Well crapsticks, I missed a day. Completely forgot. Mom and I took Kiddo to see Santa, and it was great. We had lunch at the mall food court, and because I remembered cash for a change we could all have what we wanted. Mom got her Kobari Beef, Kiddo got his McNuggets, I got a gyro because every once in awhile I love to spend my afternoon burping oregano.
Went to Trader Joe's for coffee and jelly and baklava for me, because sometimes I like to spend my time sticky with honey and crunching phyllo and nuts.
I never claimed to be interesting, you know.
Monday evenings I go and see a horrible movie at The Loft and yell at the screen along with everybody else. It's very cathartic and I ran into my hairdresser and her boyfriend. She is, like me, short and round. He is skinny and just keeps going up. When they hug it looks like a lowercase "b". It's adorable.
After all that I just flat out forgot to blog. So much for my great intentions of sticking to something, anything. Ah well, for all my fans (both of you) there will be better tales to come as I will be back in the office later this week. Real estate, even if it is just apartment rentals, often allows for wonderful stories. Want to know one of my favorite ones? I answered the phone at one complex and this loud, gruff voice says, "Do you accept felons?" My response?
"We prefer check or money order."
Good night, Cleveland!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Drunken Post- NSFW-ish
I'm not going to talk about today. That's the kind of day it was, I just do not want to discuss it. Instead of diligently blogging I watched several episodes of Bridezilla (which I had never watched before) and had a minor breakdown. Not because of Bridezilla, but because of stuff I am not going to discuss that may or may not have anything to do with a toddler who may or may not have been swapped with an evil alien who was raised by wolves.
Anyway, he's in bed and I have consumed a Large Adult Beverage. Unfortunately for you guys, I drank it before I remembered my obligation to the gods of Holidailies. I had nothing ready to go, so I will just say this:
Right now I'm watching Iron Chef America and the secret ingredient is pork fat.
Somewhere out there, Emeril Lagasse is masturbating furiously.
That is all.
Anyway, he's in bed and I have consumed a Large Adult Beverage. Unfortunately for you guys, I drank it before I remembered my obligation to the gods of Holidailies. I had nothing ready to go, so I will just say this:
Right now I'm watching Iron Chef America and the secret ingredient is pork fat.
Somewhere out there, Emeril Lagasse is masturbating furiously.
That is all.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
No, I DON'T Feel Lucky As A Matter Of Fact
It is now 1:57 pm MST and it is already a rotten day.
Woke up to discover that the toddler who has been up since I don't know when has ransacked the kitchen and hidden his swag of chip clips, flashlight, and fortune cookie under his blanket. Oh yes, he also peed on the kitchen floor.
Apparently my son has once again dipped into his stash as his behavior can only be described as "Mosquito with ADHD high on crack." He won't stay still, he won't listen, he is doing everything he possibly can to rile me.
I know why he's doing it, but of course I can't make him understand. I have to work, and when I don't work I have other things that need to be done. I can't spend 100% of any one day just with him. I don't exactly have somebody pulling in the dollars for us so I can spend the day with him. I don't even have the money to put him in day care to spend time with kids his own age, all I can afford is my mother who doesn't have the physical ability to watch him more than 3 days in a row, and does not drive. I feel like I'm being punished by the boy for the crime of having to do the work of both mom and dad, which (and of course he's too little to understand this) if I had my choice would NOT be the case.
Okay, so as the only driver, grocery shopping is my job. Of course all the stores got together and decided to hold sales on just a couple things I need per store. Here's the game plan: Kiddo and I hit Safeway, then Sonic for corn dogs, and another store at least. What happened instead?
We went to Safeway (after the Kiddo was properly attired in shirt, jeans, monkey sandals, plaid hat, sunglasses and track jacket; he looked like a snowbird.) and I locked my purse in the trunk. No keys. No phone. No wallet. Luckily my dad (who rocks sometimes) pays for a yearly AAA membership. Back to the store. Call AAA. Wait for the guy to unlock the car. Get approached by a panhandler that looked exactly like a hungover college kid and not the hungry homeless guy he claimed to be.
"Could you spare some money so I can get something to eat?"
"Can you spare a AAA driver to get my car open so I can get to my wallet?"
"That would take me a while."
"Then I can't help you."
Well the dude showed up and opened the door with, I shit you not, a blood pressure cuff. Okay! Trunk's open, keys in hand, off to Sonic!
We're happily munching away...okay that's not true. I am angrily munching away as Kiddo complains that his food is too hot and he wants his chocolate milk. I was waiting for a little cup with lid and straw for the milk, since that's way easier for him to handle. Get the milk all set up. Munch, munch, mu- "Mama! I gotta go to the bathroom!!!"
"Now?!"
"NOW."
By the time I got to the backseat, it was already too late. Ho-kay, go to restroom, convince toddler that restroom will have to do even if it is poorly lit and a bit scary. Remove wet pants and undies. Take track jacket (how glad I am he insisted on wearing it) and fashion it into a sarong. Take every napkin in the car and put in car seat, go home. Mom changes kid into new undies and sweat pants, I disengage cover from car seat and get it in the machine. Toddler has removed the top and straw from his remaining chocolate milk and when I said for him to give it to me, danced away from me while laughing, took a big gulp and spilled it all over his shirt and the floor.
It was at this point I seriously contemplated taking up alcoholism.
Remove shirt and put it in washer along with car seat cover, jeans, undies, and track jacket. The only original piece of clothing he is still able to wear is his hat which he then volunteered for the washer. I still don't know why.
When did I get this twitch in my left eye?
Right. Enough of that, the child needs scrubbing after all this.
"You. Child. Go get naked. It's shower time."
Scrub the bejeezus out of son, dry thoroughly, dress, send straight to bed. Why?
"So I do not kill you, Son. Say GoodNap to Gramma and. Go. To. Sleep."
It is not even 2:00pm. I still have mondo shopping to do, but I'm waiting until these twitches stop and I no longer sound like Dirty Harry when I speak.
What a rotten Saturday.
Woke up to discover that the toddler who has been up since I don't know when has ransacked the kitchen and hidden his swag of chip clips, flashlight, and fortune cookie under his blanket. Oh yes, he also peed on the kitchen floor.
Apparently my son has once again dipped into his stash as his behavior can only be described as "Mosquito with ADHD high on crack." He won't stay still, he won't listen, he is doing everything he possibly can to rile me.
I know why he's doing it, but of course I can't make him understand. I have to work, and when I don't work I have other things that need to be done. I can't spend 100% of any one day just with him. I don't exactly have somebody pulling in the dollars for us so I can spend the day with him. I don't even have the money to put him in day care to spend time with kids his own age, all I can afford is my mother who doesn't have the physical ability to watch him more than 3 days in a row, and does not drive. I feel like I'm being punished by the boy for the crime of having to do the work of both mom and dad, which (and of course he's too little to understand this) if I had my choice would NOT be the case.
Okay, so as the only driver, grocery shopping is my job. Of course all the stores got together and decided to hold sales on just a couple things I need per store. Here's the game plan: Kiddo and I hit Safeway, then Sonic for corn dogs, and another store at least. What happened instead?
We went to Safeway (after the Kiddo was properly attired in shirt, jeans, monkey sandals, plaid hat, sunglasses and track jacket; he looked like a snowbird.) and I locked my purse in the trunk. No keys. No phone. No wallet. Luckily my dad (who rocks sometimes) pays for a yearly AAA membership. Back to the store. Call AAA. Wait for the guy to unlock the car. Get approached by a panhandler that looked exactly like a hungover college kid and not the hungry homeless guy he claimed to be.
"Could you spare some money so I can get something to eat?"
"Can you spare a AAA driver to get my car open so I can get to my wallet?"
"That would take me a while."
"Then I can't help you."
Well the dude showed up and opened the door with, I shit you not, a blood pressure cuff. Okay! Trunk's open, keys in hand, off to Sonic!
We're happily munching away...okay that's not true. I am angrily munching away as Kiddo complains that his food is too hot and he wants his chocolate milk. I was waiting for a little cup with lid and straw for the milk, since that's way easier for him to handle. Get the milk all set up. Munch, munch, mu- "Mama! I gotta go to the bathroom!!!"
"Now?!"
"NOW."
By the time I got to the backseat, it was already too late. Ho-kay, go to restroom, convince toddler that restroom will have to do even if it is poorly lit and a bit scary. Remove wet pants and undies. Take track jacket (how glad I am he insisted on wearing it) and fashion it into a sarong. Take every napkin in the car and put in car seat, go home. Mom changes kid into new undies and sweat pants, I disengage cover from car seat and get it in the machine. Toddler has removed the top and straw from his remaining chocolate milk and when I said for him to give it to me, danced away from me while laughing, took a big gulp and spilled it all over his shirt and the floor.
It was at this point I seriously contemplated taking up alcoholism.
Remove shirt and put it in washer along with car seat cover, jeans, undies, and track jacket. The only original piece of clothing he is still able to wear is his hat which he then volunteered for the washer. I still don't know why.
When did I get this twitch in my left eye?
Right. Enough of that, the child needs scrubbing after all this.
"You. Child. Go get naked. It's shower time."
Scrub the bejeezus out of son, dry thoroughly, dress, send straight to bed. Why?
"So I do not kill you, Son. Say GoodNap to Gramma and. Go. To. Sleep."
It is not even 2:00pm. I still have mondo shopping to do, but I'm waiting until these twitches stop and I no longer sound like Dirty Harry when I speak.
What a rotten Saturday.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Beatles Brain Cramp
One of the best things about my job is that I get quite a bit of freedom sometimes. Freedom to read a good book, freedom to finish an art project, sometimes freedom to run out and finish Christmas shopping for the kid at the conveniently located Bullseye store, and especially the freedom to not get back for an hour and 10 minutes and have nobody notice.
Not that I would ever do such a thing without properly noting it on my timesheet.
So anyway, I went there looking for one, maybe two things and I ended up getting:
a robe covered in skulls and crossbones
a set of Iron Man pajamas
a Batman tee shirt
3 pairs of Spider Man undies (see a theme?)
a miniature Robo Sapien
a guitar
Nope...not spoiled at all.
Before I left for the store I called home and asked Mom if there was anything I should look out for. Not wanting to give anything about the guitar away to the eavesdropping toddler she said, "That thing that Paul McCartney uses."
Paul. McCartney.
I shit you not.
Totally flabbergasted by this description my brain froze and, faltering, said the first thing that came to my mind.
"Women??"
Yeah. Not my best moment. I'll tell you one thing though, after that there was no way in hell I was forgetting that damn guitar.
Not that I would ever do such a thing without properly noting it on my timesheet.
So anyway, I went there looking for one, maybe two things and I ended up getting:
a robe covered in skulls and crossbones
a set of Iron Man pajamas
a Batman tee shirt
3 pairs of Spider Man undies (see a theme?)
a miniature Robo Sapien
a guitar
Nope...not spoiled at all.
Before I left for the store I called home and asked Mom if there was anything I should look out for. Not wanting to give anything about the guitar away to the eavesdropping toddler she said, "That thing that Paul McCartney uses."
Paul. McCartney.
I shit you not.
Totally flabbergasted by this description my brain froze and, faltering, said the first thing that came to my mind.
"Women??"
Yeah. Not my best moment. I'll tell you one thing though, after that there was no way in hell I was forgetting that damn guitar.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Ever Wanted to Beat Your Head Against a Yule Log?
Another day, another little slice of Christmas taken care of. The only things left to do are:
*Take the Kiddo to see Santa (and if he's very lucky I won't pull the big guy aside and tell him the truth).
*Do all my shopping
*Finish the drawing I started several months ago
*Get it framed and ready to ship along with possibly a t shirt and some baked goodness
*Make the baked goodness
*Deliver baked goodness to all in-town recipients
*Wrapping all gifts (once bought)
*Purchase all ingredients for Christmas and New Years dinners
Plus all the usual crap like work and sleep and trying to raise a child whose developing personality convinces me every day that he doesn't need a preschool so much as a sideshow.
It's times like this I wish I was Jewish. Not because I believe Hanukkah is easier or that I think it's better than Christmas, it's just, well...Hanukkah is over.
L'Chaim!
*Take the Kiddo to see Santa (and if he's very lucky I won't pull the big guy aside and tell him the truth).
*Do all my shopping
*Finish the drawing I started several months ago
*Get it framed and ready to ship along with possibly a t shirt and some baked goodness
*Make the baked goodness
*Deliver baked goodness to all in-town recipients
*Wrapping all gifts (once bought)
*Purchase all ingredients for Christmas and New Years dinners
Plus all the usual crap like work and sleep and trying to raise a child whose developing personality convinces me every day that he doesn't need a preschool so much as a sideshow.
It's times like this I wish I was Jewish. Not because I believe Hanukkah is easier or that I think it's better than Christmas, it's just, well...Hanukkah is over.
L'Chaim!
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
My Son The ChefBot
This conversation took place in less than 15 minutes. I don't know what inspired it. I was just sitting here at the desk doing nothing special when in a robot voice worthy of any Cyberman, my son flops his favorite frog on my desk and says:
"Here is Froggy. He is cooked."
"Um...why did you cook Froggy?"
"It is your dinner."
"I can't eat Froggy! I just had a tooth out, you know."
"But it is good."
Next thing I know he's dug out his toy frying pan and put it on the "stove". Mom says, "Look out Scruffy Puppy, he's cookin' now!" Kidbot takes it as a cue:
"Puppy, you will be cooked."
*Silence from Mom*
"There is your dinner."
*Mom picks up her dinner and snuggles it, almost sympathetically*
"I'm going to get more stuff."
*Look of abject terror on Mom's face*
Well, he didn't get more stuff, just yelled at for messing with a beagle. Next thing I know, the ChefBot has delivered more pretend nummies to the desk:
"Here is your ham and peanut butter."
"Ham and peanut butter?! Why?!"
"(Mom) You forgot the chips!"
"Chips, coming up!"
"Thanks, Mom."
"Here are your chips."
"Anything else, you strange little Kidbot, you?"
"Here is a fresh cooked truck."
So at this point we have a fresh cooked Froggy, topped with pretend ham and peanut butter, and a fresh cooked hot wheels pickup truck. I was hoping my meal was now complete, and for a minute or two it seemed like he's moved on to something new, but I guess Mom didn't like her Scruffy Puppy becuase ChefBot was back, adding Scruffy to the mix on the desk.
"Here is some fresh cooked puppy for your plate."
"Well Hallelujah for that."
"(Standing next to the dog bed) Now I am going to jump in your swimming pool."
"Right-o."
"I am in the swimming pool."
"Of course you are."
This kid doesn't need presents, he has everything he needs right between his ears. Mommy however is still hoping for a pedicure and earplugs.
"Here is Froggy. He is cooked."
"Um...why did you cook Froggy?"
"It is your dinner."
"I can't eat Froggy! I just had a tooth out, you know."
"But it is good."
Next thing I know he's dug out his toy frying pan and put it on the "stove". Mom says, "Look out Scruffy Puppy, he's cookin' now!" Kidbot takes it as a cue:
"Puppy, you will be cooked."
*Silence from Mom*
"There is your dinner."
*Mom picks up her dinner and snuggles it, almost sympathetically*
"I'm going to get more stuff."
*Look of abject terror on Mom's face*
Well, he didn't get more stuff, just yelled at for messing with a beagle. Next thing I know, the ChefBot has delivered more pretend nummies to the desk:
"Here is your ham and peanut butter."
"Ham and peanut butter?! Why?!"
"(Mom) You forgot the chips!"
"Chips, coming up!"
"Thanks, Mom."
"Here are your chips."
"Anything else, you strange little Kidbot, you?"
"Here is a fresh cooked truck."
So at this point we have a fresh cooked Froggy, topped with pretend ham and peanut butter, and a fresh cooked hot wheels pickup truck. I was hoping my meal was now complete, and for a minute or two it seemed like he's moved on to something new, but I guess Mom didn't like her Scruffy Puppy becuase ChefBot was back, adding Scruffy to the mix on the desk.
"Here is some fresh cooked puppy for your plate."
"Well Hallelujah for that."
"(Standing next to the dog bed) Now I am going to jump in your swimming pool."
"Right-o."
"I am in the swimming pool."
"Of course you are."
This kid doesn't need presents, he has everything he needs right between his ears. Mommy however is still hoping for a pedicure and earplugs.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Bite Me, Tooth Fairy
Today I had a tooth pulled. It needed to be done, don't get me wrong, and I was just glad to have the money to get it done, now that AZ medicaid has been slashed to hell. The dentist is all kinds of wonderful, and is liberal with the laughing gas. The thing I hate most about it, aside from the obvious pain, is the fact that it hampers my ability to talk. You've got to keep that gauze clamped in your new bloody mouth hole until the clot forms, after all.
I never realized how much I really do talk to myself until I couldn't do it. Here I am, waiting for my antibiotics and painkillers, doing a little grocery shopping, praying I can get that sweet sweet Percocet home before the rest of the Novocaine wears off and I hear coming from the next aisle over:
"I wish I could cut my fucking leg off, I swear to God."
This voice could not have belonged to anyone over 30, and as someone who lives with a woman in her fifties and in need of 2 new knees, I thought this person was being just a tad over-dramatic. Onward I shopped and I met saw this suffering woman in the flesh. She didn't even have a limp. Skinny jeans proved she had no cast or brace, not even a bandage to give reasonable doubt to a bad scrape. She was bouncing back and forth across the baking aisle showing her muffin-topped companion all the wondrous things she found. Like...JELLO. I'm trying to scope out some quick bread mix and this silly woman is like the ADHD Vanna White of the baking aisle! And I can't talk! On the outside I'm glaring but on the inside I am bellowing, "MOVE YOUR HYPER HIPSTER ASS OR BETTY CROCKER'S GONNA HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY RIGHT UPSIDE YOUR HEAD!"
Then just as I get by (her muffin-topped friend was very polite and much more aware of her surroundings) I hear Hipster Girl say:
"This says it's good with caramel sauce. We need to get some caramel sauce! Wait, what's caramel sauce?"
No, I couldn't have heard that right, I told myself. I refuse to believe that is what I heard. Even stoners know what caramel sauce is. Hell, especially stoners know what caramel sauce is!
"Seriously, what the fuck is caramel sauce?!"
And dear readers, I had an epiphany. I may not be able to talk, but I got my feelings across perfectly and discovered that nothing beats a well-timed FacePalm.
I didn't turn around but I have the distinct feeling they saw me. I heard nothing more of caramel sauce, but I'll be damned if I didn't hear one last utterance as I swerved my way into the pasta aisle:
"I wish I could cut my fucking leg off, I swear to God."
Never did find my bread mix.
I never realized how much I really do talk to myself until I couldn't do it. Here I am, waiting for my antibiotics and painkillers, doing a little grocery shopping, praying I can get that sweet sweet Percocet home before the rest of the Novocaine wears off and I hear coming from the next aisle over:
"I wish I could cut my fucking leg off, I swear to God."
This voice could not have belonged to anyone over 30, and as someone who lives with a woman in her fifties and in need of 2 new knees, I thought this person was being just a tad over-dramatic. Onward I shopped and I met saw this suffering woman in the flesh. She didn't even have a limp. Skinny jeans proved she had no cast or brace, not even a bandage to give reasonable doubt to a bad scrape. She was bouncing back and forth across the baking aisle showing her muffin-topped companion all the wondrous things she found. Like...JELLO. I'm trying to scope out some quick bread mix and this silly woman is like the ADHD Vanna White of the baking aisle! And I can't talk! On the outside I'm glaring but on the inside I am bellowing, "MOVE YOUR HYPER HIPSTER ASS OR BETTY CROCKER'S GONNA HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY RIGHT UPSIDE YOUR HEAD!"
Then just as I get by (her muffin-topped friend was very polite and much more aware of her surroundings) I hear Hipster Girl say:
"This says it's good with caramel sauce. We need to get some caramel sauce! Wait, what's caramel sauce?"
No, I couldn't have heard that right, I told myself. I refuse to believe that is what I heard. Even stoners know what caramel sauce is. Hell, especially stoners know what caramel sauce is!
"Seriously, what the fuck is caramel sauce?!"
And dear readers, I had an epiphany. I may not be able to talk, but I got my feelings across perfectly and discovered that nothing beats a well-timed FacePalm.
I didn't turn around but I have the distinct feeling they saw me. I heard nothing more of caramel sauce, but I'll be damned if I didn't hear one last utterance as I swerved my way into the pasta aisle:
"I wish I could cut my fucking leg off, I swear to God."
Never did find my bread mix.
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