I Won't Do It

Oh the woes of suburbia...so, I'll admit, prior to moving to Irvine I didn't recycle.  Go ahead catch your breath.  Now rethink your decision to read this.  Now finish pacing.  Alright, welcome back, thanks for sticking with me. 

I know, I know, recycling is going to save our planet, and because of it, my child will live twenty extra years, unicorns will finally be allowed to prance around the world and rainbows will wake us up each morning, but I'm just not into it.  There I said it.  Unfortunately, the sanitation company down in these parts, doesn't care how I feel on the matter because they are forcing me to organize my trash.  Take two weeks ago as an example:  I set out my bins, placed a cardboard box in the bin marked "trash" because that's what it was - trash - and then came home to find the box on the ground and my bins empty.  Apparently, I didn't put the box in the right bin.  The next week I put the box in the "recycling bin," but added three pieces of floorboards, which were not taken another week when I placed them in the trash bin.  Yes, you read that right, floorboards - made of wood.  Came home and guess what?  Box was gone, but the floorboards were on the ground - and quite aggressively, I might add. 

So, here's what I'm gathering about the Irvine sanitation company: 1. They are Recycling Nazis.  2. They are judgers.  (Those floorboards should have spelled out: "You are a terrible person" on the ground.) 3. They are trying to passive aggressively teach me something about...about...guessing what the right answer is!? 

So, listen up Irvine Sanitation Company, you can go through my trash all you want because if you do you are going to find bottles, upon bottles, and cans of who knows what in my trash.  Yeah, my trash!  NOT my recycling!  And then in recycling, you might just find those floorboards in there every single week, until you are so sick of seeing them, that you will FINALLY just take the damn things!  HA! 

Just Write The Email

The other day I received an email from someone's work email address and attached at the bottom of the email was this quote: "An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind" by Mahatma Gandi.  Now, I'll admit, this is a rather thought provoking quote, and I guess, I agree with it...unless we are talking about the idiot at the gym last night, who I'm pretty sure farted while walking by me - I might be okay with a truck hitting him today...and I'm pretty sure I'll be seeing just fine if that happens. 

No, but in all seriousness, I don't understand people who attach these types of quotes to their emails?  Is this suppose to be the one statement that just sums you up?  Are you just so sick of people retaliating against you, when you have clearly done something stupid, that you think this quote will stop your house from being egged?  Are you trying to sound intelligent after you misspelled "their" with "there" and forgot the little apostrophe between you(')re and instead wrote "your?"  Do you think people are going to read, "So, we are all set for our conference call at 9:00 am....an eye for an eye...world blind...that's brilliant...screw that conference call...I've got to rush home and let out the mailman I've had locked in my basement for a year because he forgot to deliver my ESPN magazine for two weeks.  Well, in that case I hope something stops that crazy...but, hey, you know what I mean.  (So, I'm a little bitter that my ESPN magazine just miraculously found its way to my mailbox after I left a note last week...hmmmm...)

So, unless your quote is: "Stop reading this part - the email is over," I'm asking you to stop.  I promise you the work day will continue without Walt Disney reminding me dreams can come true.

8.5

A few months back the husband instituted (on his own) a rating system of my disposition for the day.  (I know, this doesn't sound crazy at all.)  If I was really wound up and funny I would be told, while brushing our teeth at night, "Wow, you really were an 8.5 today."  (Translation: I was fun.)  Or if I was in "mom mode" and maybe snapped at him to stop making noise while the baby was sleeping, I would be given a disapproving look and told I was being a "5 right now."  (Translation: I suck.) 

I know what you are thinking - how come the 8.5?  What does a girl got to do to get a 10?  (Assuming his deranged rating system is out of 10.)  Oh wait, is that not what you were thinking?  Were you thinking I should pack up the kid and leave this mentally abusive relationship?  Well, you are just being a 4 right now.  Honestly, everyone, (Mom and my faithful reader in VA) calm down.  Sure I hate this "fun game" the husband has, apparently, decided to play for the rest of our lives, but he could be on to something.  Imagine what this rating system could do for first dates?  Walk the girl up to the door, and instead of saying, "Wow, that was fun, I'll call you," he could just say, or hold up his fingers, "You were a 6 - I'm sorry."  Case closed.  All parties walk away.  Or how about when you are stuck in an annoying conversation and don't know what to do?  What if you could just say, "Hey everyone, great effort, really great, but you are all playing at a 4.8 right now, so I'm going to leave."  Again, clean getaway.

So, yes, I hate this mentally warped version of "feedback," and yes, at some point in my married life I hope I can attain a 10, but until then...I'll keep trying to entertain the husband through my sad feelings of inadequacy, and you all out there in cyberworld, find a better way to be honest.

My Strategy

Last night, while I was at the gym, I started watching Jeopardy.  After getting three answers correct I decided something then and there:

If I ever get on Jeopardy, instead of studying pointless facts, I'm going to train myself to master the buzzer.  That way, when I go on the show, I can win every buzz, and therefore, not allow my opponents to answer any questions.  Sure, I'll be in the hole a few thousand, but can you imagine how frustrated those nerds would get, if when they finally made it onto the quintessential test of brain power game show, and were unable to even attempt to answer a question?  It would be hilarious.  At the end Alex would have to say, "Well, Michael, looks your PhD didn't really help you today, and Linda, I'm so sorry we were never able to hear from you.  Best of luck on that cure of cancer you were finishing.  Now, Kate.  Very impressive on the buzzer...unfortunately, you have no money to wager in Final Jeopardy.  So, I guess that's the show."

Yep, it's official I'm becoming a stay at home moron.

Misfit Meet Ups

So, I've officially been living in suburbia with no visitors for a week and a half and it's going...it's going...well, let's not dwell on the details right now.  Baby is alive, I'm showered 50% of the time, and no sign of ants.  Life is how do you say...good?

So, last night I decided to go the magical internet for some friends.  (Don't worry this won't be about my weird encounters in chat rooms...some things must remain private.)  No instead, I found myself on a meetup.com.  For those of you, who have actual friends, meetup.com is a place where misfits can find each other.  Plain and simple. I'm not sure if this is their mission statement, but I'm thinking of suggesting it.

Anyway, while I was browsing through mother misfit meetups, I came across a couple of interesting groups.  For example, there was one entitled "OC New Natural Mamas", which consists of:  "...moms interested in making connections and friends with other moms who practice or want to practice attachment parenting (co-sleeping, breastfeeding, babywearing, etc.) and other natural living methods for their family." 

I had a lot of reactions to this group, but basically, all I wanted to do was meet up with them and say, while leaving the baby in the car, "Oh hey, I'm Kate..I...oh crap, I did it again.  I left the baby at home.  I sometimes just forget I have one.  You know what I mean?" 

Another group that seemed interesting was the "Orange County Asian Moms," which consists of:  "...a meet-up group for Asian Moms, non-Asian moms who have multiracial kids..."  I don't know why, but I just want to bring my blue-eyed, blonde daughter to this group and see how long it would take someone to ask, "Why are you here?"  And then, when the question finally comes, give the questioner a playful nudge and say, "Us Asian moms have got to stick together.  Now let's go eat some rice." 

So, I'm probably going to be staying lonely for a little bit longer.

Cut and Then Paste

The other night the husband and I decided to watch Taken 2 for our hot Saturday night date.  (And when I say "hot," I really mean handcuffed to our house for the next ten years until our child decides that restaurants can become "our thing" again.)  Anyway, for those of you who haven't seen this movie I need you to focus...readers, you need to focus on what I'm about to tell you!  Honestly, this had to have been the easiest movie to write.  Step one: highlight entire script from first Taken, press copy and then press paste.  Step two: erase daughter being taken, add wife...hmmm....add more demands for people to focus.  Step three: make gobs of money. 

Okay, I'll admit I enjoy watching hunched over Liam Neeson kick the crap out of hundreds of bad guys (Honestly, there were hundreds of dudes he killed.  After a while, the husband turned to me and said, "I got to be honest, if I just saw this guy kill six of my friends, all while dodging point blank bullets, I would probably run.  Just saying.")  I do love the absolute absurdity of these action movies.  One, why do seven guys wait for the hero to kill one guy before they attack?  Seriously, think about it Adidas wearing, European mercenary, while your friend is having his neck snapped, pull the trigger.  Bam, the guy is down.  It's that easy.  Stop waiting for Jackie Chan to finish flipping off the wall before you decide to pick up your knife and lunge at him.

Second of all, people, no matter how tough you think you are, can not get up after falling three stories ON YOUR BACK and then continue fighting.  It's impossible.  Truly impossible.  You are now paralyzed and if you aren't, I guarantee the log of wood, your nemesis just picked up and nailed you in the back with, has just finished the last piece of spine you did have.  And don't even get me started on the lack of blood.  You just got hit in the face with a vase, three fists and then round housed kicked.  I'm no UFC specialist, but I'm guessing one should have at least a slight amount of blood protruding from their face.

Lastly, Taken 2, we really could have used a better title.  I know, I know, the writer just copied the top title from the last script and threw a 2 on there so he remembered to grab the right one on the day of shooting, but come on.  2.  That's it?  At least give me a semicolon.  I love me some semicolon.  Oh, the possibilities of semicolon.  Taken 2 SEMICOLON Where focusing gets Found.  Taken 2 SEMICOLON Give it back.  Taken 2: Lay off Albania.  Something...

Wrong

The other day the husband spoke to a friend of ours, who's wife is expecting any day now, about what to expect when the baby comes.  According to the husband, this was the number one piece of advice/warning:

You will never be able to do anything right again.

You want to know my reaction to that admonition was?

Well it sure as heck, wasn't a cookie for being so insightful. 

Crap, did I just confirm his conclusion? 

Ashamed

Alright, I know I promised to not make this blog about the child, but lately she's been doing some funny things.  For example, the other day she stood up on both legs and winked at me. Yep, winked.  Four months and she can already stand and wink.  Just kidding.  I just wanted some lonely parent out there to feel the panic of their child not measuring up.  Parents are funny...and desperately insecure.

No, in all seriousness, my baby loves to put an entire blanket over her head when she sleeps.  It's hilarious.  It even works to calm her down.  Honestly, if she starts to cry we just throw a blanket over her face and she stops.  That sounded bad.  We don't tie her up also...and she does get fed...anyway... The other day I went into her room to check on her while she was napping and all I saw where these two little hands gripping the blanket over her face.  As I tried to remove the blanket from her death grip, she immediately woke and started to cry.

Should I be worried?  Is my baby ashamed of herself?  Has she been understanding me when I say, "We need to get her ears fixed when she gets older."  Have I given my sweet daughter a complex?  I think I'm going to go lay down with a blanket over my face.

One Time, my bad, Two Times, I'm an Idiot

I haven't been officially diagnosed but I'm pretty sure I'm a moron.  No, I didn't leave my baby in a store, or leave the back door of my new car open while I closed the garage on it...oh wait...well, that is not the idiotic thing I would like to discuss...which by the way, was probably quite a scene for our new neighbors - picture this: one blonde (just got my hair done, so I can say I'm a blonde for at least three more weeks) stomping back and forth in her husband's Uggs, that are six sizes too big, wearing some semblance of pajamas (if an old Duke t-shirt and some ratty sweatpants count) with no bra, (that's for my male readers) muttering "sh*t" over and over again, while my husband, dressed to the nines for work, tries to console me.  Welcome to the neighborhood - I'm crazzzy.

No, if you can believe it, and you faithful readers out there, I know, are already shaking your heads, there is something I've done equally (?), okay close to, as dumb now TWO times. What is it?  (Crap, now I've done so much build up...I hate when I do that.)  Anyway, as some of you lucky people might know, a few years back, the husband decided that I, someone who has never attended a beauty school class, would take on the job of cutting his hair.  After a few minor mistakes, I got to admit, I was sort of getting the hang of it.  And then we had a baby, and my brain slowly started to deteriorate.  Now, I'm incapable of reading and determining the correct blade numbers, which has caused me to TWICE cut his hair like he's entering the military the following day.  And the worst part about it is - while I'm running the razor over his head I'm thinking, "Hmmm...his hair must have been really long because a lot is coming off...oh well...oh...shhhh..."  It never occurs to me until I've just made the "never going back" run of across his head from ear to ear, that I stop and realize, I'm going to have to inform my sweet husband that I have, once again, committed a brain fart and destroyed his haircut.

And then the very worst part occurs...I actually tell the husband what I've done, and then I have to watch him slowly put his head down into his hands and stay like that for what seems like 10 minutes.  I cannot even begin to describe to you what is like to watch your shirtless husband, covered in hair, sit on a kitchen chair contemplating your death.  I guess the only way I can describe it is it's like a #4 razor to the heart when all you wanted was a #8.  You feel me? 

So, husband, sweet, sweet husband, please accept my public apology.  I will figure out the difference between a 4 and an 8 one day.  I promise. 

NO Freaking Iranian Standard

Ahhh cleanliness.  What's your version of it?   Be honest.  Do you clean your bathroom at least once a week, or just wipe off the seat if guests come over?  Do you wash your clothes with an actual washer and dryer, or do you pick off the stain with your fingernail?  Do you wash dishes or throw them away after each meal?  Come on, be honest.

You are probably wondering why I'm asking.  Well, I ask because I think the person, who lived in my home before us, had no standard.  Yep, you read that right NO standard.  I honestly think she took an entire pot of soup and threw it into her refrigerator.  And when I say "threw" I actually believe, with my beating heart, that she took a step back and launched a pot of soup into the refrigerator.  And then...shut the door and her mind to the possibility that one, it might become caked onto the refrigerator surface for time and all eternity, and two, that someone, other than her IRANIAN self, might move into her palace of filth.

I think so far I'm doing a pretty good job as a parent, but I think Avery's first sentence is going to be "Son of a..." after she watched me cleaned all day yesterday.  Darn you Iranians and your soup throwing.

1 Box of Ants To Go

As you can see from the picture we've been having a slight problem with ants in the new place.  (And when I say "slight" I actually mean I feel like they are crawling all over me as I write this.)  When I called our landlord about the problem she told me two things:  1. When her mother lived there they never had a problem with ants.  Really?  Never?  No ants whatsoever?  Hmmmm.  Strange how when I went to drop off some hideous window cornices at her mother's house and asked, while doing my worst miming of an ant, (Sweet Mary has most likely lived in this country close to twenty years and still doesn't speak English - because that makes sense...) she responded, immediately, might I add, with a vigorous shake of her head, "Oh, namla."  ("Ant" in Arabic...oh I'm sorry, I meant Persian.) AND then she said, as clear as day, "Orkin."  (Oh, you mean Orkin the PEST control company!?)  So, let's just review...according to the landlord ants never existed in my home, but Mary, who doesn't speak English, was able to immediately confirm the ants existence through me walking my fingers across my hand and making a grimace.  Rigghttt.

And the second thing my landlord said was, and this is my favorite, "You might have brought the ants with you from LA because one time we moved from LA and then our place had ants."  I honestly don't even know where to begin to make fun of this statement. Again, the statement: I brought ants with me from LA.  Oh that's right...I do remember packing up my glassware and plates and then saying, "Hey husband do we have a box big enough for all these guys?"  And the husband asked, "What guys?"  And then I said, while pointing to 400 million ants, "Silly, these guys!"  Oh, how we laughed as we watched the ants march into the box, give us the thumbs up sign, close the box, tape it up and mark it "Special Friends."  What a great day!

Listen landlord I might not come from some land that was conquered around 600 A.D., but I'm not an idiot.

Ten Seconds

A few weeks ago the husband and I went to go see the new James Bond movie.  I got to admit I wasn't wowed by the movie, but I was shocked to find out that our matinee was actually a secret meeting for men with prostate troubles.  Honestly, I think the husband was the only one who didn't get up to use the bathroom - numerous times - throughout the movie.  So, to all of you who were at the 1:30 Saturday showing of Skyfall, in Salt Lake City, my heart goes out to you and my prayers that you will one day be able to control your urination. 

Anyway, before the movie started I dropped the husband off to get tickets and then I attempted to find a parking space.  As I was driving around, I spotted a nice couple enter their Subaru wagon and begin to leave.  So, like all normal drivers, I put on my turning signal and began to wait for them to pull out.  However, they didn't immediately turn the car on.  So, I tapped my horn and gave them the universal, "Are you leaving?" gesture, to which, they responded by nodding their heads, but nothing happened.  So, I continued to wait.  Finally, the very normal looking guy, who had a car seat in the back of the car and a Greenpeace sticker on the bumper, pulled up a breathalyser tube and proceeded to blow into it.  And then, which was my favorite part, looked at me and mouthed, "Ten seconds" while pointing to the tube.  Ten seconds?  That's all you got?  No head down and ashamed look of, "Um, I'm a drunk." No, just, hey pretty lady (that's me) I just enjoy the juice so much I decided to install this tubey thing in my car so I can be positive I drank just enough to not completely impair my driving.  So, hold on a little second and I'll be out in a jiffy.  

I wanted to stick around and see if he passed, but I was late for my movie.  So, DUI Subaru Man if you are out there, keep fighting the fight and hold your head high...sure, some of us just insert keys to turn cars on, but not you...not you...you my friend are special.

I'm thinking of getting one of those tubes myself...I think suburbia would love it.  Imagine all the moms at Target...it's gonna be awesome. 

The ? Family

I know, two entries about holiday cards?  I'm sorry this one is awesome.

So, for the past couple of years my parents have been receiving a holiday card from a family they do not know.  Which is even funnier is the fact that the card is always signed AND is probably the most elaborate and ridiculous card I've ever seen.  This year's card consisted of a three folded double sided card that...wait for it...played this Hawaiian luau music when you opened it.  On the front was the entire family sitting in a Hawaiian canoe, on the second page was them all standing in front of a beach scene, the third page was some stupid holiday greeting AND the back....oh, the back...showed HOW THEY MADE THE CANOE AND BEACH SCENE FOR THE PHOTO SHOOT.  Yes, they made a giant canoe for 20 people and beach scene - for the FREAKING Christmas card!

So, as you can imagine, I'm torn:  One, I want to find these people so I can solve the mystery of how they know my parents and two, I want these people to be slapped...hard...YOU MADE A BOAT for a picture.  A WHOLE BOAT. 

The Friendly Insert

Last night I finally went out to the mailbox and collected our mail from the holidays.  What?  And, I guess you are going to judge me for FINALLY bringing in my trashcans from last week as well?!

Anyway, as I was going through the holiday cards, I was struck by two things.  One, how come all the "fringe" people in your life think you are closer than you really are, and that your one week at summer basketball camp in middle school warrants a holiday card?  Listen you people on the fringe stop sending me cards and making me consider (for a minute - mind you) about sending out a "late New Year's Card" to make up for the fact that I ONCE AGAIN left you off my list!  Stop it!  And two, people, people, people let's be honest about the insert some of you like to include in the card.  Are you 100% positive that any of us, one of us, are actually going to open your card and think, "An entire page of their past year!?  One page.  That's it?  Come on, I need more.  I need so much more.  You can't possibly tell me everything in one page.  I won't accept it or believe it!"....and then actually read it.  It doesn't happen.  Trust me.  I see that page and think, "Hmmm...that's a lot of words together...I should...hey, another Bed, Bath & Beyond coupon..."

So, here are my thoughts if you are going to be put an insert in...at least be honest, or at least be interesting.

1. So, if the hubby got a new job - tell us how much he's making or the pay cut he took.
2. If Billy is playing baseball this year let's be honest - is he any good or are you slightly hoping he breaks his leg so you don't have to watch him ride the pine for another year.
3. And if you, as the dutiful homemaker and card giver, feels completely unfulfilled, don't give us some lame statement about how this year you are really going to get into yoga and mastering that cupcake recipe.  We are sad reading it and I bet, you were sad writing it.  Just be honest. Say this instead - "So, I'm still waking up a minute before the kids have to leave for school and then I medicate myself with Diet Coke and Judge Judy until they return."  

Guess what?  If you are this honest, I promise everyone and I mean everyone will read your insert for years to come. 

No More Buzzer Please

Last night I attended a high school girls basketball game, where I was able to see a fantastic thrashing of Syracuse High School.  Past State Champs?  Yeah, right. Try more like, past crappy champs.  (That sounded funnier in my head.)

Anyway, as I was mocking 16 and 17 year-olds for missing free throws, the sound of the buzzer began to ignite some PTSD from my past high school basketball career.  With a slight cold shiver I remembered the time I attempted to drive on a rather large girl in the paint, hoping to draw a foul, when all that occurred was me slamming into her and then slamming my head against the floor.  After a few moments of lying on the ground, I got back up, continued playing, got a pass from my teammate and shot the ball directly into the stands.  As the ball landed in the lap of an innocent spectator the buzzer rang and so did my head.  Apparently, I was, how do you say, suffering from a brain concussion....so that was pretty awesome.

And then there was the time as a freshman, when the buzzer signified the end of my personal humiliation.  What do I mean?  Well, as a freshman I made varsity - which, before you get all impressed, actually meant I scored myself a prime seat at the end of the bench.  So, there I sat, watching our team, who happened to be one of the best in the state, destroy opposing schools again and again.  At first I used to love the smack down we, sorry I meant, they, would inflict on other teams, but then I started to dread the fourth quarter because inevitably it would go like this:  We would be up by twenty of thirty points and my coach would start to sub.  EVERYONE would be given some scrub time to run up the score and cause some meaningless fouls.  And then, just when there was about 14 or 9 seconds left on the clock, my coach, Mr. White, who is actually a black man, would finally lean down the bench and grunt, "Soulier get in."  Get in?  And do what exactly?  Stretch the refs and make sure they don't have any pulled muscles?  Sweep the floor?  Oh, wait, I know...inbound the freaking ball.  I swear, it was like the guy waited for just the right moment to ensure I was going to be completely humiliated.  And my poor parents.   What were they supposed to do? Clap for their daughter, who's greatest contribution to the game was throwing the ball into play?  You know a monkey could do the same thing?

So, there I would go - kneel next to the scorer's table, wait for the buzzer, point to some other idiot, who had to feel like a complete moron for getting taken out by the "inbounding girl," carelessly take the ball from the waiting ref, and just like a mindless zombie, throw the ball to another sad teammate.  And then it would come...just as I was walking up the court...the buzzer...ringing like a shout of freedom from the rafters.  Sometimes it would take 6 seconds for it to ring and other times my misery would be slightly prolonged, but when it came, oh how sweet the release of my humiliation it was.

So, beware friends.  If you find me with my head between my legs during a basketball game, just know, I'm carrying some baggage.

A Stand Against The Pagan Holiday

As you can see...beautiful Christmas...unhappy child.

I haven't been able to put my finger on it, but I'm pretty sure after several observations my daughter was not, I repeat, not a fan of Christmas.  How do I know this?  One, the kid slept in on Christmas morning.  What child under the age of ten sleeps in on Christmas morning?  And when I did wake her to go downstairs, a rather large tooting sound radiated from her bottom.  Come on people, you don't have to be a genius to understand my daughter was literally pooping on Christmas.  And lastly, my thoughtful mom purchased a very innocuous onesie entitled "Santa's Helper" that my daughter proceeded to spit up on, throw up on and again, as a common response for her dismay, poop on.  And I'm not talking about something happening after a couple of hours of wearing - no, I'm talking about ten minutes after the onesie being snapped shut did the bodily functions come out to play.

So, what am I to do?  My daughter isn't a fan of Christmas.  Do we try Hanukkah next year?