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Friday, September 30, 2005

I just don't get it.

As a small "reward" for working the past two weekends, and one upcoming weekend, Chris took today off. I thought, "Oh, that'll be nice. We can go do something fun with Eric, as a family." Wrong. When he first got up, he did suggest an excursion to the Northwest Cutlery, to get his knives sharpened. Either that fell by the wayside, or it's in the works for this afternoon--I'm not sure which (although, mind you, I still have to work this afternoon, so it likely no longer includes me...whatever). Anyway, so far the majority of Chris' day off has been spent in the bathroom--and not becuase he's sick or anything like that. He just keeps going in the bathroom for at least 45 minutes, presumably to read the book that sitting in there, and to escape any sort of dad duties that might arise were he out of the bathroom.

I think he got out of bed around 9. It's now quarter to 1, and he's spent at least two hours in the bathroom, probably more. The whole morning went to pot. (har har) Why is the bathroom a black hole for men? Like I said, I just don't get it.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Dr. Strangelove

One of the major downfalls to becoming hooked on blogging is that I have recently spent A LOT of time reading other people's blogs. People I know, people I know only through the internet, and people I don't know from Adam (except, I know Adam--hi Adam). It seems like I've come across a huge pool of bloggers who have nothing but interesting things to write about, and they all write the most fascinating, funny, witty, poignant observations about random randomness. I have to admit, I'm a little intimidated by this. I think of something that I want to write about and then I think, no, that's not important. I've been doubting myself, and hence, avoiding my blog. But, tonight I finally realized that it's MY blog. Who cares if what I write isn't important/fascinating/funny/witty/poignant? So, that's that. I'm going to learn to stop worrying and love the blog.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Why don't you just rip my heart out while you're at it?

Today started out like your average Tuesday. We got up, had some breakfast, played, watched some Sesame Street and ran to the grocery store to pick up a few things. That's where things went horribly, HORRIBLY awry.

Because I am, like, the LUCKIEST woman alive, my local supermarket just so happens to have a branch of my bank nuzzled gently into the corner of its confines. I didn't plan it that way--it just happened. This means that I get to do my banking and my grocery shopping in one fell swoop, which, with a toddler in tow, is absolute unadulterated heaven on earth. Perhaps the best thing about it, though, is that although there are people on staff who can answer your questions and open accounts for you, all of the actual transactions must take place through the ATM. The joy of this, for me, is that I don't need to have unnecessary human interactions or wait in obnoxious lines. I just whip out my little card, push a couple of buttons, and I'm good to go. Whoever thought of this is a god in my book. I mean, she is just one tiny step below the person who invented the Visa Check Card.

While we're on the subject of the Visa Check Card, let me just mention to you my new mantra: "Cash? Who needs it!" At any given time, I'm lucky if I have $1.12 on me. I use that damn card for everything. I only feel bad for the cute little kids standing outside the grocery store selling candy bars for Cub Scouts. I used to be a sucker for those damn kids, but now I have to blow them off because they don't take plastic (just give that a couple years, though).

OK, back to my horrific story. This morning, in a moment of apparent delirium, I forgot to remove my precious debit card from the ATM when I was finished making my deposit. I didn't realize this until 15 minutes later when I went to purchase my groceries. Thank god there was no one in line behind me because I literally dumped my purse out onto the conveyor belt looking for my baby. But, alas, it was nowhere to be found. For a moment I went into panic mode--how am I going to pay for my groceries! Then I remembered the emergency credit card. With a heavy heart, I broke that bad boy out.

I then went over to the banking area and explained that I had just used the ATM but could no longer find my card. I asked if anybody had turned in a dropped card. No. "Does the ATM keep the card if you forget to take it out?" I ask the girl. She stares at me blankly. Then a guy comes out from the back. She explains what I just told her and the guy says, "Oh, if you forget to take your card, the ATM keeps it." OK, this should be simple--open up the ATM, look in the left behind card compartment, and give me my card back. Apparently they can't do that. WHAT GOOD ARE THESE PEOPLE? DON'T THEY KNOW THAT MY LIVELIHOOD IS AT STAKE?????

The guy then says, "Well, if you're sure you don't have the card, we'll just get you a new one." Oh thank god, now this man is talking some sense. They bring up my account in the system and the guy says, "There are three cards showing up--do you know what the last 4 digits on your card were?" I'm practically hyperventilating--can't you ask me a less important question? "I'm not sure," I say, "Can't you look at the name the card is issued to? And by the way, there should only be two cards on the account." "Well, there are three and they're all issued to you." First of all, WHAT??? Second of all, clearly only one of them has ever been used, so that's the one. We get it all figured out and then he drops the bomb. "Great, you'll get your new card in five to seven business days! Have a good one!"

Excuse me? Have a good one??? Did you not notice the myriad $3 to $5 charges on my account? Do you not know how my life depends on this card? I haven't felt this helpless since I was all but shoved out the door of the hospital with a one-and-a-half-day-old baby in my arms. "Good luck with the kid! We're sorry about that thing where we insisted that you would have to spend the night tonight and then revoked that offer at 7 pm and promptly sent two strapping men to your room to pack your bags and physically remove you from the premises! Have a good one! Oh! Don't forget your stool softener!"

How am I going to survive the next 5-to-7 business days?? Oh no! Am I going to have to go to the actual bank? Please say it isn't so! This is terrible, just terrible! Oh my god--what if I actually had to write a check, IN PUBLIC? How horrifying would that be? What if people saw me? Would they whisper behind my back? "What on earth is that woman doing? Doesn't she know she's holding up the line? Poor thing...she's stuck in the '90s! "

I might as well just crawl into a hole and die. I'm suddenly reminded of one of my favorite movie quotes of all time (from My Girl): "Get outta here! And don't come back for five to seven days!"

Monday, September 12, 2005

Hip Hop Has Blown My Mind

Curling my birthday hair.

Letting my birthday hair down.


Letting my birthday hair swallow my birthday neck.

Wearing my pink birthday dress.

Rockin' the Casbah Since 1979


Donning my birthday tiara, fresh out of my birthday shower!

Kinda Pleasantly Satanic

Because last night's blog (and most others from the past few weeks, for that matter) sounded, well, depressing, here's an update to say that I am having a kick ass birthday. I went shopping with Eric this morning and found an outfit that a) I love and b) actually fits! As an added bonus, there were very few screech monkey noises coming from my offspring during the shopping excursion. I also found my Ike Reilly cd a little while ago, and popped that in. It really takes me back to a time when I used to be a lot cooler than I am now. Other than that, I'm pretty much just determined to have a fun day, and it's working. Yay!

Sunday, September 11, 2005

On this, the eve of the twelfth day of September

I sit here and I reflect upon my life and the fact that tomorrow will mark the completion of my 26th year of it. If you had asked me a few years ago what I thought I would be like on my 26th birthday, I'm pretty sure the description I would have given you would be vastly different than the reality of today. First off, I probably would not have predicted that I would be a mother. In fact there are still some days when I wake up and it surprises me, despite the fact that my baby is 16 months old. Although, the role of "mother" has become deeply ingrained in me. Today, I went shopping with some birthday money I got over the weekend. All in all, I would say it was a pretty successful shopping trip. I bought a pair of shoes, a pair of pajamas, a pair of pants and a backpack--all for Eric. Oh, I got myself a cup of Starbucks.

I never would have guessed that my birthday would prove to be such a depressing event for me. Well, I suppose depressing is really the wrong word. It's more that it is no longer a big deal, where it used to be something I really looked forward to. I would start reminding people months ahead of time. I would have an idea of what I wanted to do to celebrate. I would make a list of things that I wanted as gifts. Now I feel like I couldn't care less. I want to do something to celebrate my birthday, but I don't know what. Everything I think of just sounds like more of a chore than it's worth. Due to poor planning, I didn't do anything with my friends this weekend--just my parents. I figured I could celebrate with the friends next weekend, but I just found out that my parents are going out of town and can't babysit. The weekend after that is another friend's birthday.

Oh yeah, that's the other thing. From August 29-October 30, six of my very close friends have birthdays. There are also several less-close friends who have birthdays in there too, and I may or may not get invited to celebrate those as well. I have a very limited window of time in which to celebrate my b-day before it's somebody else's turn. In the past two years, I've taken to convincing myself that all of my friends are pretty overwhelmed with birthdays this time of year, so no one will really care/notice if I don't do anything to celebrate. But they do notice and then complain that I'm not doing anything. If it bothers them so much, why don't they throw me a damn party? Then all of our problems are solved!

OK, now I am getting depressed. Better quit while I'm ahead. Happy birthday to me. Yay.

Hmmm...my birthday would probably be better if I had this get-up:

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Why I Love Chris


Because when I randomly make my stuffed cat meow at him, instead of looking at me like I'm out of my fucking gourd, he says, "We can't go swimming now, Garfield. We just ate!" What a perfectly random way to respond to your wife's insane behavior! Love and craziness... It just doesn't get any better than that.

Meow.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

The battle of who could care less

The avocado green patterned linoleum in our kitchen is grayed from a layer of dirt that needs to be wiped away. If the sun is coming through our kitchen window just right, you can see a myriad of darker, even dirtier spots around the refrigerator where someone has carelessly poured a glass of iced tea and sloshed it out of the cup. There are piles here and there of goldfish crackers or teddy grahams which were dropped over the side of the highchair, forgotten, then stepped on. The dishes pile high in the sink, unrinsed and sticky. There is an overflow pile on the counter next to the sink. The stove is covered in crumbs and spills. The kitchen table is covered in clutter--various things that just don't have a home for whatever reason. The white counters--what you can see of them, at least--have sticky brown rings here and there, presumable from the iced tea that also was sloshed onto the floor.

Walk down the hallway to the bathroom and you might notice dust bunnies and various crumbs piling up along the baseboard. Turn into the bathroom and you will once again be regaled with loveliness. It doesn't take a very thorough inspection of the pink and gray atrocity to notice little heaps of white toothpaste crusted in the pink sink or the little piles of splashed shaving gel dried onto the pink vanity. Luckily, though, the piles of sticky goo make for an excellent way to catch all the pesky stray hairs that meander about in a bathroom. The mirror, you will notice, has been splashed up to a foot above the sink, and also has streaks from where someone wiped steam off of it with a towel. The bathroom only gets worse from there.

Step into the master bedroom and you will be greeted by heaping piles of laundry. Some here, some there. Some in baskets, some on the floor, some piled on top of the dressers. Good luck determining which of it is clean and which is dirty. The bed is unmade and the sheets twisted and pulling off one side of the bed. The carpeting is just begging to be vacuumed, as is the rest of the carpeting in the house.

In the living room you will find a wide array of brightly colored toys strewn about. It's not a good place to take a stroll in the dark. The dining room table is piled with more random clutter which, much like the kitchen clutter, has no defined home. Everything in the room could used to be dusted. The two large, empty baskets which are turned on their side were once filled with the afore mentioned toys. It would probably take 4 minutes to make the dining/living room presentable, but why?

The last part of the chaotic mess is in the office. Just imagine more sticky, crumb covered surfaces; large, dark spills on the rug and futon; pretzel crumbs and salt lining the futon cushion; and more toys randomly spread across the room.

What I have just described to you, ladies and gentlemen, is what my house would look like if I were to go on a cleaning strike and left my husband to take care of the chores. Why is it that he is oblivious to filth? How is that fair? For just once in my life, I would like to be the one who cares less. But I can't bring myself to live in the inevitable squalor that would arise.

Last night I went on the kind of cleaning spree that would make Martha Stewart shed a tear of joy. As such I am proud to say that the above description of my house is far from accurate (thank god). It is not unheard of for my house to reach that state, but it's cyclical. The house gets a really good cleaning maybe once every four months. In between those power cleaning sessions, the house gets cleaned at least weekly, but less and less fanatically with each passing cleaning. By the time I reach that four month mark, "cleaning" amounts to kicking all like things into their own piles--toys in this corner, shoes in that corner, etc. Then, one night, like last night, I break down and scrub things meticulously from usually around 9 pm until 2-3 am. Each time I do that, I think to myself that if I just made sure everything was thoroughly cleaned nightly before I went to bed, I wouldn't have to spend six hours doing it all somewhere down the road. And for the first week or so, my house stays really clean. Then it all starts going to hell because it's exhausting being the only one who cares. This is why I implore of my single readers that if and when you are considering marrying someone, take a good and careful look around their humble abode. If his/her cleaning standards are not up to snuff, then ask yourself how you feel about becoming his/her personal maid til death due you part.