” were uttered by the hygienist, which left me wanting to shove the spit sucker all the way up her nose. (The dentist assured me that my gums were not that bad, but the old idea of brushing super hard is now being rejected. Apparently the hygienist likes to scare people. Spit sucker, lady. Don’t forget it.)
Before I used electric, I replaced my tooth brush every few months. The minute it started to fray it was gone. But since I’ve switched, I’m no faced with purchasing brush heads that cost a minimum of $11 a pop and seriously? How can they charge $11 for oral hygiene?
I still replace the brush head often, but I’ve started a new routine that involves cleaning every nook and cranny of the brush. The process includes hot water, rubbing alcohol, at least three Q-Tips and a toothpick. It takes about 10 minutes and leaves my brush sparkling, smelling fresh and most importantly, germ free.
The thought of bacteria on the brush is enough to give me nightmares.
Yes, you don’t have to tell me about all the bacteria around us daily or that even if I stored my toothbrush in another room it would still have fecal bacteria on it. I saw them test that on Myth Busters. I almost died.
But this weekly routine gives me piece of mind.
It also gives me something shiny to look at when I open the closet and am faced with my husband’s non-clean, totally gross, toothpaste covered, crusty electric toothbrush. I’ve actually dry heaved from looking at it.
He asked me to clean it once. I couldn’t do it. I know it makes no sense, he’s my husband. I kiss him. I sleep in the same bed as him.
But I couldn’t bring myself to clean his toothbrush bacteria.
There’s a poster of the muscular system in my physical therapist’s office that kind of freaks me out.
Can you tell what it is?
The whole body is shown by its muscles…except for the toes, fingers, nose and mouth. Nope, they’re covered in skin. As if it’s not creepy enough to see the body in only its muscular form. I just don’t get it. Are there no muscles in the toes? And if that’s true…why leave the skin on? Why not just show the bones?
I know you’re thinking, woah, what is wrong with her? This bothers her?
Yes, it does. Every time I’m there. Twice a week. Those un-muscular toes. Staring at me.
Welcome to my brain.
