I was trying to update my profile on Blogger today because I thought it might be a little boring. In the end, I came up with nothing new to say, but I was highly entertained by the "Random Question" portion of the profile. They are all so stupid, but funny in the stupid way that things are funny on Thursday afternoons. Here's the Q&A!
(1) You can whistle and steam can whistle, so why do you sing in the shower?
I don't sing in the shower. If I am ever in the bathroom by myself, I enjoy the sweet, sweet silence. Most of the time while I am in the shower, I have insanely repetitive conversations with my two year old about things such as shaving, washing, draining water, and soap.
(2) The first time you had your shoes taken off - how surprised were you to see that you still had toes?
Umm . . . well, I have no direct answer to that question, since I don't remember the first time I had my shoes taken off. To my knowledge, I don't remember ever being surprised to still have a body part when said body part was removed from its covering. It's called object permanence, idiots.
(3) Describe the sound of a moist waffle falling onto a hot griddle.
First of all, a waffle does not make a sound when it falls onto a hot griddle because, if it is falling onto a hot griddle, it is not yet in the waffle stage of wafflehood. It is still waffle batter until the second after it hits the hot griddle and begins to cook. A "moist waffle" is a waffle that has too much syrup on it or that you have spilled milk on. And why would you drop an already cooked, but moist, waffle onto a hot griddle? In addition, you do not cook waffles on griddles. You cook waffles on waffle irons.
(4) Try making up the rules to a game where you tie knots in a yo-yo string just to see if you can get them out.
Rule 1 - tie knots in yo-yo string
Rule 2 - try to get knots out
Rule 3 - throw yo-yo away because you have destroyed it
The winner is the person who suggested you play different game.
(5) You get to ride the big roller coaster three times in a row. What will keep your dad from taking a bite out of your candy apple?
Most likely the fact that my father has never been to an amusement park in his life and certainly hasn't taken me to one. Plus, my father has some self-control. Now, if the question was "What will keep your dad from drinking your gin and tonic?" then we would have a problem.
(6) Foxes are clever and tigers are cunning. So, what's your cat's safety school?
People, do your research. Foxes are members of the Canidae family not the Felidae family. In other words, they are dogs, not cats. That being said, I'm pretty sure my cat doesn't belong to a safety school unless you count the "Pure Luck" School of Safety.
(7) Lionesses have no manes. How do they know when they're grown up?
One day, when they look around and find themselves surrounded by a filthy den, a shitload of hungry, dirty children, and a lion licking his balls.
(8) Your bow is not broken but you've run out of arrows? How can you fake being a bard?
Shove the bow down my pants. That's about the only way I'm going to become a bard.
(9) You forgot your mom's birthday!! What can you make out of super glue and olive pits?
Give me a minute to draw up some plans. No, seriously. I once made the Sears Tower out of sugar cubes and frosting for a school project. (That's what happens when you don't tell your mom until Sunday night that you have a project due on Monday morning.) But, some kid in my class ate parts of it during the school day and it fell over. Plus, we didn't have enough food coloring to dye it black, so it was pretty lame.
(10) What's the best time you've ever had licking stamps?
Wouldn't you like to know.
(11) If you could peer far enough into the night sky, you'd see a star in any direction you looked. When would you sleep?
When the high wore off.
(12) You have to dig a hole to China, where to you start?
Here.
(13) When you hesitate before hitting snooze on your alarm clock, are you being lazy?
Well, since my alarm clock is my 18-month old son, I think hitting him would constitute child abuse. However, I have been known to stumble into his room when he wakes up and grumble, "GO BACK TO SLEEP" in my meanest mommy voice. That usually scares him into another 15 minutes of silence.
So, lazy? No. I have to walk across the hall to say it!
(14) You've written a hit musical! How will you avoid having fame go to your head?
I think there are lots of people willing to help me with that. And, seriously . . . it's a hit musical. How long could the fame last?
(15) The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig.
Oh, you don't want to hear that story. That was one of the worst dates of my life. But, boy, was he good in bed.
(16) You're trapped in a well with a goat and a slinky. Describe how you will escape.
No. Some things are just too personal to reveal.
(17) If you were a pirate, how would you avoid laughing when saying poop deck?
First, why avoid it?
Second, I laugh now when I say poop deck.
(18) Your hand has been replaced by a rubber stamp. What does it say?
Of course, I assume it would be a Captain Hook type hand replacement so I could have multiple rubber stamp options. My rubber stamps would say:
DENIED
TOP SECRET
FRIVOLOUS BULLSHIT
RETURN TO SENDER
and
YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT. PLEASE USE IT.
(19) Whoops! Your tongue is now a magnet. Whatever will you use for silverware?
Duh. Plastic.
Or solid gold.
(20) Your superpower is that you smell like dandelions whenever someone lies. How will you maintain your secret identity?
Well . . . I'd definitely have to find another profession. The smell would be overwhelming.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Expanding Their Palates
Recently I realized that I had fallen into a food routine with my kids. We have pretty much the same foods week to week and I find it pretty boring. Most of these foods were everyday kid-friendly dinner foods like pasta, roast chicken, mac & cheese, ravioli, pizza, and pot roast. Even our fruits and vegetables were always the same: green beans, peas, carrots, bananas, pears, apples, grapes, and oranges. I think it was winter that was bringing me down . . . that and having two kids under three who weren't far from the baby food scene.So, I decided to start expanding their palates. Every couple of days or so, I replace one of our ho-hum foods with something more exciting. Since the opening of the Riverfront Market, I have picked whatever is local and looks good. Admittedly, I have had limited success. But I am determined NOT to raise picky eaters. I believe that if you are open to trying new foods (no one says you have to like new foods, just try them), then you are much more likely to be open to new ideas, people, or experiences in general.
This being said, my kids do have some odd food preferences. My son hates bananas. He has never liked them, even as a baby food. He also isn't really fond of grapes, even if I cut them in half. My daughter doesn't like oranges and acts as if her life is ending if I put them on her plate. They are both good vegetable eaters, if you only count green beans, peas, and carrots as vegetables. They are both extremely fond of meat.
But here's the weird part. Neither one of them will eat cheese, with the exception of Kraft Mac & Cheese and McDonald's Cheeseburgers (which I don't think really count as cheese.) No cheese, ever. Not string cheese, not American cheese, not cheddar cheese, not colby. I thought maybe the problem was they didn't like cheap cheese. (This is not so weird, both of them prefer the soy chicken nuggets to real chicken nuggets.) So, I bought havarti, gouda, swiss, and fresh mozzarella. Nope. They just don't like cheese. Weird.
Anyway, in the last few months, we have tried kiwi, grape tomatoes, mango, fresh pineapple, cucumber, honeydew, real strawberries (farmer's market, not store-bought), necatrines, avocado, fresh corn-on-the-cob, lima beans, radishes, bell peppers, asparagus, kohlrabi, jicama, and yams. Some were successful - we are big fans of most fruits, bell peppers, grilled asparagus, jicama, and corn-on-the-cob. Some were not so great - no one would touch lima beans (my personal favorite vegetable) or radishes (that was a little too much, I admit).
I think I was a little over-zealous last night, though. Along with our favorite ravioli, I served Asian pears and swiss chard. The Asian pears were a little too woody, so I don't blame them for not finishing them. The swiss chard was very yummy but too much for an 18 month old and an almost-three-year old.
My daughter did actually eat some of it, however, mostly because the rule is that, if you want dessert, you must eat some of everything on your plate. Her facial expressions were priceless, but . . . she swallowed it and got her marshmallows for dessert. I think I won't punish them further tonight . . . just green beans and pears and mac & cheese.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Get a Life
Recently, in a telephone conversation with my father, he and I were discussing my troubles and trials with my kids. At some point he said, "Wouldn't you like to focus more on your social life . . . I mean, you spend so much time doing kid things . . . wouldn't you like to have more of a social life?"
Now, that may sound kind of harsh, but that's my dad's way of telling me he loves me and wants me to be happy. He knows I have a good social life (that doesn't just involve kids) and he really isn't telling me to get a life. How do I know, you ask? Well, this is how the message is to be decoded:
social life = boyfriend/husband
Try as he might to be a forward-thinking liberal renaissance man, the fact of the matter is that my father was born in 1940. Some of those traditional ideals about marriage, family, and children are still present in the back of his brain. He "gets" me in the broad sense of the word. He understands that happiness is not always traditional and that I am simply making my own happiness. He has several life-long friends who have not lived traditional lives for various reasons and he gets that they are happy with the lives they chose to live.
But his understanding of the broader world becomes somewhat hazy when he thinks of my life, his only daughter's life. He wants everything for me and, to him, everything includes a husband. His life followed the traditional path of educated professionals: college, marriage, graduate school, kids, career advancement, older kids, career advancement, college kids, top of career, fulfilling adult life with adult children, grandchildren.
When he is being objective, he gets that my path is simply getting it done in a different order. Marriage is kind of floating above the swirl of the rest of my life, waiting I hope, for when it is the right time. I did everything else in the right order, at the right time, I just didn't get married as expected. Sure, I had the opportunity and chose not to take it, but I shudder when I think of the result of my near-marriage. Notice there is no "divorce" step in my father's perfect life timeline? Well, that's where I would have ended up if I had gotten married when asked.
The truth of the matter is . . . I can get married anytime. Age, income, life-experience, or intelligence are not prerequisites to marriage (maybe they should be, but that is another post). On the other hand, there are prerequisites to the other things on the list. I couldn't wait forever to be a mother. I couldn't sit around picking my nose unemployed. So, I took charge of my life.
But I can't exactly do that on the marriage front. I can't just go to the yellow pages and look up "Husband," make the call and pay the shipping and handling. I can't apply for admittance to the Husband program at three different schools. If I wanted to get married simply for the sake of being married, I would have married the guy who asked.
I have a life. My dad knows I have a life. But that doesn't mean he can't hope for more. And the same is true for me.
Now, that may sound kind of harsh, but that's my dad's way of telling me he loves me and wants me to be happy. He knows I have a good social life (that doesn't just involve kids) and he really isn't telling me to get a life. How do I know, you ask? Well, this is how the message is to be decoded:
social life = boyfriend/husband
Try as he might to be a forward-thinking liberal renaissance man, the fact of the matter is that my father was born in 1940. Some of those traditional ideals about marriage, family, and children are still present in the back of his brain. He "gets" me in the broad sense of the word. He understands that happiness is not always traditional and that I am simply making my own happiness. He has several life-long friends who have not lived traditional lives for various reasons and he gets that they are happy with the lives they chose to live.
But his understanding of the broader world becomes somewhat hazy when he thinks of my life, his only daughter's life. He wants everything for me and, to him, everything includes a husband. His life followed the traditional path of educated professionals: college, marriage, graduate school, kids, career advancement, older kids, career advancement, college kids, top of career, fulfilling adult life with adult children, grandchildren.
When he is being objective, he gets that my path is simply getting it done in a different order. Marriage is kind of floating above the swirl of the rest of my life, waiting I hope, for when it is the right time. I did everything else in the right order, at the right time, I just didn't get married as expected. Sure, I had the opportunity and chose not to take it, but I shudder when I think of the result of my near-marriage. Notice there is no "divorce" step in my father's perfect life timeline? Well, that's where I would have ended up if I had gotten married when asked.
The truth of the matter is . . . I can get married anytime. Age, income, life-experience, or intelligence are not prerequisites to marriage (maybe they should be, but that is another post). On the other hand, there are prerequisites to the other things on the list. I couldn't wait forever to be a mother. I couldn't sit around picking my nose unemployed. So, I took charge of my life.
But I can't exactly do that on the marriage front. I can't just go to the yellow pages and look up "Husband," make the call and pay the shipping and handling. I can't apply for admittance to the Husband program at three different schools. If I wanted to get married simply for the sake of being married, I would have married the guy who asked.
I have a life. My dad knows I have a life. But that doesn't mean he can't hope for more. And the same is true for me.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
She's Saving Up for that Hummer
Me: What you are going to buy with the money in your piggy bank?
Daughter: More money!
Daughter: More money!
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Trifecta of Crap (Part Three)
Hair Disaster
It may come as a shock to you that I dye my hair by myself at home using a kit I purchase at Target every six weeks or so. I have been doing it off and on for about 15 years. I actually try to get it only one or two shades lighter than my true blonde color and give it some highlights. I have a good friend who is horrified by the fact that I color my own hair and didn’t believe me when I told her the first time. I think she is just horrified because she likes my hair and pays $350 at Vidal Sasson to have hers done every two months.
Most of the time, I have very good luck with coloring my hair by myself. I have never had an outright disaster, like green or orange hair, although one time my hair did get a lot blonder than I ever wanted. Since that time, I am careful to purchase a mid-range blonde rather than anything lighter to save myself from the bleached look.
So, this weekend, I purchased some hair color - a nice medium ash blonde, the box said. My ass, nice medium ash blonde. On Sunday, during the kids’ naptime, I went into the bathroom and mixed the solution and put it on my hair. Because the dye has to sit for 20-25 minutes, I decided to make good use of my time by investigating and unclogging the bathroom sink, which had been draining slowly for the last two weeks. For the whole 20 minutes, I was under the sink with my hair covered with goop fixing the sink so I did not have occasion to glance in the mirror.
The timer went off and I stood up and looked in the mirror. And screamed, "Holy Shit!" The dye covering my hair was black and purple. Now, I know that the actual color of hair dye has little effect on the ultimate shade your hair becomes, so I wasn’t so worried. I was a little worried because I thought it was odd for blonde dye to be black, but whatever.
I stepped into the shower and rinsed out the dye and conditioned it. I looked at the color again when I got out. Kinda dark, I thought, but it still wasn’t dry, so I thought it would lighten when I dried it. Nope. Granted, it wasn’t black, it is more of a dark, dark dishwater blonde, but it is disgusting. It almost has no color, it is that boring. It may be close to light brown, but with no highlights or anything pretty about it. I kept shaking it to see if the color would improve with different light. Nope. It was horrible. Very, very, very bad. All I could do was stare at myself in the mirror and fight back tears.
I am not terribly vain about my hair, or so I thought, but I really liked the color of it and I like being a blonde . . . a real blonde, not a dishwater blonde. I learned while staring at myself in the mirror on Sunday that a lot of my physical identity is tied to the color of my hair. I really don’t know the person in the mirror anymore and I feel incredibly self-conscious about my hair.
I tried various fixes for it all night Sunday and even considered calling in sick to work on Monday to have it professionally fixed. In the end, I decided that would be a waste of time and money. It’s not that bad, after all, right? And chemically fixing it may have even worse consequences. So, I purchased some blonde highlighting shampoo and conditioner and will try to dye it again in a few weeks. I will only be the color of a puddle for a few weeks, right?
It is now a few days later, I guess I am used to it (by that I mean I don't want to cry every time I look in a mirror) but I still hate it. So far, the only person who has really noticed is my daughter who said, "Your hair not yellow anymore, Mama?" No one at work said anything, but they are all men who might not notice if I was bald. Or maybe they are just too scared to say anything about it. I probably have a really evil look on my face anyway. I am sure my dad will notice when they come next weekend, but other than that, the tidal wave of horrified expressions I was expecting hasn’t really happened.
I am sure I should just stop obsessing about my hair. After all, there are far worse things in the world. But I really didn’t need this crap on top of everything else this week. Seriously . . . couldn’t just one thing go right this week?
It may come as a shock to you that I dye my hair by myself at home using a kit I purchase at Target every six weeks or so. I have been doing it off and on for about 15 years. I actually try to get it only one or two shades lighter than my true blonde color and give it some highlights. I have a good friend who is horrified by the fact that I color my own hair and didn’t believe me when I told her the first time. I think she is just horrified because she likes my hair and pays $350 at Vidal Sasson to have hers done every two months.
Most of the time, I have very good luck with coloring my hair by myself. I have never had an outright disaster, like green or orange hair, although one time my hair did get a lot blonder than I ever wanted. Since that time, I am careful to purchase a mid-range blonde rather than anything lighter to save myself from the bleached look.
So, this weekend, I purchased some hair color - a nice medium ash blonde, the box said. My ass, nice medium ash blonde. On Sunday, during the kids’ naptime, I went into the bathroom and mixed the solution and put it on my hair. Because the dye has to sit for 20-25 minutes, I decided to make good use of my time by investigating and unclogging the bathroom sink, which had been draining slowly for the last two weeks. For the whole 20 minutes, I was under the sink with my hair covered with goop fixing the sink so I did not have occasion to glance in the mirror.
The timer went off and I stood up and looked in the mirror. And screamed, "Holy Shit!" The dye covering my hair was black and purple. Now, I know that the actual color of hair dye has little effect on the ultimate shade your hair becomes, so I wasn’t so worried. I was a little worried because I thought it was odd for blonde dye to be black, but whatever.
I stepped into the shower and rinsed out the dye and conditioned it. I looked at the color again when I got out. Kinda dark, I thought, but it still wasn’t dry, so I thought it would lighten when I dried it. Nope. Granted, it wasn’t black, it is more of a dark, dark dishwater blonde, but it is disgusting. It almost has no color, it is that boring. It may be close to light brown, but with no highlights or anything pretty about it. I kept shaking it to see if the color would improve with different light. Nope. It was horrible. Very, very, very bad. All I could do was stare at myself in the mirror and fight back tears.
I am not terribly vain about my hair, or so I thought, but I really liked the color of it and I like being a blonde . . . a real blonde, not a dishwater blonde. I learned while staring at myself in the mirror on Sunday that a lot of my physical identity is tied to the color of my hair. I really don’t know the person in the mirror anymore and I feel incredibly self-conscious about my hair.
I tried various fixes for it all night Sunday and even considered calling in sick to work on Monday to have it professionally fixed. In the end, I decided that would be a waste of time and money. It’s not that bad, after all, right? And chemically fixing it may have even worse consequences. So, I purchased some blonde highlighting shampoo and conditioner and will try to dye it again in a few weeks. I will only be the color of a puddle for a few weeks, right?
It is now a few days later, I guess I am used to it (by that I mean I don't want to cry every time I look in a mirror) but I still hate it. So far, the only person who has really noticed is my daughter who said, "Your hair not yellow anymore, Mama?" No one at work said anything, but they are all men who might not notice if I was bald. Or maybe they are just too scared to say anything about it. I probably have a really evil look on my face anyway. I am sure my dad will notice when they come next weekend, but other than that, the tidal wave of horrified expressions I was expecting hasn’t really happened.
I am sure I should just stop obsessing about my hair. After all, there are far worse things in the world. But I really didn’t need this crap on top of everything else this week. Seriously . . . couldn’t just one thing go right this week?
Trifecta of Crap (Part Two)
Contacts Conspiracy
A little background is needed for this rant. I have been wearing glasses or contacts since I was in the second grade; in other words, almost 30 years. I have been wearing contacts for the last 20 years. I have spectacularly bad eyes, something I blame on bad genetics (everyone in my family has bad eyes and wears glasses - grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, brother, etc., etc.) My eyes are so bad that I really cannot function unless I have contacts in or glasses on.
Anyway, I have never had much of a problem wearing contacts. I can't stand glasses - they get dirty, they slip on my nose, they irritate my skin, kids can rip them off your face, the dog eats them in the night . . . . you know. Consequently, I wear my contacts almost exclusively, although I take them out to sleep. Over the years, the type and brand of contacts has changed multiple times. Every time, I simply wear the new contacts and notice no difference.
For the last 8 years or so, I have been wearing the same type and brand of contacts. For some unknown reason, the company that makes them has decided to discontinue this type of contacts and claim they have made a better replacement version.
What-the-fuck-ever. Better, my ass. By better, they mean more expensive to the consumer and probably cheaper to make. And they also mean - fucks up your eyes.
I had my annual eye exam in April and was told my contacts had been discontinued. The doctor ordered the "better" version. I tried them. They hurt my eyes instantly. I was assured that stinging was just the solution they were stored in and, when it wore off, they would be fine.
Wrong.
I wore them for a week and could always feel them in my eyes. They never sat right on my eyeball, causing me to blink all the time to straighten them so I could see.
So I went back and got a different brand's trial pair. They also sucked. They were slightly better than the last ones but still uncomfortable. Plus, they were so thin on one axis that they kept folding up like burritos and sticking to themselves. And then another pair - even worse. And this pair is giving me headaches, which makes me oh-so-fun to be around, particularly considering the other shit I am dealing with right now.
I just got off the phone with the eye doctor's office. They want me to come in yet again for another consult. What the fuck for? Basically, I get the routine. They order another kind of contacts, I come in and put them on, I say they are uncomfortable, they tell me to try them for a few days, they hurt for that few days, I call and say they hurt, they tell me they will order another pair, and on and on. But now they are telling me I have to come in to "discuss" my problems. I fucking told him my problems when I was there last week! They hurt, they won't stay put, I can't focus without blinking, it feels like I have a sliver of hard plastic in my eyes.
Bottom line, I can't see. Why do I have to come in to explain this before you order me another sample pair? Because the only thing this is going to accomplish is me getting pissed off and you ordering me yet another pair of sample contacts! Why can't we all save some time and energy (and gas, I might add) and you can order every possible type of sample contacts for me. I take them home, I try them out for a few days each time, I take copious notes, and then I call you and tell you which ones actually work.
Then they say because it is "just like any doctor, he wants to see you wearing them to assess how they fit." Here's a fucking clue - if they hurt or I can't see, they don't fit. I move on to the next one. It's not like prescription medication. It's simple - if I can't see, they aren't working and I take them out of my eyes. I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to leave them in my eyes if they don't fit.
Then they say that, "Sometimes people just can't wear contacts . . . they just don't work for them." OK, maybe 20 years ago that was true when there weren't 5000 brands of contacts on the market. Now, I don't buy it, especially since it was a mere two months ago that I was happily wearing contacts with no problems what-so-ever. Nothing happened to my eyes in the last two months except for the stress of being fucked with over and over again.
My answer to the though that some people "just can't wear contacts"? "I don't think so." The woman laughed at me. I said, "I'm sorry you find that funny but I will wear contacts. If you can't find me some that work, I will find someone who can."
Against my will, I scheduled an appointment for later this afternoon . . . because what was my choice, really? I can't wear glasses, I can't concentrate at work without taking four Advils for the headache pain. I'm constantly blinking at people so I am sure that everyone thinks I am being really flirty or that I have an eye tick.
We will see what happens.
A little background is needed for this rant. I have been wearing glasses or contacts since I was in the second grade; in other words, almost 30 years. I have been wearing contacts for the last 20 years. I have spectacularly bad eyes, something I blame on bad genetics (everyone in my family has bad eyes and wears glasses - grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, brother, etc., etc.) My eyes are so bad that I really cannot function unless I have contacts in or glasses on.
Anyway, I have never had much of a problem wearing contacts. I can't stand glasses - they get dirty, they slip on my nose, they irritate my skin, kids can rip them off your face, the dog eats them in the night . . . . you know. Consequently, I wear my contacts almost exclusively, although I take them out to sleep. Over the years, the type and brand of contacts has changed multiple times. Every time, I simply wear the new contacts and notice no difference.
For the last 8 years or so, I have been wearing the same type and brand of contacts. For some unknown reason, the company that makes them has decided to discontinue this type of contacts and claim they have made a better replacement version.
What-the-fuck-ever. Better, my ass. By better, they mean more expensive to the consumer and probably cheaper to make. And they also mean - fucks up your eyes.
I had my annual eye exam in April and was told my contacts had been discontinued. The doctor ordered the "better" version. I tried them. They hurt my eyes instantly. I was assured that stinging was just the solution they were stored in and, when it wore off, they would be fine.
Wrong.
I wore them for a week and could always feel them in my eyes. They never sat right on my eyeball, causing me to blink all the time to straighten them so I could see.
So I went back and got a different brand's trial pair. They also sucked. They were slightly better than the last ones but still uncomfortable. Plus, they were so thin on one axis that they kept folding up like burritos and sticking to themselves. And then another pair - even worse. And this pair is giving me headaches, which makes me oh-so-fun to be around, particularly considering the other shit I am dealing with right now.
I just got off the phone with the eye doctor's office. They want me to come in yet again for another consult. What the fuck for? Basically, I get the routine. They order another kind of contacts, I come in and put them on, I say they are uncomfortable, they tell me to try them for a few days, they hurt for that few days, I call and say they hurt, they tell me they will order another pair, and on and on. But now they are telling me I have to come in to "discuss" my problems. I fucking told him my problems when I was there last week! They hurt, they won't stay put, I can't focus without blinking, it feels like I have a sliver of hard plastic in my eyes.
Bottom line, I can't see. Why do I have to come in to explain this before you order me another sample pair? Because the only thing this is going to accomplish is me getting pissed off and you ordering me yet another pair of sample contacts! Why can't we all save some time and energy (and gas, I might add) and you can order every possible type of sample contacts for me. I take them home, I try them out for a few days each time, I take copious notes, and then I call you and tell you which ones actually work.
Then they say because it is "just like any doctor, he wants to see you wearing them to assess how they fit." Here's a fucking clue - if they hurt or I can't see, they don't fit. I move on to the next one. It's not like prescription medication. It's simple - if I can't see, they aren't working and I take them out of my eyes. I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to leave them in my eyes if they don't fit.
Then they say that, "Sometimes people just can't wear contacts . . . they just don't work for them." OK, maybe 20 years ago that was true when there weren't 5000 brands of contacts on the market. Now, I don't buy it, especially since it was a mere two months ago that I was happily wearing contacts with no problems what-so-ever. Nothing happened to my eyes in the last two months except for the stress of being fucked with over and over again.
My answer to the though that some people "just can't wear contacts"? "I don't think so." The woman laughed at me. I said, "I'm sorry you find that funny but I will wear contacts. If you can't find me some that work, I will find someone who can."
Against my will, I scheduled an appointment for later this afternoon . . . because what was my choice, really? I can't wear glasses, I can't concentrate at work without taking four Advils for the headache pain. I'm constantly blinking at people so I am sure that everyone thinks I am being really flirty or that I have an eye tick.
We will see what happens.
Trifecta of Crap (Part One)
The past week has had some spectacularly bad moments (although, I must admit that I have had worse weeks in the recent past). So bad, in fact, that I found it necessary to write three separate posts about how crappy these things really were. This is the first. *Warning - this post contains many more swear words than I usually employ in one post.
The Kitchen
Actually, this wasn’t really one moment in particular, rather it has been going on for several weeks, but the whole thing self-imploded last week. As I have previously discussed, my dishwasher stopped working. Happy to stimulate the economy, I purchased another one and crossed my fingers, hoping the jackass who lived in my house before had not totally fucked up the kitchen by putting the floor in after the dishwasher. Well, he did totally fuck it up - but not in the way I was expecting.
The problem with the dishwasher was not the floor or the height of the hole, it was the width. Apparently, the asshole who lived in my house thought it was perfectly acceptable to install a dishwasher in a space where a dishwasher doesn’t really fit. In order to do this, the asshole needed to carve out part of the floor and cut various dents into the existing cabinet. He also needed to cut off most of the dishwasher’s insulation to shove it into the hole where it clearly does not fit. Well, fast forward to me wanting to properly install a dishwasher. Can’t be done, says the installer, pointing out the various fuck-ups of the last owner.
Short story - the cabinet next to the dishwasher needs to be rebuilt.
However, rebuilding that cabinet affects the whole countertop/sink area creating the real possibility that the whole thing would need to be replaced. So, I figured that since I was going to be creating utter chaos in my kitchen anyway, I would look into replacing all of the cabinets. It turned out that I could easily replace (and add to) the cabinets and fix other things in the kitchen for under $10,000. Impressed by the prospective beauty (and value) of a new kitchen, I was so excited, but of course, didn’t have $10,000 sitting around to spend.
So, I went to my beloved bank and applied for a home equity loan or line of credit. Within a week, the bank called and said I had been approved for a $10,000 home equity loan. Yippee!! Plans were drawn up, estimates made, people consulted. Now I just had to wait for my money.
And wait and wait and wait.
Finally, last week, the bank called again. Sorry, they said. Our loan policies have changed because of the bad loan market and you no longer qualify for a loan. What?!?!? Apparently, during the month I was waiting, the bank decided that the minimum amount of money they would approve for a home equity loan would be $25,000. But I don’t need $25,000!!!! I just wanted the stinking $10,000, and really, I could have done it with $8,000. But nooooooooo . . . .
Fucking economy. Fucking president of the United States and fuckers who have taken this country into the shitter. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What kind of system is it where a person who makes a fairly good living (in a job that is absolutely repression proof, in fact, my job gets busier when the economy sucks), has been working at that job for 8 years, owned her home for 6 years, has always paid her bills on time, and has excellent credit can’t get a freaking loan for $10K?
Now I am back to fucking square one and trying to find some person to rebuild one fucking cabinet in my sinkhole of a kitchen.
Goddamn it.
And the worst thing? I fucking HATE doing dishes by hand.
The Kitchen
Actually, this wasn’t really one moment in particular, rather it has been going on for several weeks, but the whole thing self-imploded last week. As I have previously discussed, my dishwasher stopped working. Happy to stimulate the economy, I purchased another one and crossed my fingers, hoping the jackass who lived in my house before had not totally fucked up the kitchen by putting the floor in after the dishwasher. Well, he did totally fuck it up - but not in the way I was expecting.
The problem with the dishwasher was not the floor or the height of the hole, it was the width. Apparently, the asshole who lived in my house thought it was perfectly acceptable to install a dishwasher in a space where a dishwasher doesn’t really fit. In order to do this, the asshole needed to carve out part of the floor and cut various dents into the existing cabinet. He also needed to cut off most of the dishwasher’s insulation to shove it into the hole where it clearly does not fit. Well, fast forward to me wanting to properly install a dishwasher. Can’t be done, says the installer, pointing out the various fuck-ups of the last owner.
Short story - the cabinet next to the dishwasher needs to be rebuilt.
However, rebuilding that cabinet affects the whole countertop/sink area creating the real possibility that the whole thing would need to be replaced. So, I figured that since I was going to be creating utter chaos in my kitchen anyway, I would look into replacing all of the cabinets. It turned out that I could easily replace (and add to) the cabinets and fix other things in the kitchen for under $10,000. Impressed by the prospective beauty (and value) of a new kitchen, I was so excited, but of course, didn’t have $10,000 sitting around to spend.
So, I went to my beloved bank and applied for a home equity loan or line of credit. Within a week, the bank called and said I had been approved for a $10,000 home equity loan. Yippee!! Plans were drawn up, estimates made, people consulted. Now I just had to wait for my money.
And wait and wait and wait.
Finally, last week, the bank called again. Sorry, they said. Our loan policies have changed because of the bad loan market and you no longer qualify for a loan. What?!?!? Apparently, during the month I was waiting, the bank decided that the minimum amount of money they would approve for a home equity loan would be $25,000. But I don’t need $25,000!!!! I just wanted the stinking $10,000, and really, I could have done it with $8,000. But nooooooooo . . . .
Fucking economy. Fucking president of the United States and fuckers who have taken this country into the shitter. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What kind of system is it where a person who makes a fairly good living (in a job that is absolutely repression proof, in fact, my job gets busier when the economy sucks), has been working at that job for 8 years, owned her home for 6 years, has always paid her bills on time, and has excellent credit can’t get a freaking loan for $10K?
Now I am back to fucking square one and trying to find some person to rebuild one fucking cabinet in my sinkhole of a kitchen.
Goddamn it.
And the worst thing? I fucking HATE doing dishes by hand.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Bubble Got Back
One of the rules in my house is that bubbles can only be blown in the bathtub or outside. If you think that makes me a kill-joy, please consider how slippery and sticky bubble soap makes hardwood and ceramic tile floors. I haven't got time for that kind of mess. I have enough mess made through allowed activities in my house.
Anyway, every time the kids take a bath, I sit next to the tub and blow bubbles. Bubbles entertain children for hours and they love getting and popping them in the bathtub. And, no one gets messy because you can just wash it off! (Believe me, I have considered letting them eat in the bathtub but there isn't enough room. Plus, it's probably not that sanitary.)
Last night during their bath, I blew a really big bubble. The kids were astounded and amazed. They gasped in delight. My daughter said, "I like BIG bubbles!!" She said it in such a way, it came out like Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back" when he says, "I like big butts and I cannot lie . . . ." So, I started singing "Baby Got Back" but stopped when I realized the words were really inappropriate on so many levels. But they giggled (probably from watching this very white mommy try to rap . . . I admit, it was kinda sad.) But they enjoyed it, so I changed the words to the song to make it more kid-friendly. Here it is:
I like big bubbles and I cannot lie
You other brothers can't deny
That when a bubble blows in with no itty bitty waist
And a round thing in your face
You get fun, wanna pop out your tongue
'Cause you notice that bubble was stuffed
High in the air it’s flying
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring
Oh baby, I wanna get it with you
And take its picture
My homeboys tried to warn me
But that bubble I see makes me so happy
I think there is some merit to the idea that something happens to your brain when you become a parent. If this wasn't so funny, I might be embarrassed for myself. But, I've had a shitty week and I needed the laugh and . . . there it is.
Anyway, every time the kids take a bath, I sit next to the tub and blow bubbles. Bubbles entertain children for hours and they love getting and popping them in the bathtub. And, no one gets messy because you can just wash it off! (Believe me, I have considered letting them eat in the bathtub but there isn't enough room. Plus, it's probably not that sanitary.)
Last night during their bath, I blew a really big bubble. The kids were astounded and amazed. They gasped in delight. My daughter said, "I like BIG bubbles!!" She said it in such a way, it came out like Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back" when he says, "I like big butts and I cannot lie . . . ." So, I started singing "Baby Got Back" but stopped when I realized the words were really inappropriate on so many levels. But they giggled (probably from watching this very white mommy try to rap . . . I admit, it was kinda sad.) But they enjoyed it, so I changed the words to the song to make it more kid-friendly. Here it is:
I like big bubbles and I cannot lie
You other brothers can't deny
That when a bubble blows in with no itty bitty waist
And a round thing in your face
You get fun, wanna pop out your tongue
'Cause you notice that bubble was stuffed
High in the air it’s flying
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring
Oh baby, I wanna get it with you
And take its picture
My homeboys tried to warn me
But that bubble I see makes me so happy
I think there is some merit to the idea that something happens to your brain when you become a parent. If this wasn't so funny, I might be embarrassed for myself. But, I've had a shitty week and I needed the laugh and . . . there it is.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Push Your Own Damn Elevator Button
Message to the ladies who shared the elevator with me after lunch today.
Just because you are old (and really, not that old ladies . . . you were both about 60 . . . seriously), does not mean you are entitled to have your elevator buttons pushed for you. Does making it "over the hill" allow you to boss younger people around on a whim? I think not.
Here's what happened. After lunch, I returned to my office building. I waited for a few moments for the elevator with two older women. The elevator arrived and I stepped in, pushed my floor button and stepped to the back of the elevator. The two ladies, who were in the middle of a conversation they started while meandering back to their office, slowly made their way into the elevator. They firmly planted themselves next to me at the back of the elevator without pushing their floor button.
The doors closed and the elevator began moving. I know these women do not work on my floor and wondered silently whether they were going to remember where they were and where they were going. Not my problem, I thought. I have enough crazy in my life without worrying about the mysterious workings of the semi-senile.
All of a sudden, one lady popped up with, "OH! Could you push 9 for us?"
Are you kidding me? Are your arms broken? What makes you think you deserve to tell other people to push your elevator buttons - your advanced age? Reaching the ripe old age of 60 might entitle you to retirement in some professions, a free meal in some restaurants, and discounted movie tickets, but it does not entitle you to order other adults to perform menial tasks for you at the drop of a hat.
But I didn't say any of this (not because I was overtaken by niceness but because I work in the same building with these women and future awkward moments on the elevators should be averted) and just stepped forward and pushed 9. I must have rolled my eyes a little bit or looked slightly put-out because the two old ladies giggled and said, rather lamely, "Oh, I guess we could have pushed it ourselves."
This bothered me almost as much as the men (mostly older men) who get onto an elevator first and block the buttons from women and ask each one "Which floor?" Seriously, I can push my own god damn elevator buttons. Just because I have a vagina does not mean I am incapable of pushing the button that takes me to my office. Where I work. As a professional. (The office/work/professional thing is what these guys can't wrap their 1962 minds around.) I mean, after all, I did manage to get myself dressed this morning and drive that fancy automobile to the new-fangled parking lot. How incompetent could I be?
Some of the chivalrous things left over from decades ago really irk me. Here is a message to all men. If you get to the door first, hold it open for me. Just like I will hold it open for you if I get there first. But really, you don't have to walk on the outside of the sidewalk to protect me from the traffic. You don't have to open the car door for me. And don't offer to carry my suitcase for me. I packed the thing, let me carry it. And really, don't offer me your coat. I should have remembered to wear one. Or maybe I might just be comfortable without a coat. And never, ever offer to pump gas for me.
There are exceptions, of course. (This is the part that drives men crazy). Perhaps my arms are broken. Then pushing the buttons or opening the car door or pumping gas is a really nice thing to do. Or perhaps I am carrying two children and all of their crap and can't quite get my suitcase with the one free pinky finger I have. Or perhaps I brought a coat but one of those children peed on it. Then it might be OK to offer me your coat.
It's just that simple . . . .
Just because you are old (and really, not that old ladies . . . you were both about 60 . . . seriously), does not mean you are entitled to have your elevator buttons pushed for you. Does making it "over the hill" allow you to boss younger people around on a whim? I think not.
Here's what happened. After lunch, I returned to my office building. I waited for a few moments for the elevator with two older women. The elevator arrived and I stepped in, pushed my floor button and stepped to the back of the elevator. The two ladies, who were in the middle of a conversation they started while meandering back to their office, slowly made their way into the elevator. They firmly planted themselves next to me at the back of the elevator without pushing their floor button.
The doors closed and the elevator began moving. I know these women do not work on my floor and wondered silently whether they were going to remember where they were and where they were going. Not my problem, I thought. I have enough crazy in my life without worrying about the mysterious workings of the semi-senile.
All of a sudden, one lady popped up with, "OH! Could you push 9 for us?"
Are you kidding me? Are your arms broken? What makes you think you deserve to tell other people to push your elevator buttons - your advanced age? Reaching the ripe old age of 60 might entitle you to retirement in some professions, a free meal in some restaurants, and discounted movie tickets, but it does not entitle you to order other adults to perform menial tasks for you at the drop of a hat.
But I didn't say any of this (not because I was overtaken by niceness but because I work in the same building with these women and future awkward moments on the elevators should be averted) and just stepped forward and pushed 9. I must have rolled my eyes a little bit or looked slightly put-out because the two old ladies giggled and said, rather lamely, "Oh, I guess we could have pushed it ourselves."
This bothered me almost as much as the men (mostly older men) who get onto an elevator first and block the buttons from women and ask each one "Which floor?" Seriously, I can push my own god damn elevator buttons. Just because I have a vagina does not mean I am incapable of pushing the button that takes me to my office. Where I work. As a professional. (The office/work/professional thing is what these guys can't wrap their 1962 minds around.) I mean, after all, I did manage to get myself dressed this morning and drive that fancy automobile to the new-fangled parking lot. How incompetent could I be?
Some of the chivalrous things left over from decades ago really irk me. Here is a message to all men. If you get to the door first, hold it open for me. Just like I will hold it open for you if I get there first. But really, you don't have to walk on the outside of the sidewalk to protect me from the traffic. You don't have to open the car door for me. And don't offer to carry my suitcase for me. I packed the thing, let me carry it. And really, don't offer me your coat. I should have remembered to wear one. Or maybe I might just be comfortable without a coat. And never, ever offer to pump gas for me.
There are exceptions, of course. (This is the part that drives men crazy). Perhaps my arms are broken. Then pushing the buttons or opening the car door or pumping gas is a really nice thing to do. Or perhaps I am carrying two children and all of their crap and can't quite get my suitcase with the one free pinky finger I have. Or perhaps I brought a coat but one of those children peed on it. Then it might be OK to offer me your coat.
It's just that simple . . . .
Monday, June 9, 2008
Unfortunately, It Wasn't the First Time
Anyone who has had a son knows that it is very typical to get peed on many times before they are potty-trained. My son has only peed on me a handful of times, but the one yesterday was his greatest pee-accomplishment to date.
We spent most of the afternoon outside in the warm but not ungodly humid weather. I filled a couple of storage bins with water and let the kids have at it. (Yes, I suppose I could buy a wading pool but I just haven't gotten around to it. And really, for preschoolers, playing in any kind of water is fun. Who needs a wading pool? At some point, my daughter is going to notice that our neighbors all have wading pools and wonder why she only has a plastic storage bin full of water.)
Since they got to do just about anything they wanted, including making mud puddles and splashing in them, I made them strip naked before going into the house. We dropped the wet clothes and shoes in the front hallway and went straight upstairs to the bathroom for a bath. I turned the water on in the tub and got my son's dry clothes and a diaper. Then I realized I had forgotten to get my daughter's dry clothes and underwear from her room downstairs.
As I started down the steps, I looked back at the kids. They were both standing naked in the bathroom watching the tub fill up with water. I stopped and engaged myself in a risk analysis of the situation. It would literally take me less than 10 seconds to go down the rest of the stairs and get her clothes. What could happen in 10 seconds, really? After a split second, I thought, "What, are you crazy? What couldn't happen in 10 seconds with these kids??" So, I went back upstairs and stopped the water in the tub and let it drain out. Look at me . . . Ms. Safety Conscious Mom. No drowning today, kids!
I looked at both of them and said, "Mama's going downstairs to get some dry clothes. I will be right back. Don't go anywhere. Okay?" They both said, "Okay, Mama." And I ran down the stairs. I ran to my daughter's room, grabbed some clothes and underwear, and ran back to the stairs. Then I ran halfway up the stairs . . . .
Which was when I felt it.
A warm stream of liquid spraying across the right side of my forehead.
"AHHHHHH!" I shouted as the warm liquid continued down the side of my face, onto my neck and then down my arm. "What the hell?" I put my hand up to shield myself and looked to the source.
There was my 18 month old son standing against the railing above the stairs, pushing his penis between the rails and giggling at my reaction. I'm sure he was just standing there to see where I was going when I ran down the stairs, but it was a perfect position for him to just . . . let go. I don't think he has the capacity to plan to pee on his mother's head, but his delight in doing so has me a little worried.
In retrospect, I should have let the naked potty-trained child, who knows where her clothes and underwear are and has the capacity to get them, make the trip downstairs while I put the pee-monster in the bathtub.
We spent most of the afternoon outside in the warm but not ungodly humid weather. I filled a couple of storage bins with water and let the kids have at it. (Yes, I suppose I could buy a wading pool but I just haven't gotten around to it. And really, for preschoolers, playing in any kind of water is fun. Who needs a wading pool? At some point, my daughter is going to notice that our neighbors all have wading pools and wonder why she only has a plastic storage bin full of water.)
Since they got to do just about anything they wanted, including making mud puddles and splashing in them, I made them strip naked before going into the house. We dropped the wet clothes and shoes in the front hallway and went straight upstairs to the bathroom for a bath. I turned the water on in the tub and got my son's dry clothes and a diaper. Then I realized I had forgotten to get my daughter's dry clothes and underwear from her room downstairs.
As I started down the steps, I looked back at the kids. They were both standing naked in the bathroom watching the tub fill up with water. I stopped and engaged myself in a risk analysis of the situation. It would literally take me less than 10 seconds to go down the rest of the stairs and get her clothes. What could happen in 10 seconds, really? After a split second, I thought, "What, are you crazy? What couldn't happen in 10 seconds with these kids??" So, I went back upstairs and stopped the water in the tub and let it drain out. Look at me . . . Ms. Safety Conscious Mom. No drowning today, kids!
I looked at both of them and said, "Mama's going downstairs to get some dry clothes. I will be right back. Don't go anywhere. Okay?" They both said, "Okay, Mama." And I ran down the stairs. I ran to my daughter's room, grabbed some clothes and underwear, and ran back to the stairs. Then I ran halfway up the stairs . . . .
Which was when I felt it.
A warm stream of liquid spraying across the right side of my forehead.
"AHHHHHH!" I shouted as the warm liquid continued down the side of my face, onto my neck and then down my arm. "What the hell?" I put my hand up to shield myself and looked to the source.
There was my 18 month old son standing against the railing above the stairs, pushing his penis between the rails and giggling at my reaction. I'm sure he was just standing there to see where I was going when I ran down the stairs, but it was a perfect position for him to just . . . let go. I don't think he has the capacity to plan to pee on his mother's head, but his delight in doing so has me a little worried.
In retrospect, I should have let the naked potty-trained child, who knows where her clothes and underwear are and has the capacity to get them, make the trip downstairs while I put the pee-monster in the bathtub.
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