Move over Heidi Klum.

You must dress to impress

Last night I was preparing Brae for bed. We had just returned home from a friends house and it was rather late so I was rushing a bit.

The later he goes to bed, the less wine I can drink before passing out.

So rather than taking him from family member to family member to say good night, I tucked him in and requested that anyone wishing to bestow a goodnight kiss on him do so bedside.

Now, my mother is an extreme creature of comfort. She has this mumu that has been around longer than me that at one time was actually worn as a dress.

Which if you were given the opportunity to see this 'dress' your mind would actually boggle at that concept.

Last night was mumu night and moments after I tucked Brae into our shared bed she entered his room only to return .3 seconds later laughing hard enough to merit clenched legs.

'What in the hell?'

'Do you know what your son just said to me?!'

'Something funny?'

'He told me that, 'that dress is not allowed in my room'

' YOUR MUMU?! He doesn't want it in his room?!'
At this point my legs are now clenching.

'Yes! I asked him what he would rather I wear'

'And?'

'He said, 'uh, pajamas? like me!'

My son.

Not only does he wear princess dresses at daycare but also passes judgement on one's bedtime apparel.

It must be his fierce style. :snap:

101 ways to annoy the ever living shit out of you.

Disney should thank me.

For many years I have been a mass consumer of their ridiculously over-priced products and a pawn in their consumer filled game of parks and entertainment. I have spent hours in the Disney Store at the mall, held hostage by own son as his eyes traversed the mounds of ingenious marketing.

By my estimate, the money that I have spent on Disney DVD's has purchased another people mover for Animal Kingdom (so, you're welcome Johnson family from Missouri. It was a pleasure moving you.).

Basically, I buy a lot of Disney shit.

It's really an imaginative marketing ploy they have going now. THE VAULT. You see the commercials, 'available for a limited time only before it is locked again in the Disney vault' and an animated picture of the DVD on the screen followed by a large, stern, impenetrable vault sealing.
And you think, 'Well, shit. This movie is going to be locked up?! For how long?! Can I buy it if it's in the vault? Do the stores stop carrying it? OMG! What if my son NEEDS this movie? What if this movie is the master key to unlocking his childhood dreams?'

So, I usually buy the damn movie. Because really who am I to impede the development of my toddler's dreams?

And then I take it home and we proceed to watch it 50 bagillion times until the point at which Brae and I can recite the entire movie.

A month ago Disney was threatening to send 101 Dalmatians to THE VAULT. You think I could let that happen?

So we've been watching 101 Dalmatians at least 5 times a week for the past few weeks and frankly, I'm ready to lock that thing away anyway. I would chuck that thing in the pool if given the opportunity and the ability to see the look on my son's face when I confessed. I have neither.

and, whoa ho ho BONUS!

If you purchased the DVD at Walmart it came with a CD for your car. Because if Rodger and Anita Darling were not enough for your home entertainment, we have them in . the . car! Joy!

Brae's favorite song is one titled, "Pluto's Waltz". A mere description of this song is simply not enough. You must be subjected to it in person to revel in it's all-encompassing annoyance. I looked for a simple audio clip and could find none, yet here is the song set to a doggie montage that I discovered on You Tube (is it just me, or is You Tube filled with these eyebrow raising, 'you spent time on this?' videos)



I told you it was horrid. Now, can you imagine this on repeat for at least an hour before I threaten to chuck it out the window of my sedan? The second song on this clip is a lesser annoying song that is also on his C.D. You know, it has actual words, so I don't mind it (as much).

Yet still I continue on my quest to pad the pockets of those Disney executives, after all they put me through.

They really should thank me.

My, son. The beatnik.

Braeden is a genius. Really, there is no arguing that.
And now an apparent poet.

I present the masterpiece he brought home from school yesterday:



Ooh, lokee there. A mention of 101 Dalmatians. Crazy he thought of that, it's been all of 6 hours since his last viewing.

Inner Hulk

I may not be the worlds most approachable person.

I have a BAD habit of wearing my emotions on my face and I suck at putting on a 'happy face.' Unfortuantly, my emotions can not be strong handed back into their cushy interior and demand to breathe every once in awhile.

Or. ALL the time. Anyway,

I don't know if I consider it so much a character flaw as I do an 'early warning detection service.'

From the look on my face, it's safe to gage how much time you have to retreat before I kick your ass.

Disgruntled: >3 minutes
Moderately agitated: 1-3 minutes
Pissed: 30-60seconds
Shit-slinging MAD: Run asshole

Today I received an email from one of my co-workers. It was addressed to myself and another co-worker. In the email I was informed of my 'underlying ill-feelings' toward the sender which were apparent to her (however, not to me).

Now, I have to stop here and explain that I have no beef with this particular co-worker. Never had a problem with her, no altercations or ill words spoken between us. In fact, I rather liked this person. We had limited interaction, aside from our work contact, we both existed blissfully side-by-side in our cubicled paradise.

Which leads me to believe that she had misconstrued something I said.

So I emailed back, asking if it was something I said. Or perhaps just a general dislike to my overall attitude.

No response.

I'm not patient. So I had no problem approaching her at her desk a few hours later.

I think I was a teensy bit in a haze, but I'm pretty sure the jest of the conversation was

'So what makes you think I don't like you?'

'It more (other co-worker) than you. But since I started I just get the feeling that you don't like me.'

'Really? Is it something I said?'

'No, just a feeling'

'Hmm. Okay sorry you feel that way.'

I am a NICE PERSON DAMN IT. Really, ask my friends.

It baffles me. I have no idea what I have done or may have said to offend this particular person. There is nothing solid I can hold up to say, 'yes, okay I was a bitch, sorry about that particular moment. I'll try harder'.

Nope. Its a feeling.

So now what?

I give this chick the icky's and all of sudden it's like working encased in a glacier in this department. There are no laughs, no friendly asides or playful banter. The death stare is trying to penetrate my cubicle walls and I feel so helpless. It would be one thing if there really was a problem I had with this chick, then fine, she could hate me all she wants and jab the pointy finger of accusation my way.
But really, I had no idea that I was sending involuntary icky feelings her way.

And as an added bonus. The other co-worker whom she accused of having 'ill-feelings' towards her freaked when she read the email, assumed that we all had a problem with her, and put in her letter of resignation (Crazy behavior? Yes. But, she is a strange bird so I'll just assume that that is typical fight or flight reaction in her nut-filled world).

Anyway, so now I am walking on eggshells. Waiting. Nay, PRAYING for my transfer to my new department and hoping that the next time I cross paths with this individual my eyes are not slinging shit.

Ergo

$ = energy,
energy = exercise,
exercise = endorphins
endorphins = happiness

ergo- $ = happiness

Guess what I am short on this week?

It's just that I've had quite a few unexpected expenditures come up. Brae's trip to the doctor was a nice kick in the wallet (thank you Aetna for allowing me to continuously pay you while receiving very, very little in return. You humble me well.)

Then Dodger had a vet appointment in which he got some shots and apparently is not rabid anymore or something which I don't really know know because all I heard was, 'blah,blah,blah,blah,blah,blah,blah,blah,blahGIVEMEONEHUNDREDDOLLARS,blah,blah,blah,blah,blah,blah,blah,CUTEPUPPY,blah,blah,blah.blah,blah,blah,blah,blah,blah,blah,blah'

I'm growing increasingly more frustrated with my finances and have begun to be sloppy about things. Like actually doing my hair, or painting my toes, or shaving my pits. You know, things that need to be accomplished on a DAILY basis have now become all, 'no worries, it doesn't matter anymore because the financial drain has done whisked away my happiness and minute details are just not important anymore. Pass the fudgesicle please.'

I know. I took on a puppy knowing there would be considerable cost involved. And yes, I overlooked that because ZOMG! LOOK AT HIS PAWS!

It's not that I can't afford his vet appointments, it's just that every time I go there and pay my bill I am haunted by the vision of a vegan leather designer purse dancing before me taunting, 'that money could have been spent on me, you silly fool!'

But there are rewards to having this particular puppy. I really enjoy picking sticktights from his overgrown wiener hair and pulling my freshly worn thongs from his mouth.
What can I say? He makes me smile, that's really the only reason I keep anyone around.

Anyway, I kinda got a job offer. Kinda, because I already submitted my resume to the supervisor. I was recommended by my past supervisor to him for my superior attention to detail (read: anal retentive) and he has already let me know that I am his first choice for the position and now we are waiting for HR.

This position comes with a significant amount of responsibility and with my master negotiator skills (read: have never negotiated a salary in my life) I should be looking at a hefty salary increase.

In which case, that dancing purse will be mine.

Hell's Kitchen (bathroom, bedrooms and more)

You're not going to believe this.

Last night I came home to my family splayed around the living room wearing as little clothes as possible without being considered naked (and possibly incestuous). I sensed from the moment I opened the back door that something was wrong here, aside from the nearly naked relatives, the stale hot air had smacked me in the face the second I opened the door.

My mother pipped up confirming that which I already had surmised and subsequently sucked all of the fun out of my heart. The air conditioner, which was recently completely remodeled and ready to go for another 20 years, was on the fritz and our house was now 82 degrees. INSIDE. Oh, and you have to sleep in it tonight. Have fun!

I'm not going to tell you how unbearably similar my night was to sleeping on brimstone and ashes scrapped from the fiery depths of hell. Or how my son woke up at 3 am because he was covered in sweat and while I was desperately trying to convince him it would cool down he became aware of a throbbing sensation in his ear and was DYING. Or how I had to try and convince him that his ear was not going to fall off if he went back to sleep and DEAR GOD PLEASE GO BACK TO BED.

I'm not going to share with you how much I absolutely hated last night because I am trying to stay positive about this whole 'my house being an all-you-can-sweat neighborhood sauna'.

I called into work this morning to stay home and investigate the detachable ear. Brae and I had spent all day Sunday on a lake and there was a chance a small minnow had swum inside and was now pinging off of his eardrum causing him to believe his ear was falling . off . his . head.

By the time we returned from our doctor's appointment there was a van in our driveway and men wearing matching blue caps and angel wings.

So, they spent a good hour adjusting and tweaking our unit while Brae and I sat inside smearing ice cubes on our face. I was just starting to feel like it may be cooling off inside and envisioning a small fan at the end of our heat tunnel when everything turned black.

The power was out, which to me seemed like a really bad thing. Color me ignorant but I had a pretty good idea of what was going on when the smell of burnt circuits came wafting through the living room. Enter the a/c unit repair man:

'Hey did your power just go out?'

me pointedly glances at light, 'uh huh'.

'Well we just fired up the unit for 15 minutes and it blew your circuit breaker. The wires around the main breaker and the cables connected to your dryer are fried and there is a burn around your breaker box outside. Do you smell that?'

you mean the charred remains of my dreams?, 'uh huh'.

'Thats not generally a good smell. You're going to have to get a master electrician out here asap to inspect the wiring in this house. Until then, there is nothing we can do about fixing the a/c.'

So I cried. I mean, I waited for my false saviors to leave the house before a tear or two slipped out.

To say I am disappointed would be an understatement. And now here I sit in our residential fire hazard with a toddler in Scooby Doo underoo's and an accompanying ear infection, plotting out the best way to sneak into the grocer's main freezer without being caught because it's THAT or hijacking a plane to Alaska

and I don't like moose.

It's all literal

Last night as I prepared to leave the house I was speaking with my three year-old son about one of my hobbies- rock climbing.

Now, now. I know. I live on the west coast of Florida and the 'rock climbing' that could be accomplished here is little more than going to the local home improvement store and scaling up a few slabs of granite.

Which would be totally awesome if the surface were not so slick.

Because we lack ONE important thing necessary for rock climbing here on the west coast. Mountains.

You don't say?

So, to compensate for our perpetually horizontal terrain we have places such as these who provide a wonderful environment in which to scale the walls of rough particle board and envision yourself atop Mount Kilimanjaro. And I do, as often as I can.

Anyway.

We were talking about how mommy likes to rock climb and 'hopes to one day have rock hard biceps and beefy traps so she can whoop the ass of any child who ever picks on you' when Brae stalled mid-conversation.

Walked over to his rock collection and selected three rocks.

Placed them on the floor and asked 'how this rock climbing thing works'.

Fight Night

Today I found this in my inbox.

"Don’t make any plans on the 24th b/c bj penn is fighting sean scherk and I know you're excited for the big fight. Its at our place and I need you to work your junk comparison magic to win me them monies."

That's right, read it again, there was a reference to 'junk comparison magic' which just might be what you think it is.

Mothers

I smile when I look at you, every glance I steal is met with emotion in your eyes.



The frustration you feel when you just can't figure out how to put the cap back on your marker.

The anxiety you experience the first time you try on those new skates.

The fear in your eyes when your night light burns out at 1 am.

The happiness of digging your toes into the sand on a warm day at the beach.



The love you feel when you squeeze my hand only to have me squeeze you back.

The anger of not watching The Lion King two times in a row and your mother forcing you up off the couch.

The injustice you believe of having to pay attention when someone is speaking to you.

The warmth you feel when you are ill and I allow you all day to stay cradled in my arms.

The sillies you get when you stay up past your bedtime.



The joy of knowing someone so well that you can only glance at their eyes and know that whatever it is that you are thinking, they are thinking it too.

Although you were not planned in any sense of time, I always knew that you were right for me.

HAPPY MOTHERS DAY, to everyone.

The List

So apparently there is a list floating on a puffy white cloud somewhere out in the blogosophere.

It all started here.

And then moved to there.

And then all these wacky people started showing up here. HI WACKY PEOPLE!

And now I am challenged because I honestly have been working WAY too much these days at my job and need a nice consuming task that can slow down my work productivity.

Enter the challenge.: to visit all of the blogs on the list and leave a nice comment.

So you, go do it too.

Oowo Oowo meka a dooit Oowo

Hi. Guess what? We have a new addition to our house. Because 5 people, 1 old ass dog, 1 yappy pup and a satanical feline weren't annoying enough.

INTRODUCING: Ferby

(can I get a 'Woooit Wooit dum, ditty, dum')



thats 'Furbish' in case you are not yet hip to the lingo.

(which you will be if you spend more than .5 seconds in my house because DEAR GOD that thing does not shut his yap)

My mother in her infinite wisdom and quest to make my time spent raising this child particularly bothersome, busted out this relic last weekend.

I believe I was in my freshman year of high school when the Furby craze swept through. I can't remember if it was actually purchased for me or my little brother (we'll go with him, just to mask the potential for overwhelming lameness the first option offers) but we had one, and it was fun. Certainly no Tamagatchi, but the merits of parenting a fuzzy faux-child were much greater with the Furb.

Until the day the batteries went low.

Please tell me you remember those occurrences, when all the coo's and 'Oowo Oowo Furby like me danka Oowo Oowa's' dissolved into more of an ' Oooolabba Immmdyyying ffuurby killllll yooooo'. And suddenly, Furby wasn't so much fun. Nor was he an adorable fuzzy faux-child whose mouth I wished to stick my hand in. In fact, I was quite convinced that low battery Furby was going to scale to the top of my canopy bed and murder me with an ice pick.

Needless to say, it was a leeeeetle intimidating last night when I walked into our room and found this-



He had taken the time to stash the pick in an unknown location but I'm certain he was really up to no good.

Worry not though, I took care of it.

'Oowa Oowa Furby no like blender Ooowa Ooowa Oooooooooooooshhhhhhiiiiiitsss'

Frappe.

Disclaimer: No actual Furby's were hurt during the making of this post. Badly.

Um, that THING up there,

The header that is poo-poo brown?

I didn't do it. And I checked my settings and nothing is out of sorts there either.

So I apologize, maybe it's just Blogger's friendly reminder that my life really IS still shit.

Thank you, Blogger. I know.

You think?

I made it a personal goal last summer to teach Brae how to swim, he was after all, the son of a girl who spent practically all of high school on a competitive swim team and subsequent years working as a life guard and teaching swim lessons at a community pool.

So, early last summer I broke out the funnoodles, the kick boards and the goggles. I sat poolside and practiced the 'kick-kick-kick' and the 'reach with your arms- reach with your arms- reach with your arms'. It was going well, I could sense my son's enthusiasm growing with each inch we submerged into his chlorinated destiny.

However, all enthusiasm quickly died the moment we began to actually practice in the water.

It was, 'Cooooooold!'
and, 'Weeeeet!'
and, 'Mommy, it GOT IN MY EARS!'

Gee. Really? That's crazy, you mean water touched your ears?! Actual WATER?!

So my attempts at teaching the child to swim were de-railed and I resigned myself to another summer spent with a toddler dangling from my neck with claws of death as not to upset his ears.
I did however vow that NEXT summer. That would be the summer he would learn to swim.

I did not anticipate how quickly this summer would sneak up on me.



We spent last Saturday at the lake.

By this photo, you can pretty much gage the level of crazy excitement Brae was experiencing when I leaned over to whisper in his ear that it was time to get in the water and RED ALERT, RED ALERT THE WATER WILL TOUCH YOUR SKIN.



He did really well with the kicking and reaching.....from the shore. In the few times we attempted to practice in the water he distracted me long enough to fake a left around me and tackle me from the back, perching himself squarely on my shoulders.

But as I said, he did well and did not protest much at all. However, there was another form of protesting going on that had nothing to do with clogged eardrums.

You see, I bought these sandals from a yard sale. I know, right? BING! First clue.

Anyway, we happened upon a peddler in his driveway with his wares displayed for purchasing. As soon as I touched the sandals, the man's eyes lit up.

"How much for these?" I asked

"Oh, you can have them!" He exclaimed.

"Really? Brae come here let's see if they fit."

And what do you know, they DID!

"Well, they fit him, so how much can I give them for you?" I asked

"50 cents, although you could just have them" he replied.

Of course I could not just 'have them', I needed to pay for my driveway shoe purchase. So I handed over two quarters pleased with myself. He did need sandals for this summer and these particular sandals were cute with their Italian leather and European sizing.

I placed them on his feet minutes before leaving for the lake, admiring my steal.

Enter my 19 year old brother

"What are those?"

"Umm. What do they look like"

"They look like girlie sandals on my nephews feet"

"Noo, they are boy sandals. Or maybe they are even unisex."

"He's not wearing those"

"Yes he is"

And then minutes later my son walked into my room and announced that he no longer liked his "GLADD shoes and he would like to wear flip flops like a boy"

Yet still I resisted. I mean, 50 cents is 50 cents, right? Plus, I enjoyed them and what better time in his life than to dress him in ridiculous gender neutral items?

And although he had climbed into the car with his sandals on, arriving at our destination they were somehow transformed into a pair of black flip flops.

It appeared that someone had snuck a pair of flops into his back pocket awaiting the moment my head was turned to pull an old switcharoo.

Although I will admit that the shoes could probably swing both ways, I doubt that by wearing them my son's destiny would be sealed as such, as my brother would have you believe.

So, what do you think?

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Look what you've done

I went in to Barnes and Nobles this afternoon with every intention of spending my $25 gift card on this:



That's right. A stripper's memoir.

It's written by the same woman who wrote Juno's screenplay, thus escalating my desire to read it.

I mean, as if I even needed another reason to read the narrative of a former stripper.

I was there, perusing the shelves of the best seller's list (it HAD to be one, right?!) and searching for my desired paperback to no avail when a sudden flash of neon green caught my eye.

The flash was followed by a giggle and then a series of high-pitched squeals and the sound of two pattering feet.

Like a smarmy sailor being lured into capsizing waters by the sweet sounds of a siren, I was taken.

Befuddled, I entered the children's section of the book store and promptly blacked out.

It was only when I was turning the ignition to the car that I re-entered reality and with growing trepidation slowly opened the plastic Barnes and Noble's bag to peer in at it's contents.

Huh?

Wait......what?

What happened to THIS?!




I found that instead of my intended purchase I had blindly purchased THESE:





Well, Braeden I hope you're happy. Your telepathic means of manipulation have succeeded again.

I was duped.

Yawn

You thought I would just hit the snooze button, roll over and play dead for a couple more weeks didn't you? I know, you did. It would be typical of me to just ignore everything and everyone while I deal with complicated things far beyond my maturity.

But, hey, I'm all for proving you wrong.

So I have stepped into that proverbial shit pile that accompanies a divorce.

Ha!, and you thought you were getting off easy! Uncontested, bwahahaha. What is that?

Well, yes I mean I thought we could act like civilized adults who were once in a kind of love and produced an amazing kid and now have decided to part ways. I didn't expect any wicked thumbs-up for the MORE THAN GENEROUS settlement I offered, I just wanted an easy out. Something best for everyone involved. Right?

But you didn't get that did ya? Because you want TOO MUCH, TOO MUCH CASEY! Story of your life, you control freak.

Yes, I AM the control freak. That same control freak who has assumed ALL the roles of parenting a child by herself, including paying for the little financial suckhole (god bless him, but his daycare needs to ease up on that hole they are burning in my skirt pocket, seriously.) Kick me if I'm crazy, but I do believe that entitles me to make all decisions relating to the safety of the child I rear. Gladly.

Buut, Buut. He's another persons child too.

Yeh.

No commentary on THAT from me because although I have 'cynical' tattooed above the chard remains of my blackened divorcee heart, nothing ignites the flame within like a comment as such.

So needless to say the past few weeks have been accompanied with many tears, and curses and curses through the tears.

I've been channeling my inner Ivana Trump though so I think I'll be fine.

After all is said and done, I'm moving in with these two.

BINARY SOLO!