Sunday, December 18, 2011

Christmas usually comes once a year...that's what she said.

Christmas is upon us, and I don't have a damned thing wrapped.  I love being a mom during Christmas - I pick out, buy, and wrap my own presents.  :o(  This year, I replaced my kindle with the kindle fire... oh, it's lovely.  I didn't even bother wrapping it.  In fact, I've been using it for two weeks.  Sorry, Santa.  I also traded in the ol' Honda yesterday for an upgrade on the mom-mobile; no more CR-V, oh no!  Momma got herself an Expedition.  2007. DVD player.  Remembers my seat position.  Navigation so I don't get lost (completely outdated and I'm not spending $200 to upgrade it, but it has a map, so I'm good.).  We want to eventually add to the brood, and since our mastiff puppy will soon be bigger than the CR-V, we just went ahead and did it.

I haaaaaaaaaaaaaate car shopping.  There's always that "OMGIMGONNABARFHURRYUPANDCOMEBACKFROMFINANCEANDTELLMEIMAPPROVEDIMGONNABARFIMGONNABARFIMGONNABARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRF!" feeling.  My salesman was rad though.  Offered me lunch and coffee and pop, and was funny.  And not pushy.  So I'm having three Christmases this year, once we get to Kansas!  Yay!

So this car.  It. Is. BOSS.  So much so, that when the Hubs and I were watching MTV True Life: I Want A Sugar Daddy (don't judge, it was quality family time), he said tomorrow I need to go get a mani-pedi and my hair cut.  And he and Captain Awesome can just sit in the car and watch a movie.  We also have to go to Tractor Supply and spend half a paycheck on dog food.  This. Dog. Can. Eat.

Happy Monday before Christmas, y'all.  Here's wishing you make it through the week without papercuts, lost receipts, and with enough booze/coffee/insert vice here to keep you sane!  I don't think I'll be back until after the holiday, so I truly hope you have a blessed Christmas and a Happy New Year!


Friday, December 16, 2011

I'd rather be waterboarded.

I've discovered a torture that would make even the most die-hard criminal (you know, Martha Stewart) break.  INFOMERCIALS (I know I've went on and on about this before, but evidently the powers that be give no shits as to what I think, since they're still airing these pathetic excuses for advertising.).  If I was privy to state secrets, or if I was an undercover CIA agent, or whatever, just make me watch fucking "as seen on tv" shit on a loop or ambulance chasing commercials and I'd spill my guts quicker than you can say "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!"

Let's start off with a trip to As Seen On TV land, shall we?  (Not to be confused with the channel, TV Land, although I don't go there either.  Maybe I should.  My 10 year old did make me feel about 87 this morning.)  My insomnia means that I watch a lot of crap TV.  There was a time when my bank account became very nervous when I'd have a bout of it, but that's when they had cool shit for sale on TV, like YEARS of SNL on VHS.  You know I bought THAT.  

Okay.  Tell me who the eff needs an Eggie?

Marketing geniuses, they are.

How many hardboiled eggs does one person need?  And really, if you're boiling more than a dozen, well, just fuck that, because your house is going to stink.  Also?  Is it that much of a pain in the ass to peel an egg?

Hey you!  Yes, you!  Do you ever get up in the night and wish you had a light to help you find the bathroom?  Need a snack?  Check on your kids?  How about those pesky errands you need to run in the middle of the night?  Look no further!  We gots lights on these here slippers!  Are you fucking kidding me?

It's now available in pink and navy blue.  I knew you wanted to know, so I doublechecked for you.  Also in kids' sizes!  (How's that for some effing customer service??)

The people on these commercials - I'm just going to throw it out there - I'm concerned for their mental health. No one talks in EXCLAMATION! POINTS! ALL! THE! TIME!  I think someone(s) need to submit for a urinalysis.  It's intervention time.  And these celebrity cameos?  Are you broke?  I don't care that The Bieb or Avril Lavigne uses Proactive or whatever it's called.  You're a kid.  You're gonna get zits.  Get over it.

I really need to find something else to do at 3 AM when I can't sleep.  I'd better make a trip to Hobby Lobby and find a project that does not need a sewing machine or a glue gun, because I can't guarantee my own safety when I'm that tired.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

My house smells like cake.

Mmmm.... cake.  I love cake.  Any kind you want to throw at me, chances are, I'll like it.  Really, if you want to throw some cake at me, that's fine.  Five second rule, and all that.

I realized today that I had done zero holiday baking, and I only have half the crap I need to start making candy (mmmm.....candy), so I'd make do with what I had, and that manifested in a red velvet cake.  Which I put in a really pretty bundt pan.  And if that motherfucker doesn't come out pretty.... well, fuck it.  We're just going to eat it anyway.  It's not like it's for a cake walk or a school function or potluck or whatever.  I EVEN MADE HOMEMADE FROSTING.  Well, because I was out of canned, and I had a box of powdered sugar in the cabinet.  I also swept and mopped.  Miss Suzy Homemaker, what?!

There's a few more things on my list that need to get done before the Hubs gets home tonight, but for now, I'm taking a break.  The divine Ms. Johi said to only get three things done a day (or something like that, I don't exactly remember, but I loved that post so so much), so I'm doing pretty good today.  Besides, The Preteen will be home within the hour, and I can't let her learning responsibility go by the wayside just because I got everything on my list done, now can I?

PS - I think my meds are working.  I feel eleventy billion percent better today, even with a temp of 100.7.

PPS - Anyone want some cake?  Coffee?  Leftover pizza?  Because that's what's for dinner, kids.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Adventures in Depression

That title makes this post sound entirely too exciting than what it actually is.  Actually, it makes me want to watch Adventures In Babysitting, which I may just do after the kidlets go to bed.  We got a satellite dish when I was in grade school, and I watched a lot of movies I really shouldn't have.  Hence, "DON'T. FUCK. WITH. THE. BABYSITTER." was a choice phrase a lot earlier in life than it should have been.  Don't hate.  That shit is awesome.  And this kid?  Rad as fuck.

Spaghettio's!  WITH MEAT!  I want that hat.  I want it bad.

Alright, back to business.  Heh.  That makes me think of Big Business.  With Bette Midler and Lily Tomlin. Don't judge.


I need a day just to watch crappy 80s movies.  That would refresh and rejuvenate me.  Not according to my doc, though.  Although he does think I need rest.  Rest in which I actually sleep for more than 45 minutes to two hours at a crack.  So I have a new cocktail to try, in the hopes that I don't sleep like a baby.  Because seriously - whoever came up with that crap has never had a newborn.  And when I say newborn, I mean kids period, because Captain Awesome didn't decide to sleep through the night until he was heartily past a year old.

Anyhoo, cross your fingers and your toes that this shit works.  Because if I don't get some decent sleep, I may self implode.  Oh, I also have the flu, so steer clear.  I'll try not to breathe in your general direction.

This is what sleep deprivation looks like.

I just poured myself a cup of coffee and put the coffee pot in the fridge.

The Preteen also got her choice of sandwich for her lunch this morning, because halfway through making one, I realized I had put peanut butter on one slice and mayo on another.

And I thought I did stupid shit when Captain Awesome woke up every 45 minutes to two hours.

Stay tuned  - I'm sure there will be more shenanigans that weren't purposeful.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

I need my mom to make me grilled cheese and tomato soup.

I don't feel good.  In fact, I'm going to the doctor, which I usually don't do unless I have to, and sometimes not even then.  I was due for a certain appointment in September.  Whoops.

What annoys me and I appreciate at the same time, is my doctor's office now does this thing where you call the scheduler (who is generally stupid), you give them your malady(ies) in a nutshell, they pass it on to the staff nurse, who then calls you and basically triages you over the phone, and then determines when you can come in.  I've been given the first available appointment tomorrow.  I'm tired of constantly being fatigued, going through the motions, achy, bitchy, anxious, oh okay, FINE, I'll admit it - depressed.  And a couple of other things that don't need to be mentioned.  I've had a fever for three days.  I never feel "good", I just deal.  And I'm tired of it.

I need more energy to be a better mom, to be a better me.  I don't want to work out, I don't want to wash clothes, or really do much of anything that doesn't require my ass to be in the recliner.  Which makes me feel incredibly lazy, but I'm not lazy.  It's weird and kind of hard to explain.

Ever feel like you want something to show up in bloodwork just so you can go, "Oh!!  That's it!" but not want anything to show up at the same time?  Yeah.

Back tomorrow, friends.

Monday, December 12, 2011

I don't remember seeing ducks in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.

So because I can be an ass, and I love my friends from Tha Dirtay Jerz, I had to start some shit when I saw that there were Bumpits on sale for $3.75, because you know everyone looks like Snooki in New Jersey.  Except my friends.  And Chris Christie.  Dude totally needs a Bumpit.  I can hardly type right now I'm laughing so hard imagining him wearing a a Bumpit.  And a Mystic Tan.  And taking a picture of himself with a cell phone making a duck face.

Can't... brreeeeeeeeeeeeathe...

Haaaaaaaaah! Thanks, Pinterest!

Okay, here's how it is:  STOP with the Oompa Loompa Mystic Tan Duckface business!!!  The following images, while seared on my brain forever so it's not an issue, should never be forgotten as so not to make a huge fashion fuck-up:

Thankfully, I don't know who these people are.  I totally stole this off Pinterest.  Well, not stole, it was free.  Anyway, this is a prime example of "Oompa Loompa Duckface - You're Doing It Wrong".  

I don't think any more needs to be said about this one. Thanks, Pinterest?

Stop the insanity!  Where is Susan Powter when we need her and her platinum buzz cut?

Eat, Breathe, Move, Duckface? Thanks, Google Images!

Well, hell, I just shot myself in the ass with that, didn't I?  Well, who said she was stable anyway?  Stop your own insanity, SP!

It's Monday.  And Captain Awesome has watched Tangled approximately 1749817 times this weekend.  And wants to watch it again.  Someone shoot me in the face and pass the coffee.  And cheesecake.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

An Open Letter To My Dogs:

Let me start off with I love you.  I do.  Honest.  Even though after you read this, you may not think so, I really do.  You love me unconditionally, which I truly appreciate, and sometimes I think you may be the only ones who do.  That being said:

One of you is seven.  One of you is two months.  My expectations of each of you are a little bit different, considering the amount of time each of you has been on earth.  BUT: coming IN the house and peeing on the floor after being OUTSIDE is unacceptable.  You were just fricking outside!  If you had to pee, why didn't you do it before you whined to be let in?!  You obviously knew you needed to go!  Pee outside.  OUTSIDE.  And poop there, too.

Roxie, I know that puppy food is yummy.  However, you're already a little chubby heifer, and so you have to eat your grown-up-dog-who-is-a-fatass food.  Sampson is going to be 18 times bigger than you are by summer.  He needs his Flinstones.  Back off.

Sampson, fucking eat when you have the chance.  I'm not a waitress at a diner.

Roxie, stop fucking barking.  If you wanted out, why did you just come in?

Sampson, GO OUTSIDE ON YOUR OWN.  I'm not going to carry you out when you're 150 pounds.  You're not in trouble, I just don't want you to pee on my floor.  Again.

To the both of you:  my living room is not, contrary to popular belief, either a NASCAR track or a WWF ring.  Again, go outside.  And stop bleeding on my floor.

Sampson, Captain Awesome is not a chew toy.  Neither is my sock that is on my foot.  There are 4718947 chewies around here.  Find one.

Roxie, learn to share.  I mean, shit - in dog years, you're 49 years old.

To the both of you:  I know you fart.  Everyone farts.  Well, except me.  But could you spare me the watering eyes and nausea by just walking out of my immediate area to do so rather than cropdusting me?  It would be greatly appreciated.  Sampson, I'm surprised I don't have streak marks on my pants in the vicinity of your butt, and Rox?  The back of the recliner?  I think it is beyond Febreze or napalm at this point.

Despite all that, I wouldn't trade you for the world.  Well at least not this very second.  I'm sure my thoughts on that will change several times before I go to bed tonight.

Love, Mommy

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

I was supposed to, but then...

Alright, I've realized that lately I've had a whole bunch of "suppostas" (not to be confused with suppository) that have not come to fruition due to circumstances that were out (?) of my control.

Like today for example.  Today was all full of shit I was supposed to do that didn't get done.  Granted, some were by choice, some not.  I decided that I'm going to do the Couch to 5K workout.  Let me preface this by saying I don't run.  I've never been a runner.  I don't identify with anything to do with running.  In high school, I threw weights, and Mr. Walling and Mrs. Hageman (my coaches) would have us run a mile before going on to practice our events.  Well... we usually ran a quarter, and then told them we ran the full thing, and they were too busy watching the sprinters and shit to pay attention to us, and we'd go lift and then head out to the shotput ring and get a tan.  Anyway, the reason for C25K is I need to get off my ass, pure and simple.  I have a treadmill that I don't use except as a drying rack, and that is unacceptable.  SO, today, I was supposed to do Week 1 Day 1. Supposed to.  And then, I fell.  In the shower.  And jacked up my ankle and shoulder.  My parents should have named me Grace.

I was also supposed to count points today, but then I made biscuits that needed strawberry jam, and the potato soup from last night needed to be eaten, and the kidlets wanted burritos for dinner, and the wine needed to be finished up.  Whoops.

Tomorrow is another day.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Tuesday Television Tirade

Okay.  It's December 6.  People might have tinsel and reindeers shooting out of their asses already (to replace the usual rainbows and unicorns? 'Tis the season, after all.) but I don't.  I did, however, get out the majority of the Christmas decorations this afternoon and got things organized to wrap gifts.  I say the majority of the decorations because I can't find the rest.  They're somewhere.  That's what happens when The Hubs "rearranges" the garage. I had all the stuff out to wrap, but then Captain Awesome decided that 45 minutes was acceptable for a nap.  (He was wrong.)

December 6 is a little early, in my honest opinion (don't hate, I love Christmas, when it's Christmas, not September.), for Christmas specials.  TV doesn't think so.  And because The Preteen heard that Justin Bieber (OOOOOOOOOOOOOHJUSTINBIEBERISGONNABEONNNNNNNNNNNWEGOTTAWATCHITHEISSOOOOOOOOOOOOTALENTED!) was going to be on, and because The Hubs never turns down a moment to make fun of her for liking ol' JB (she claims not to, but she's a horrible liar - the minute he walked on stage, she sat up straighter and GLOWED), we watched.  And I fell in LUV with Michael Buble.  He is cute, he can sing, he sings about booze -what's not to love?  Except he had stupid Kellie Pickler on.  I'll forgive him.  Because he's ADORABLE.

I'm 30 minutes into The Biggest Loser Homecoming, and I don't think I've stopped crying yet.  I hate this show, yet I watch it pretty religiously, because my GOD, I want to see that change in myself.  The pounds and the numbers aren't the most important thing, but to love who I am and to be as healthy as I can be for the rest of my days - that's what it's about.  Oh, who am I kidding.  Of course the pounds and the numbers are incredibly important to me.  And I'm rambling.  This show makes me bipolar.  I find myself really cheering these folks on, yet being insanely jealous of their progress.  Of course, if I was at the ranch with all these amazing healthy foods at my disposal, and Bob and Dolvett working my ass off (I am not a fan of Anna.  Maybe its the whole dating Enrique "The Mole" Iglesias thing.  Ew.) I'd have that success, too.  Anyone want to come over and yell at me while I'm on the treadmill and force feed me vegetables?

Anyway, now that I'm the only one awake in the house, I should go get stuff done, but I really need to pee.  And I can probably come up with 8,000 other things to get started and not finish.  Like this bottle of wine sitting here.  FINISH WHAT YOU START, KELLY!  Let's start with the wine, shall we?

Observations I've Observed Because I'm Observant, I've Observed.

I only have to hear that damned "Give a give a give a Garmin" commercial ONCE to have it buried in my brain for the rest of the holiday season.  Carol of the Bells is a beautiful song.  Well, it was.

Dear daughter discovered the blessing and curse that is the snooze function her alarm clock today.  Part of me wanted to let her be late, but then I'd have to take her to school, and that would require actually changing out of my jammies, so waking her up seemed to be the best option.  And then she yelled at me that she was awake, and I wondered how she became 16 in her sleep, and I became very afraid of the future.  I'm not ready for a teenager, not at all.

Mastiffs should have been named Massives.  As in the size of their poops.  And he's only two months old.  And I think I met my match in the laziness department.  He doesn't even want to go up and down stairs.  Neither do I.  But I still do it for the children.  And the occasional shower.

All of Captain Awesome's favorite shows have been cancelled at one point or another, which means that they're all reruns, which means that we've seen them all eleventy billion times.  Which in some cases, it's okay, but when the kid is on a certain kick for a show, it means that the DVR is full of them, even though he'll probably only want to watch one episode on repeat.  Which means that we're looking for booze at 8:14 am.

Pediatricians should pass out DIY anesthesia so you can cut your toddler's finger/toenails.  I'd rather change the most disgusting diaper on the planet than cut this kid's nails.  It is a kevlar-needed situation.

I'm ready for snow.  Don't hate.  I love snow.

We have 800 Walmarts in this town and none of them carry the same stuff.  This annoys me.  Really annoys me.

Two year olds and puppies both like to eat board books.

I'm not in the Christmas spirit yet.  I think I need to start baking.  And eating.  And then cursing myself for eating.  And then drinking.  Because isn't that what Christmas is all about?

Sunday, December 4, 2011

I was my biggest pet peeve today.

Rumor has it in March, we're getting a Publix (which I can't help but call PUBIX in my mind) grocery store. Do you know what this MEANS?!?!?  NO MORE WALMART!  (Sorry Kroger, but you suck donkey balls.  Except when you have 10 for 10.  That's cool.  But your 10/10 stuff blows ass.  Someone had to say it.)

I'm sitting here with a cup of tea (green, if you please - Tazo Zen - is there any other kind?!) snuggling with Sampson (who insists on farting in his sleep, disgusting, but not as bad as it could be since my nose is plugged beyond belief), and thinking about the day.  Which pretty much sucked as much as Kroger does.  I'll not go into details, because it was a combination of things that resulted in a shitball day, but we ended up making a FAMILY trip to Walmart.  And not just any Walmart.  THE ghettoy of the ghetto Walmarts in town.  Why?  Because The Hubs was along "and the lines would be too long".  Oy.  Anyway.

Well, Captain Awesome was wearing his pissy pants, and The Preteen forgot her ears, and taking The Hubs to anywhere that has an electronics area is just stupid if you want to get in and out relatively quickly.  Add on the fact that I've been out of my "take one and the chance of a anxiety attack goes down a little" pills for a couple of days (because my doctor's office scheduling staff are EVIL and hate me) - this trip was doomed by the time we realized we weren't going to find a parking spot within 1/4 mile of the store.

I was one of THOSE people today, you guys.  I yelled at my kids in public.  I did.  I did it willingly and without shame (well, until now).  I might have even said fuck.  Twice.  In the Walmart Subway.  And I was still the least offensive person in there.  So I cried about it, hugged my kids 1000 bajillion infinity times since then, and cleaned up a massive pile of dog poop in repentance.  And I bought swiss cake rolls (why are they swiss?) for The Preteen's lunch tomorrow and Spaghettio's with sliced franks for Captain Awesome (nothing like some fat and MSG for my kids as a reward.  Shut up already.)

Can someone say something to make me feel better?  Please?  Because if you don't, I might be forced to eat a pint of ice cream that I may have bought and hid from everyone.  (It's Phish Food.  That shit is like currency around here.  And it's MINE.)

Thursday, December 1, 2011

I am going to disinfect everything that will sit still in my house.

Gah!  I hate being sick!  More than being sick, I hate being "kinda sick".  You know, when you feel pretty much okay except _____?  Well, my _______ is this raging sore throat.  I feel like I've swallowed razor wire that was dipped in gasoline and set on fire.  (Ahh, my flair for the dramatic rears it's ugly head.)  I'm starving, but eating hurts, and if I drink any more warm drinks, I'll likely wet the bed in the middle of the night.  (This is where I want to cuss my dad for taking his whiskey home with him.)

Captain Awesome has had a runny nose for a week, and started coughing tonight.  Not so awesome.  Dear daughter evidently has an immune system made of iron, because she has only been the carrier for all these germs that were most likely percolating in her school.  PARENTS:  STOP FUCKING SENDING YOUR KIDS TO SCHOOL SICK!  RAWR!  Because of you, I couldn't eat the pizza we ordered tonight!!!  And I don't WANT yogurt, and all the chocolate pudding is gone!  (Yep, I'm kind of grouchy.  And it's a HUGE pet peeve of mine when people come to work sick, and send their kids to school sick.)  Quinn is also working on his two year molars, which, let me tell you - I am so close to slitting his gums open with an exacto knife just so he can get some relief!  (Disclaimer:  I would never fucking do that.  I am a drama queen.  And I like to keep you on your toes.)  In all seriousness, I hate seeing my kids hurt, and these teeth have stolen my sweet boy and replaced him with Satan.  There's not enough Children's Advil and Backyardigans episodes in the world to make him feel better.

So yeah, I kind of want to spray the whole house down with Lysol, but let's face it - that takes energy and motivation, so I'll vacuum and mop and call it a day.  Maybe.  Besides, I don't have any Lysol.  My intentions are really good, though.  A for effort?

Old McKelly Had A Farm, E-I-E-I-O.

Yesterday, Quinn (now known as Captain Awesome due to the shirt he doesn't want to take off.  Ever.) and I drove 5 hours to this teeny town in Missouri that is halfway between us and my parents' home in Kansas to meet my dad who was bringing us our Christmas present.  His name is Samson.

His FACE!  I want to just squeeze him to pieces!

He is a Mastiff.  He's only 9 weeks old, and he's bigger than Roxie. 

I'M CUTE, TOO, DAMMIT!!  (This was obviously her face before Samson came home.)

All things considered (including her being old and bitchy), she's taken to him quite well.  I think she's getting a kick out of actually being the boss of something.  Such a girl.  Samson has settled in, hardly whined last night, ate like a champ this morning, pooped on the deck because he hates the stairs, and has shared his rawhide with Captain Awesome (I'll try to get that on film.  Gross, but necessary to show his girlfriend later on in life.).  He isn't a fan of going outside - he's fine once he gets there, but I kind of have to toss him out the door.  Perhaps it is because he is not the most graceful being, and he trips over, well, everything and nothing.

Was I ready for another dog?  Not really.  Am I looking forward to the puppy phase (which I haven't dealt with in seven years)?  Nope.  Am I going to give him back?  No way.  He's soft, and snuggly, and dumb, and he'll eat more than my human kids do, but I am now his mommy.  And housebreaking him means that I can backburner potty training Quinn (which terrifies me.  He can stay in diapers until he's 12 as far as I'm concerned, although that would be a scosh awkward...).  

Well, I suppose I should check on the wee beastie.  He could be digging a tunnel to China for all I know.