Archives for March 2011

Charlie. The tripod.

So ,earlier I was watching Sesame Street. Bella had already gone to sleep, but of course, it was still running. Anyway, there was this muppet that brought out a pet hamster and he was singing a song about how it was THE GREATEST PET EVER, and I was like: “No. They are not.”(Literally, out loud, I said that to the TV, because thats the kind of mind set I have now-a-days.) Anyway, it reminded me of a story of how I came to such an opinion, but first we are going to dive into a little background information…

See, I never had a hamster when I was growing up. However, once in 5th grade, I did get my hands on two pet mice that I manipulated my mother into letting me have. It didn’t take a whole lot of manipulating though, because my mom happens to be an avid animal lover. Which brings me to the untimely demise of my two tiny furry friends, dubbed “Chocolate” and “Cinnamon” because one was brown and the other was tan.

See, many years ago, my family lived on this farm. Okay, it wasn’t really a farm. There was a barn and 20 + acres and we lived next to a bunch of cows. However, there must have been some people that thought it was a farm, because we were forever having random people drop cats off on the property. I swear to God, we must have had like 20 cats at one point, and I can’t count the amount of kittens they had. WE ALWAYS HAD KITTENS. My mom fed all these animals, she took care of them, because as I mentioned, she’s an animal lover. I think she got it from my grandfather.

Anyway, 20 cats plus 2 pet mice = disaster. I don’t know for sure if they ate them, but somehow or another, their cage got knocked over and the mice went MIA. After that, I wasn’t allowed to have any more rodents.

My first year of college I was living in an on campus dormitory. When you come from a home that always had pets, even if it was 20 cats, you get kinda lonely for a furry friend when you’re away at college. However, the dormitory didn’t allow pets. Which meant I couldn’t bring my dog, Chester, (The Molester). So I had to think…..what could I get away with?

The answer? A hamster! They were cute! They were tiny! I could quickly slip him into a closet when the RA came to visit! A HAMSTER WAS THE BEST IDEA EVER! I went to the pet store and picked him out. I bought him all sorts of fun hamster accessories and toys. I brought him home and named him Charlie.

Charlie liked to roll around the dorm in his hamster ball. He also frequently urinated in his ball and it leaked out onto the carpet. That was pleasant. I also had to frequently clean out his cage because it got smelly really quick. He ran on his damn little squeaky hamster wheel ALL NIGHT LONG. Did you know hamsters are nocturnal? Apparently I didn’t. He also bit me. All the time. If I wanted to play with him, I had to soak my hands in alcohol to deter him from nibbling. Then he just peed on me.

I quickly realized that the purchase of ole Charlie wasn’t the best decision ever, but I took care of the little feller.

Then one night I arrived home from work, I was working as a hostess at a restaurant at the time. When I entered the dorm, I heard a strange squealing. When I went into my room, I found Charlie is an awkward position.

It just so happens that he had somehow lodged himself into the cage bars and had gotten his leg stuck. AND HE WAS GNAWING IT OFF. I tried desperately to free him, but he was biting the crap out of my fingers and it turned into a big bloody mess.

I got on my phone and started calling someone, I don’t remember who because I was in such hysterics, trying to figure out what to do. In the meantime, Charlie completed his self amputation and scurried into his hamster house.

He remained in that house all week. I had to force him to eat and drink, but, finally, he emerged, victorious: my 3 legged hamster.

Eventually, I had to give Charlie up. After the “incident” he became even more mean and “bitey”. I think he was holding a grudge against me. I gave him to a friend of my mother’s who had a rodent collection. She later commented on what a biter he was.

Eh.

The moral of this story? No hamsters for Bella. EVER.

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Farmville tried to give me an anxiety attack.

I used to play a little game. It’s called Farmville. If you haven’t heard of it, then you’ve probably been living under a rock for quite some time now.

I played a lot when I was pregnant. I would try and take my lunch breaks at the right time so I could harvest my crops before they wilted. I even brought up that I needed to harvest crops when I was at the hospital IN LABOR. I’m pretty sure my mother even offered to hand over her lap top since she was on Facebook keeping everyone up to date on my progress.

After we brought the baby home, I didn’t play as much as I used to. I didn’t have the time anymore but also….there was another problem. I was accumulating too much stuff on my little farm. I was getting too many buildings, too many animals, TOO MANY KNICK KNACKS. I kept having to expand my farm and get more land. Every time I got more land, I had to rearrange everything. I couldn’t make everything fit the way I wanted. I wanted to put all the animals in their own little pens together, but some animals I only had one or two of and I couldn’t figure out where to put them. Meanwhile, I kept getting freaking chickens and cows. I was up to my neck in chickens and cows. I WAS SICK OF CHICKENS AND COWS.

Then I had all the holiday decorations: Valentines, Saint Patricks Day, Christmas, New Years, Easter…after the holidays were over I wanted them off my property, but I didn’t want to get rid of them, I mean: WHAT IF I WANTED TO USE THEM AGAIN NEXT YEAR?!?! So I had to buy these little storage sheds and barns and move all the stuff I didn’t want out of sight.

Then all this stuff started popping up that I couldn’t keep up with, like co-op farming, when you try and harvest a certain amount of crops in a certain period of time with your buddies for a stupid prize. Like one time I got this school bus plow, but God I wanted that school bus plow. Then they launched this thing where you could build something, like a stable, but you had to entice your Farmville friends to send you the stuff you needed or else the thing was just a random pile of wood on your land. So I was begging people to send me horseshoes or nails, or whatever the crap I needed to complete the freaking thing. OH, and the barn raising! You had to get your friends to click a link to help you in a “barn raising” so you could expand your barn so you could stick more stuff in it. I needed that remember, because I was trying to hide all my clutter. But the damn barn raising was time sensitive and if you didn’t get enough helpers in like 24 hours, you had to start all over. I never completed a barn raising.

Then there was some sort of market thing where you could sell stuff or go buy stuff or share with your friends…or something. I got confused. Then I started getting notifications that people were collecting shovels and they wanted me to send them shovels and I was like: WHY IS EVERYONE COLLECTING SHOVELS? SHOULD I BE? DID I MISS SOMETHING?!?!

And then I just had to stop. Because Farmville was making me very nervous. I have a full time job and a full time kid and I started taking up hobbies and selling crafts and writing a blog (obviously). I’m sure for some people it’s a stress reliever, but me? I just couldn’t keep up with trying to keep my farm clutter free, and stressing about where to put all my damn chickens.

However, dear Farmville, I will always remember our brief love affair.

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Wal Mart vs. Walmart?!

I recently wrote¬†this post about motherhood being tiring, yadda yadda. I also mentioned crying in Walmart over ground beef. I wasn’t actually crying OVER beef, the crying just started when we happened to be in the beef section, but thats not why I am writing this. After I posted, I kept seeing people respond and when they did they said “Wal Mart”. Of course, I had called it “Walmart”.

Sometimes I get kinda weird about the way I spell or misspell things. I MISSPELL THINGS SOMETIMES, I just hate it when I do, but I’ve come to accept it more since I got pregnant and had a kid because my brain doesn’t really care about grammatical errors anymore. It just cares about surviving.

Anyway, I kept wondering: Is it Wal Mart? Or is it Walmart? It was bugging me. I mean, it was really bugging me. Yes, yes, I might be slightly abnormal. I’m aware. Then I came across this in a Time Magazine about logo changes over the years:

THERE I WIN. I knew I had seen it all as one word with the “m” in lowercase. I’m not losing my mind. I’m still not completely convinced and I will probably contact “Walmart” executives soon just to be sure. Then, I will officially declare myself the BEST EVER.

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Crying in the Walmart.

Alright, Motherhood. Alright,Hormones. Get a grip.

One of my goals when I started this blog was to be completely and totally honest about my life, my situation, and motherhood. You may see me joke about sleep deprivation and trying to keep my child from running into various pieces of furniture, but also:

Motherhood is hard, folks.

It’s great. It’s wonderful. It’s fun. And it’s hard as hell.

I get no sleep. My house is a wreck. I get no time to myself. My friends from before kiddo are almost non-existant. My life is on a schedule; theres no: “Hey, let’s go here, let’s do that!” No, no. Life revolves around nap time, bed time, and your child’s mood.

And sometimes, friends, everything just becomes too much. And you end up crying in the Walmart over the ground beef. It JUST HAPPENS.

I see people say things and post things time and time again, wondering if they are normal, wondering if they are a good mother, or a good person. And the answer is: Yes. You are.

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There was once a time when I slept til noon on the weekends.

Motherhood is sleep deprivation. One year in and I still don’t get enough sleep. For months my daughter has been on one nap a day despite desperate efforts to get her to take more than that. ¬†Since she has started walking, I can sometimes get her to take two because I think she’s wearing herself out more, but if I can get her to take that second nap, it’s usually very, VERY short.

Cry it out? Yeah that doesn’t work. She’ll scream for an hour and that just wears on my sanity. So I began to think, maybe she just needs the one nap? So that is what we went with. She’s always gone down relatively early, between 7 PM and 8 PM. But what exactly do I do after she goes down, you ask? EVERYTHING. Sometimes I have not even showered yet. I do laundry. I load the dishwasher. I clean up the toys. I pay the bills. Usually the television is running while all of this is going on, but I’m not truly paying attention. Then I end up crashing, sometimes I read, sometimes I don’t. Off and on throughout Bella’s life we have gone through bad sleep “spells”. We’ve been in one for awhile now, several weeks actually. She has been waking up EVERY 3 HOURS. About two weeks ago she had a span of about 5 days which she slept through the night. Then she started cutting two teeth. Now, we are back to every 3 hours.

What happens after about a year of crappy sleep? A really bad memory. Thats what. Sometimes I shampoo my hair twice because I can’t remember doing it the first time, which was probably about 15 seconds beforehand. I run into things, like walls and furniture. I repeat myself and sometimes tangle up my words or just use the wrong damn word in general. The other day I mixed up abortion and adoption, which is unfortunate because those are obviously two different things on two very opposite ends of the spectrum.

Don’t get me wrong, motherhood is by far the best thing I have ever done, but sleep? I miss you, my long lost pal.

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Teeth and sombreros.

My week thus far? Not so eventful.

Sunday was marked by an emotional break down from yours truly. Do you know what its like to be locked up all weekend with a toddler ALONE? Well. I do. (For the record, I wasn’t exactly LOCKED up, it was just stormy and crappy and I didn’t want to venture out with the youngin, but whatever.) When Jesus got home from work Sunday afternoon I went into a fit of: “I haven’t had time to shower, the house is still a mess and the baby has been cranky and boycotting naps ALL DAY LONG.” And then I cried. Which is typical. I have a meltdown about once a month; the fact that it coincides with another monthly event is completely irrelevant.

Monday I came home to a clean house, dinner, red roses, and a bottle of wine. Perfecto. I should definitely have meltdowns more often. Other than that, here are the highlights from this week so far:

My kid is finally getting some teeth, she recently turned one and was still toothless and I was kinda stressed. She is now 13 months and has two teeth in the works. They aren’t all the way in yet but she has still managed to bite me. Twice. I am now questioning why I have been cheering for teeth to cut through for months now.

I finished my recent book, which was Mockingjay; the 3rd book and final book in the Hunger Games series and now I don’t have anything to read and I am sad. I am open to recommendations.

I get a Spanish word of the day from Jesus in his attempt to force me into fluency. This is appropriate since our child is learning Spanish. However, Monday’s word was: “Sombrero.” Seriously? I’m pretty sure I already knew what a sombrero was. I offer this as proof:

circa 2005ish when my friends told the staff at the Mexican restaurant it was my birthday. I was awarded with a sombrero, a song, and the most disgusting shot of liquor EVER. It was also on fire. BONUS.

That is all to report for now. Hopefully the rest of the week will be a little more eventful.

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Underwear, a motorcycle, and a crowbar.

Recently I posed about time I got locked out of my apartment by my cat. Then I posed about the time I got locked out with my cat. The final chapter in this saga is actually about the very first time I locked myself out of my apartment, the beginning of my series of unfortunate events, if you will. This post actually has nothing at all to do with Kitty, so if you are sick of reading about him, you’re in luck! I didn’t even have him when this particular incident occurred.

Once upon a time, I was living in my apartment as a single gal. Jesus and I had been dating, because thats been going on for 4 years now, but we were on one of those….breaks….as some may call it. Our early dating period was very off and on, as were all of my relationships up until that point to be honest.

Anywho, I was attempting to go to bed early that night because I had a very early meeting at work the next day. I was having trouble falling asleep, so I had crawled out of my bed in my night shirt and underwear and decided to step out onto my balcony to smoke. (Yessssss….I used to smoke for those of you that didn’t know, but not anymore.)

So, I walked out onto my balcony, without putting any pants on. I neglected the pants for a variety of reasons:

1. The balcony was out the back and there was nothing back there and no one could really see me.

2. It was dark.

3. I was lazy.

Mostly number 3.

Once I stepped outside I slid the sliding glass door shut to prevent my air conditioning from escaping. The second I shut it I knew I was in trouble, because the little lock went CLINK CLINK. It snapped from sideways into the upright position signifying LOCKED OUT. I saw it happen in slow motion, to which I breathed a sigh of frustration, and sat down in my patio chair and lit my cigarette.

I had my phone, or I had “a” phone. You see, I had my work phone in hand, which was my Blackberry because I was also messing around on Facebook before I walked outside. My work phone had only my co-workers in the contact list and I wasn’t about to bother any of them. However, I did immediately submit a status update via Facebook saying I had just successfully locked myself out of my apartment, to which I received no replies. After smoking two or three cigarettes and weighing my options, I decided it was in my best interest to call my ex boyfriend. I’m not talking about Jesus, I’m talking about my OLD ex boyfriend, who I will just simply refer to as EX because I don’t think I have his permission to publish his name on the internet.

I called EX because he lived just right down the road in the house that we lived in/bought when we were engaged. (Yesssss one time long ago I was engaged to someone else, and then we broke up and I needed to get out real fast and I ended up in the closest, cheapest apartment I could find.) I also called EX because he had this annoying habit of wanting to get back together and was frequently trying to get in touch with me so I knew he would be somewhat reliable in coming to my rescue. Also, I knew his number, and in this day and age, I don’t know many people’s numbers by heart anymore. So, I called EX, he answered on the first ring and said he would be there in just a minute. It literally was a minute later when he called me back, saying he was at the front of my complex and I had to instruct him to walk around back, because I was trapped on the balcony.

It was there that he helped me climb down and realized that I was in my underwear and barefoot. I would like to mention that it was also starting to rain. He looked at me and said, “I didn’t know you were in your panties.” And I said, “Well, I didn’t plan on locking myself out.” Then he said, “You aren’t going to like this.” And I was like, “What?” But thats when we rounded the corner of my apartment complex and I realized he hadn’t driven his car over. He brought his motorcycle. So, I got to put on a helmet, and ride a motorcycle back to his house in my underwear. I also burnt my thigh on the stupid thing, I guess motorcycles really aren’t meant to be ridden half naked.

Of course when we got back to his house, after he gave me some pajama pants, he just expected me to sleep over, and I was like; “Absolutely not, I need a crowbar!” So he got me a crowbar and we went back to the apartment, climbed back up my balcony and with one quick POP, I was back in! Hooray!

Then it was all, “Okay, thanks for the crowbar and the motorcycle ride. Got to go to bed now, very sleepy!”

Once EX was gone, I got back on Facebook and saw people were then responding to my recent “locked out” status. So I posted a new status detailing the recent events in all their humiliating glory. My favorite comment: “Damn, if I had known you were in your underwear, I would have come to rescue.” Ha. BEST NIGHT EVER.

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Locked out with the cat, not BY the cat.

Last night, I posted this, about the time my cat locked me out of my apartment. There are, unfortunately, THREE lock out stories, because obviously, I never learn. There is also the time I got locked out of the apartment WITH my cat story. As you might recall from my last post, if you read it, my cat actually locked me out of my own apartment by shutting my balcony door on me. Sort of. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, seriously, go read the other frickin’ post.

After that particular incident, I got locked out of the apartment with my cat when I went out the front door to take some trash to the dumpster. That sneaky little devil, aka Kitty, darted out the door before I could catch him. I shut the door behind me, and proceeded to chase him down, trash in hand. I got the cat, I tossed the garbage in the dumpster, and headed back to my apartment. I grabbed my doorknob and tried to turn it and …..nothing. Wouldn’t budge. You see, I had one of those locks where you could turn the knob and get out from the inside while it was still locked. So, that meant if you shut the door while you were outside and didn’t have a key, well, you were screwed.

That was me. Screwed.

So, I had to truck on over to my landlord’s apartment, aka Martha, aka the Crypt Keeper. Don’t forget though, I still had Kitty in tow, shoved up underneath my arm pit as he wiggled and squirmed trying to fight his way down. I wasn’t putting him down because the little hellion had developed the nasty habit of getting into cat fights. Even though that cat is quite a pain in the ass, I love him, I’m protective of him, he is my fur-baby, so I wasn’t letting him get away.

However, upon arriving at my landlord’s I realized that bringing the cat along was quite a problem, you see, I wasn’t allowed to HAVE a cat at my apartment. Good old Crypt Keeper Martha had already left me a nasty note once when she saw Kitty peeking through my blinds.The note basically said: “Get rid of the cat of I’m evicting you.” Therefore, I couldn’t exactly knock on her door with him under my arm. So, when I got to her building, I just left him hanging out in the lobby while I went up to her office. After I got the spare key, yet again (I’m sure I was becoming Martha’s favorite tenant,) I retrieved the cat and we returned to the apartment. After that, I vowed to never lock myself out again, and I didn’t. However, I still haven’t told the story from the first time I got locked out, and in my opinion, thats the best one. I mean, I was in my UNDERWEAR….stay tuned….

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Kitty and the stick.

Earlier today after I got home from work, Bella and I got settled in at the house and I decided to take her out in the front yard to let her enjoy the great outdoors. She really had a grand time walking up and down the driveway and yanking up grass in her hands. Once we were done, we started to head back towards the front door when I realized that I had left Kitty inside. This of course meant that he was throwing himself against the glass door in a desperate attempt to obtain freedom. This led me to a memory, or a flash back of sorts that I will now reveal here.

Awhile back Jesus and I were living in a little apartment across town. I had just found out that I was pregnant and we were in the process of looking for a house. In fact, that day I was supposed to go and look at a few houses. I was off from work and home alone, just me and Kitty. I was doing some general tidying up and has discovered that Kitty had left me a little present in my closet: he had peed all over a pair of my boots. I snatched up the boots and stomped out on the back balcony. I had just thrown them down and was contemplating hosing them off, or just leaving them out there until I figured out what to do with them.

I had left the sliding glass door open just a bit, not enough for Kitty to squeeze his way out of. The reason that I left it just slightly open is because I had locked myself out before and didn’t want that happening again. In fact, THAT story is even better one than this one, but we’ll get to that another day.

Anyway, I had this little wooden stick that my dad had given me to jam up in between the sliding glass doors to prevent someone from popping them open with a crow bar if they decided to try and rob me. So, whenever I decided to go out there, I had to scoot it aside. In my angry cat-peed-on-my-boots rage, I hadn’t fooled with the stick too much, I popped it out from in between the doors just enough to let me slide them open.

So, there I was, standing out on the balcony staring at my boots in my foggy brained early pregnancy haze. Meanwhile, Kitty was insulted I had left him inside. He started pounding against the doors and then: Clink. The wooden stick had been pushed back into place. The door was still open just a crack, enough for me to get my hand through but that was it. I pushed. And pushed. And pushed. The stick was going no where, I couldn’t get in.

Kitty had lost interest in trying to get out and just sat down and stared at me in contempt, while I pleaded with him like he was Lassie. It was no use. I had no phone, and I couldn’t get in.

I ended up having to climb down from my second story balcony which resulted in my scraping up my arms on the brick building. Then I had to walk all the way to my landlord’s apartment which was several complexes over and up a hill. That was wonderful, considering it was August in Tennessee. I was dripping sweat and wearing pajamas and no shoes. My landlord, Martha, was like 90 years old, and didn’t seem to notice or care.

Then I had to walk all the way back to my apartment. All I wanted was to get into the air conditioning and have a glass of water. I stuck the key in the door and …..nothing. Then I looked at the key. The old bat had given me the key to the wrong apartment! So, needless to say, I had to walk all the way back, explain to her what she had done, and get the right key. I finally got back to the apartment and kicked Kitty out for the rest of the day, while I napped.

Furry asshole.

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Dear boyfriend.

Well, hey there boyfriend. My one and only. Father of my child. Roommate. Future Husband.

Let’s talk about a few things shall we?

#1. The laundry goes in the hamper. Not on the floor next to it. Do you think that the hamper is just a decoration? Alright, it kind of is, but it’s also a FUNCTIONAL decoration.

#2. On the rare occasion that you do the laundry, let’s get one thing straight: not everything we own gets put in the dryer on the “SUPER CRAZY HOT STURDY COTTON/TOWELS” cycle. Stop shrinking all my clothes.

#3. For the love of God, stop putting the kitchen towels in the bathroom and the bathroom towels in the kitchen. Last time we had this conversation I got so frustrated I wrote “K” and “BR” on the towels in permanent marker. To date, this has had no effect on the situation.

Figure this out before I kick you out of the house.

Loveyoumeanit.

Love,

The Girlfriend.

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