Inside My Studio

Have you ever seen the show on Bravo called "Inside the Actors Studio?"  (What?  I've got literally three things to choose from to blog about.  1. Baby Teething...no one wants to hear about that.  2. Baby not eating...again, no one should want to hear about that.  And 3. TV.  Why TV?  Because that's what I do during the day.  Yes, I watch TV.  Sure, I could read, and learn something, but while you are breastfeeding a baby you've got two options ((What, what, what parentheses inside parentheses!  You are going to get a lot of lists this entry so just buck up and deal with it.))  One, you can watch TV or attempt to hide a book from your "exploring child."  I choose TV.)  I agree with you reader, that went on way too long.

Anyway, there's a show on Bravo called Inside the Actors Studio, where an actor comes on the show and is interviewed by James Lipton, who apparently employes the FBI and CIA to accumulate mountains of cards of information, that will be used to shock and strike up nostalgic memories by these overpaid actors.  Honestly, without fail he'll be like, "Now, your pre-school teacher Mrs. Hillard told us you once said, 'I'm going to win an Oscar.'  Is that true?"  To which the actor will exclaim, "I did say that.  How did you ever find that?"  Oh, James Lipton - why don't you put your detective skills to good use and find out if the Loch Ness Monster is real or not.  (Or something else.  It's not like I'm curious about some lake dwelling, mystical creature.)

Now, it sounds like I'm mocking this show.  I'm not. I actually love it.  I love the talk of "craft," and inspiration and trying to make it sound like their nude scene with a horse was revolutionary. I love it all.  However, my favorite part is at the end Lipton will end with a questionnaire originated by French TV personality Bernard Pivot with which every actor tries to answer in the most Oscar nominated sort of way.  Here's my best attempt...currently as a stay at home mom:

What is your favorite word?

• "Puss" -  It has somehow become our nickname for the little one.  It's obviously short for stinkerpuss.

What is your least favorite word?

• Prepubescent - I have always hated that word. And it has to have the "pre" in front of it.  My mom used to use it to describe my prepubescent weight gain before I hit 10 and started to become a woman.  Yeah, you read that right...10. 

What turns you on?

•  8 hours of sleep and someone else cleaning up dinner.  They call me "the most Romantic Person" behind my back. 

What Turns You Off?

•  House Hunters International on HGTV

What sound or noise do you love?

• My stinkerpuss laughing.  There is absolutely nothing in the whole world better.  Nothing...and I'll fight you if you think otherwise.

 What sound or noise do you hate?

• The sound of someone farting.  I know it's normal and it times necessary, but...

Favorite curse word?

• Depends.  If I'm describing someone it's: #sshat.  If I'm happy and excited it's sh*tballs!  If I'm mad than it's gosh dangit.  No, seriously, it's gosh dangit.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

• A stunt person.  I think it would be pretty awesome to jump out of buildings, get beaten up by Jackie Chan, and ride a motorcycle as Angelina Jolie.

What profession would you not like to do?

• A realtor on House Hunters.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?

• "Kate, I can now tell you two things, one, where dinosaurs came from and that 'Heaven TiVo*' does indeed exist."

*I've always believed Heaven is one big TiVo you get to look through of your life. I also believe during these viewings I will be able to prove to the husband that I did indeed tell him to pick up extra milk on May 2, 2008, and that I told him I loved him first.  

Speaking Of Purges, Nikita...

So, not only does my birthday (this was supposed to be posted yesterday...I get that. Okay, I get that.) fall on Tax Day, and Easter in 1979 (the year I was born), but it is also the birthday of Kim Il-sung.  You know, Kim, the Eternal President, the leader of North Korea from 1948 to 1994, you know...that guy.  So, that's pretty cool...because clearly North Korea doesn't produce any weirdos. 

I also found out through Googling "April 15th birthdays," my daily study of random current events, that my birthday is also shared by what appears to be two very different groups.  On one hand my blessed day is shared by past leaders of Communist and crazy countries (Ex. Nikita Khrushchev of Russia and the fearless leader through the Korean War) and on the other, people, who I would deem "Really Website, We Are Calling These People 'Celebrities?'"  Seriously, how are Nikita and I suppose to celebrate our birthdays when we have to share it with Matt Cardle.  Oh, I'm sorry you don't know who that is?  You know Matt...X-Factor Matt....no, hmmm...oh that's right, he won some season of the show...still nothing...yeah, me either.  Or what about Alex Veadov?  Now, I'm sure you know this guy.  He was in that amazing movie called "We Own The Night."  Wait, what am I saying? These aren't celebrities!

Dear Famousbirthdays.com,

My Mom pushed out two girls on April 15th - let's keep this day respectable.

Just Tell Me The Right Answer

I like to think of myself as a rather confident person, who is capable of making my own decisions...well, unless it involves picking a restaurant for dinner...then, I find myself on the floor mumbling, "Please, please, please don't say 'whatever' but just pick something.  Anything.  Just pick something."  (I grew up with a father who would go like this, "You want to go out to dinner?"  And I would say, "Yeah, let's get pizza."  And he would say, "You don't want German?"  You see the game was always, and still is, try to read his mind and guess where he actually wants you to go.  For a child, and now an adult, this game drove and still drives me nuts.)

Anyway, if we aren't talking restaurants I'm pretty good at making decisions.  Alright, BLOGGER stop the pressure.  Okay, there's one more place in my life I'm incapable of making my own decisions - and that would be Amazon.

Take for example, the other day I went to purchase a sippy cup - or for you non-children readers, a cup for a kid.  (Yes, they have thought of everything and every way to suck every last dollar out of parents.)  Anyway, I was going to just buy the first one I saw, until I looked closer and saw the one I was going to choose only had a 4.5 star rating and 83 people only commented on it.  Only 83?  Come on Amazon, you can't expect me to purchase anything that only 83 people felt the need to comment on.  So, then I scrolled down and found a 5 star cup with over 200 comments connected to it. Now, you would think I went with this cup, but in the comments some parent wrote an entire dissertation on how the cup actually gets too tight to open and can cause a slight pain in your wrist.  A SLIGHT PAIN!?  Sh*t, now what?  Do I get the cup, that literally changed the lives of the Muellers in Champaign, Illinois, or do I chance the chronic and probably fatal wrist pain of the Andersons?  Amazon, HELP ME!  Help me find the right cup that will get my kid into Harvard and cure cancer.

I'm happy to report that I did finally, after much prayer and meditation, choose a cup, but now I'm deeply troubled by the fact that OVER 200 people commented on this cup.  I'm not that person, but what compels you people out there to take the time and write these comments?  Do you not have a blog?

It's Just Gas People

If you've ever gotten gas at Costco you can probably answer yes to one of these questions: 1. Have you ever been behind that car that refuses to go around the other car, that is filling up, to get to the open pump, because they are afraid it's "too tight of a fit to get around," or because they think they can just out wait the other car?  2.  Have you ever waited in your car seventeen extra seconds while some idiot decides to check all their mirrors, gauges and blood pressure before they finally pull out? 3.  And lastly, have you ever wanted to kill the moron who stands in front of the gas pump wondering where to put their card in, as if they have never filled their car up before? 

Honestly, why is it that at the busiest gas stations in America people have to be either the slowest morons or the biggest idiots?  I just don't understand. 

So, for the past six years, or since I've been a member at the Cost-CO, I've prided myself on being fast and incredibly efficient at the gas pump.  For example, before I put my car in park my Costco card and Amex are already in my hand.  Two, as soon as the car is put in park, the gas tank door is opened.  Three, I get out of the car, open the gas nozzle, insert cards, push my level of gas, yank on the hose and fill up.  As soon as I'm finished, I reverse the past steps, get into my car, with the cards still in my hand, drive off and put away cards at next light. EFFICIENT.  It's not hard people - unless...you miss a step and then everything goes out the window.

The other day I forgot to open the gas tank door and everything went to hell.  I ended up laying the gas hose on the ground, dropping my cards underneath the car, screaming at some imaginary troll, who was obviously not authorizing my card inside the gas pump, and to finish, I banged my body into the car as I was trying to close the gas tank door, finish pumping and replace the hose in all one motion.  (WHAT?  I was trying to make up some time...by walking through my car.)

So, listen, I promise you, good things will come if you follow the steps.  If you don't...I can't promise that you won't set yourself on fire.

Oh, and if this ever happens to you at a busy Costco, make sure you take off the Duke license plate cover off your car.  As I was searching for my Amex underneath the car I heard someone say, "Hey Duke, you need any help?" 

At The Car Wash

The other day I went to get my car washed...because I wanted to make sure it was ready to be driven in the rain the following day...come on Southern California!...anyway, as I sat there watching some poor guy attempt to scrap off every bug from my windshield, that had sort of melted on since my drive from St. George four weeks ago, I watched a very nice Lexus pull up to be washed.  At first it appeared to be a normal drop off from a normal customer, until the Lexus came out of the wash and was being prepared to be dried by some workers.  As soon as the dry towels had been thrown on the hood, the owner of the Lexus, a woman wearing cowboy boots, a lot of diamonds and a pen holding up her mess of hair (For some reason I never trust anyone, who uses a pen to tie up their hair.  One, it's literally voodoo magic that actually causes this to work.  Don't believe me?  Go find a pen and try it.  It's impossible that one twist of the hair and some four inch long stick will hold it up.  I won't believe it.  And two...well, I don't have a second reason.  Just more of the first.  I'm telling you it's not right.)

Anyway, as I was saying, as soon as the Lexus came out of the wash this confirmed witch lady immediately walked over to the car and proceeded to dry her own car and order the poor man, who's actual job is to dry the car, what to do.  Now, I know what you are thinking...if she's a witch and has the capability of voodoo magic why is she having a normal human dry her car?  Why not construct some type of potion?  Good question, but not where I was going with this.  My questions are these:

1. What has happened in the past to make you so distrustful of the car wash?  Did you once come and realize, once you got home, that instead of drying your car, human feces had been rubbed all over the back? Or did you find out that with "special customers" sometimes car washes insert razor blades into the towels in order to actually scratch the car and not dry it?  Or are you just completely paranoid? 

2. Was your goal not to actually get your car washed, but to come to some type of business and boss someone around?  Was the dentist not listening to you when you kept screaming out, "Re-check that right molar for gingivitis and don't go with that tool, use a bigger Wedelstaedt on anterior for class 3 and 5!"

3. Or has it always been your fantasy to be some scantily dressed woman, soaked in water, sitting on top of a Trans Am for some Warrant music video that drives, no compels, you to pick up wet towels and hum, "She's my cherry pie..." while you go back and forth across the hood of your car? 

Is that one a stretch?  I felt like I was getting a really good vibe of  "yes" on that one.

Alright lady, just take the pen out slowly, and without any of that voodoo magic, just write your answer down.

Just Release One Hostage

I once heard a comedian describe parenting children is like constantly negotiating a hostage situation.  Oh, there was never a truer statement.  My child doesn't talk, doesn't walk, and yet, I find myself saying things like, "Please, please put your head down and slowly go to bed...no one will get hurt, just slowly put the head down and go to sleep." And then, after an hour, I start saying, "Alright, what terms will you agree to in order to go to sleep?  A helicopter?  A one way ticket to a county that will not extradite you?  Just tell me."

And now after a month of trying solid foods, my child has decided that Fort Knox her mouth will never, ever open to anything, but the sweet nectar I can provide.  When this was conveyed to me this morning, through her literally slapping the spoon to the ground, which, to be honest, sort of made me strangely proud of her coordination, I might or might not have been heard saying, "Listen, you weigh less than 14 pounds, you depend on me for everything, I wiped your butt completely clean just ten minutes ago...you have to eat this food, and you have to do it now."

You know what happens when you try to get tough with a terrorist?  Let's just say, I hope the FBI has never had to experience a terrorist, who they were negotiating with, crap its pants and rub snot into its hair.  Trust me there's no way you can negotiate out of that.

Go With The Life Support

Anyone out there ever seen the show House Hunters?  If not, here's what it's all about according to Wikipedia: The program follows individuals, couples, or families searching for a new home with the assistance of a realtor.  Each broadcast features three properties, one of which is selected by the prospective buyer, whose offer generally is accepted by the seller. In the final moments of the show, the new owner provides a tour of the house, revealing what changes and/or improvements if any were made after moving in.

Sounds like a fun show huh?  Well, if you've been renting since you were 18, you will hate this show. No, you will want to find these "prospective buyers," hunt them down and then force them to live in a 4x4 box with only a three inch hole they can use for either air, sunlight, food or removing certain fluids.  (Did that option sound planned out?  Well, after watching three episodes of this show, let's just say, the 4x4 box just "came to me.")

Why the hate?  Well, one because I'm jealous. Let's just get that out now.  I'm jealous people are allowed to get a home of their own and not have to deal with gaudy light fixtures, ants and Iranian landlords writing broken English text messages about finding their son, who lives in the basement, a job at your "...husband work office."  (Water those forsaken dead lemon trees that have caused an infestation of ants in my home and maybe I'll think about telling husband of "son job needed.")

Second of all, I don't know if they tell the people ahead of time to be as annoying as possible, but geezzzz.  These idiots will walk in with a budget of $23,000 and say, "Well, the kitchen seemed small, and we were really hoping for hardwood floors and a master sauna."  Really for $23,000? Do you have a basic concept of money?  Or they'll openly berate the realtor for having the audacity of bringing them to such a "dump" when they initially said they wanted a freaking FIXER-UPPER!  Okay, I sort of love when they get sassy with the realtor, but in reality who really does that?  I don't remember taking my realtor by the hair and shoving his face in a spot in the carpet all the while saying, "Do you think I'm an idiot and wouldn't notice this spot?  Do you think I'm an idiot? Say it!  AM I an IDIOT!?"

And lastly, I hate, hate the big reveal at the end.  By the end of the show, I'm only hoping one of them have accidentally slipped into a coma and no longer have the $23,000 to buy the backwoods home in Alabama.

Now, that would be a good show.  Will John buy the house or keep his wife on life support?

Magnets and Legos...Awesome

Recently the husband and I have been given the assignment to teach Sunday school to the 13-14 year-olds in our church.  At first, I thought this was going to be a great opportunity to mold minds and change lives, butttt then we had our first class and now I'm not so sure.  First of all, and I say this with love, and absolute fear that my child might become this one day, but our kids, well, our kids are sort of nerds.  Take for example my little ice breaker of, "What are you interested in?" that turned into an all out struggle for me to not cock my head to the side and say, "Oh, I'm sorry to hear about that...."  What are they interested in?  Well, all four of them could agree they like to draw, and then it was revealed magnets and Legos are the coolest things.  Yep, you just did it...you cocked your head to the side, scrunched up your face and sighed, "Oh...my..."  Honestly, I don't know what to do.  First of all, at 14, I would have most likely beaten these kids up in school, or at church...at 14 I would not have discriminated.  Second of all, how do I mold these minds when every story I go to tell changes from, "One time when I was at a party, my friends..." to "One time when I was drawing an unicorn made out of magnets I said to my imaginary friend..."

I know as I write this I'm semi-cursing myself for the future of my child.  Currently, she's wearing skinny jeans, has never listened to anything but real music and is totally caught up on Grey's Anatomy...hopefully these building blocks will sustain her through life.

What Goes Around Comes Around

Um, this picture is more than I ever wanted to find.

Have you ever heard the saying, "What goes around comes around?"  Well, in my lifetime I've seen this saying in action.  For example, I used to mercifully make fun of women who wore their maternity clothes years after having their children...now, I'm becoming more sympathetic...and impressed with their frugality and resourcefulness to fully utilize the clothes, that were intended for a short period of time, but have now become a staple in their current and future wardrobe.  See, my mockery has come back in 8 pounds, that won't go away...(cue, dropping the Girl Scout Thin Mint I have in my hand.) 

However, as humbling as these 8 pounds have been, there has been another force in my life that has truly, truly convinced me that what you dish out will someday come rushing back to you. What is that force?  None other than the Postal Service.  Yes, you heard me.  The Postal Service.  Take these examples:

1. When my sister was 16 she was backing our green Volvo station wagon out of my friend's driveway when she by accident struck and knocked over their mailbox.  A week later the mailbox was fixed and our wagon sported a dent for the next three years. 

Two years later, while living in Utah, an embarrassed mailman rang the door of my Aunt's house, and informed my sister that he had ran directly into her new Honda Civic, that was parked on the street.

What goes around comes around....

2. When I was 16, my field hockey team decided one night to participate in a team building exercise and toilet paper our coach's house.  I, the ever consummate documenter, decided we should video tape the act of vandalism and then show it at our team awards ceremony at the end of the season.  (Because what 40 something old woman doesn't want to relive the day a bunch of high school students destroyed her home?)  Anyway, my team decided to meet at my house, and while we left my neighborhood, my teammates decided to warm up their vandalism skills by knocking over and uprooting every mailbox along the way.  (That would probably be about 15-20 mailboxes.)  Did I participate in this deplorable debauchery against my neighbors?  Um, I definitely didn't against the ones I liked...

Two weeks ago I was out riding my bike, when I saw a mail truck start to come down the street from a neighborhood.  I assumed the truck saw me so I continued biking down the street.  However, on purpose or not, (We'll never know, will we?) he looked right, then in my direction, and then accelerated forward just as I was crossing his path.  Immediately, I did the customary bike holler of, "Heeyyyy, Whooaaaa!!!"  (Because stopping cars is like stopping horses...) and he slammed on his brakes just as he was about to hit me.  Now, did he look embarrassed?  No, not really.  Did he look apologetic?  If you call him miming mailboxes being hit and then laughing and pointing at the imaginary fallen mailbox as sorry, then yes, I guess you could say he WASN'T a future assassin sent from the past to collect retribution for my incredible slight to the postal service almost 17 years ago!

What goes around comes around....

Do not, I repeat, do not mess with the Postal Service.  They might not deliver on Saturday anymore, but they are always watching.

Water Boarding For Babies

Nope this is not going to be a St. Patrick's entry because one, I'm not Irish, two, I didn't even wear green yesterday (cue gasps), three, I'm not Catholic, four, I don't go seeking after rainbows and pots of gold, and five, I'm not an alcoholic.  Yep, that's right - that's my break down of St. Patrick's Day: Irish, stupid wardrobe conditions, religion, kids' cereal and copious amounts of green ale.  I do however, have one complaint about these "holidays that aren't really holidays" - why, why, why must people (friends of mine who are now mothers) insist on dressing their children in outfits celebrating every freaking holiday?  Seriously, the next time I see a kid dressed in a colonial outfit, telling Indians to take a hike (Columbus Day) I'm going to scream.  I get it, today is some sort of holiday for some sort of people - I don't need a baby picture posted on Facebook to remind me.

Alright - glad I got that off my chest. 

So, for the past week my child has been suffering from her first cold, which basically consists of snot, coughing and more snot.  Because the kid is completely pathetic and hasn't learned the basic concept of blowing her nose....kiddddinggg...we have been forced to use a bulb syringe to suck the snot out of her nose.  For those of you unfamiliar with this fun apparatus, picture someone shoving a giant suction hose up your nose and then sucking all the snot and brain matter you have up there.  I know, the husband and I agree, it sounds pretty awesome, but to a baby this is utter torture.  Honestly, I have never seen our baby exhibit such strength. I literally reach for the bulb syringe and she starts to kick me across the room.  So, in order to stop our little Hulk from beating the crap out of us, the husband and I together have to wrestle her down and perform the suction - which is absolutely unbelievable.  Seriously, her face is the size of my hand and yet, the amount of snot that comes out...sorry, it's a sight to behold. 

Anyway, the other night as I was holding her arms down and taking swift kicks to my child's milk supply, I watched as my husband was holding her head down and trying to shove the syringe into her nose, I thought we are basically water boarding our child.  So, like any good mom, I saw this as an opportunity to see what I could find out.  So, I said, "Avery this will all stop if you tell me then next time you are going to have a blow out.  Just tell me.  And this can all go away."  Nothing.  So, I upped the game.  I then asked, "Avery you feeling that pain?  Alright...tell me what Heaven was like. Come on.  Is it wonderful?  Did you pick us?  Were you forced to come down here to us.  Tell me and Dad stops!"  Again, she held her ground. 

It's alright, I hear some more congestion today...and Momma gots some more questions.

That's Pretend That Didn't Happen

The other day I had a weird encounter with the last guy to give me a massage...no, it wasn't the husband.  It was strange because, as we were both looking over produce at the grocery store, I sat there thinking, "I paid you to touch me...and you don't even remember it.  Didn't it mean anything? I mean, I shaved.  I don't shave except on Sunday for church.  That was a big deal.  And nothing?  Nothing?"

Then again, it would have been weird if he had looked at me and said, "Hey Kate, how is that lower back, that I massaged with warm oils, feeling now?" 

Yep, after a second thought, I'm glad we both acted like professionals.

I Have A Baby

Ladies and gentleman...the band: Ten Feet.

This might come as a surprise to some of you, but I sort of hate lazy people.  Yep, I said it.  Slow driving people in the left lane and lazy people...oh, and people who pay with checks at Costco.  Come on!  I am holding a six month old, a box of yogurt, a box of cereal, a chicken, chips, bread and gum...(Yes, that's my usual Costco list.  And yes, I don't use carts at Costco.  If you have ever visited the Costco in Marina Del Rey you'll know why.  Right now if you listen carefully enough someone just got trampled there.)  Okay, where was I - oh yes, I hate lazy people.  And you know who are the laziest people in the whole planet?  My neighbors.  Not the people, who live to my left, right and behind...I mean, my Asian neighbors, but the people, who live directly in front of us...not my Asian neighbors.  And why are they the laziest people on the planet...and no, it's not because they aren't Asian, it is because ten feet from our houses are two lanes of parking.  Ten feet.  A little more than 3 yards.  The height of a basketball hoop.  And according to this very informative website: (You got to click on the link to get the joke.)

However, as accessible as this free parking is, they refuse to park there.  Instead, they insist on parking directly in front of our garage.  When we have asked them why they can't just park 10 feet away they always tell us, "My daughter, my sister, I (depending on who we ask) has a baby."  A baby, huh?  They can't walk 10 feet because they have a baby?  Tell me you don't have legs.  Tell me you are afraid of walking.  Tell me you suffer from sunlight exposure, which will melt the skin right off your face.  Something.  A baby?  That, my lazy neighbors, is NOT going to cut it because you know what I'm going to do next time?  I'm going to back into your "Baby On Board" sign, and when you ask why I did it, I'm going to say, "Because I have a baby."

It's Just a TV Stand

I just thought I would send out a friendly warning to those of you thinking of purchasing anything from me through Craigslist.  Apparently, if we have made a deal over text, for you to come to my house and purchase my "crap," you are going to get in a car accident. Yes, you heard me right.  You are in serious danger.  I know, I know, I too want to rush and sell you my piece of crap TV stand from 2002, but just slow down, check your blind spots, stop texting and keep your eyes on the road!  Why am I saying this?  Well, over the past two days I've made two deals, with two different individuals, to purchase a freaking TV Stand and BOTH, yes, both, have stood me up numerous times because...wait for it...because they got in an accident on the freeway.  Again, let me recap, I'm selling a scratched up, old, TV stand for $30 and 2 idiots have managed to get in accidents on their way to my house.  Of course, this leads me to question a few things:

1. Am I missing something in the picture I posted on Craigslist?  Did I by accident catch a reflection of my naked body in the window behind the stand? 

Answer: HA!  No.  Baby weight battle 2013 is still continuing. 

2. Is every idiot I see on the freeway, who has been involved in a car accident, actually my fault?  (I mean, I sell a lot of crap on Craigslist.)

Answer: No.  There are way too many idiots getting into accidents that the math doesn't stack up to the amount of crap I'm posting...cue relief sigh.

3. Are my innocuous texts of, "Yes it's still available," actually sound like, "Please make up a huge lie if you stand me up because after my gay prom date incident I've never been the same."

Answer:  Apparently so.

So, friends, I have more pre-college stuff to sell..check your car insurance and tighten that belt because it's gonna be a crazy ride. 

Can't Touch This

Maybe it's my recent sleep deprivation, (My 5 1/2 month old has decided to start waking up in the middle of the night.  Don't feel bad for me - she started sleeping through the night at 2 months...oh karma for bragging...)  Anyway, this morning, after watching Grey's Anatomy together, again, don't judge, I was raised on Young and the Restless, I placed my child in her new toy, the Jumperoo.  For those of who don't have children, and get to sleep a solid 7-9 hours a night, a Jumperoo is basically a bouncy chair, that rotates and has all sorts of toys and sound makers around it.  It's fantastic if you want to actually get something done for 15 minutes...and it's hilarious to watch her discover the monkey that makes a screeching noise every 30 seconds.  I swear, I think my kid might be suffering from dementia.  (No driving for her.)

Anywayyyy....as I was watching her this morning I had a thought - what about creating a Jumperoo for adults.  Come on, you know you would want this. Who wouldn't want to go to work, and as you move, your entire area starts to bounce up and down?  No?  Well, then think about this, a chair that rotates to all your favorite things.  You could have a laptop, your cell phone, a sandwich that you can gnaw on every time you rotate around, a wheel, that every time you spin it it plays, "Can't Touch This," (because that would be awesome) and all the while dangling in a comfortable chair with a cushion back! 

Sure, I might be working on five hours of sleep, that was broken up into individual hours of sleep, followed by two hours of wondering if my baby was asleep or wedged dangerously into the side of the crib, but I think this is a good idea.  Just sleep for 38 minutes, have someone wake you up, perform a physical activity and then try to go back to sleep while an annoying sound goes off every 18 seconds, AND then tell me what you think. 

Tone Down The Singing And Buy My Table

Lately, we've been trying to sell a few things on Craigslist...so if you are interested in a TV stand or a kitchen table...oh wait...no seriously, please come and get this crap...

Anyway, over the past couple of weeks I've been having some interesting exchanges with potentials buyers.  Last week a guy texted me and said he wanted our Subwoofer for $80.  Great, I thought.  $20 less than what I asked for, but hey, I'm not even sure it works.  Then he texts back his address, which I found a little strange so I countered with sending my address.  He then said, "This could work because you live close."  I didn't understand what he meant and so I texted, "Are you wanting me to deliver this to you?"  To which he responded, "I have no car but cash."  Silly me I forgot that announcement when Craigslist became a delivery website.  I'm such an idiot.  (Am I regretting not taking it to him?  Is the subwoofer still here?  Yes on both counts.)

However, as misguided as my lazy buyer was, Russell (name has not been changed because this guy is nutso) called me up yesterday and gave me this whole story about how his church needs my TV Stand to display items they sell at a fraction of the cost to poor people.  (His word was poor - not mine.)  Anyway, I was like, "Great, let's do this bizarre transaction," but, it was raining yesterday so we decided to have him come today.

I just texted him to see if he was coming and this is the text I got...and I'm not exaggerating at all...

"Hey Kate I'm sorry meant to call you last night I got a call from my pastor and I got kicked out of the church he said I was sang too loud and it was disruptive to the congregation so I apologize I have no use for it.  Kate once again I apologize I was very distraught last night and I just was very upset again i have got yelled at because my singing loudly and praising the Lord was very disruptive.  This pastor has very big issues."

I bet he does.

K Soulll Has Left The Building

So, lately I've been ripping our music all over again.  No, we didn't have a massive computer breakdown and lose all our files, or did we get robbed.  No, instead, I, the "stay at home mom," decided to create a project for myself and rip our music at a higher bitrate than its original rip so the quality will be better.  (Just so you know I'm pushing my glasses up and muttering, "I'm surprised you didn't know that...") 

Anyway, this process has been interesting. One, because it has taken me about seven weeks to do it.  (Not because we have so many CDs, but because my day is now broken up into ten minutes of actual focused time.)  Two, I've realized in the 1990s I suffered from what one would call a severe addiction to "Cheating Columbia House and BMG Music."  For my young readers, Columbia House and BMG were CD companies, who would offer something like 11 free CDs, if you bought one CD at regular price and if you signed up for their CD of the month - which you just returned.  After doing this honestly for a couple of years (I mean, giving them my actual name and paying everything I was supposed to) I realized....um...this was a system to "play with."  After formulating a well thought out plan Before I knew it, I was sending in requests to Columbia House and BMG with different names and every time I moved, which was a lot in college, I would...I would...sign up again. However, without a stable address and a real name - folks, I'm not proud of it, but I killed these two companies.  I killed them so much that I sometimes I fear in some office building in Indiana (I remember that's where they were headquartered) there's a "Most Wanted List" with the following names on it: K Sou, Ka Souli, Kate S, Kathy Solidr...etc.  (What can I say, my maiden name was Soulier, and I wasn't that creative.)

However, I think now, Columbia House and BMG can have the last laugh.  For the past 20 years I've been lugging around two very large CD cases filled with CDs like, En Vogue, Spin Doctors, every Barenaked Ladies album put out from 1996 to 2000, and all sorts of one hit wonders that I can't even begin to name them.  (Remember to get a song you had to buy the entire album...how stupid was that?) 

Thank goodness for my Russian website because I still don't feel good about paying for music.

Last Resort

Last night I read in a magazine the following, "...that in the U.S., some 3 million people a year endure a severe intestinal infection that resists antibiotic treatment and causes fever, vomiting, diarrhea, and sometimes death.  Now researchers say the infection, caused by Clostridium difficle bacteria, can be completely vanquished with an unorthodox and somewhat off-putting therapy: fecal transplantation.  Dutch researchers cured 15 of 16 infected patients by running a blended infusion of donated stool and saline through a tube passed up their noses, down their throats, and into their small intestines."  (I am not making this up, but I will admit, I did get fancy with the font options on blogger.)

Um, what?  What?!  So many questions.  First, what?  Okay second, who, what, who decided this would be a good idea to try?  Who thought, "Severe intestinal infection?  Hmmmm...what if they inhaled poop?  Do you think that would cure them?"

Answer: Do you know why it cured the 15 people out of 16?  Because if they just inhaled poop, and still said they had pain, what would happen next?  My guess is: A. Researchers would make them do it again.  B. They would be forced to say the rest of their life, "Well, yes, I had this intestinal problem, so I inhaled poop."  To which their listeners would say, "Well, at least it worked."  And the person would be forced to say, "Um, no. It didn't.  I inhaled poop and nothing happened."  NO ONE wants to admit that.

Second of all, who is donating stool?  (I don't know who decided poop should be called "stool."  I've never seen poop and thought, "I wonder if I could sit on this?")  Are there tons of Dutch people holding onto their poo wondering what good use they could find for it?  And lastly, what constitutes a good "stool sample," that would be worthy of someone inhaling it?  Is Mexican food a must, but no corn?  (Too much?  I felt like that might have been too much.)

And lastly, why, why, why does the procedure have to involve the noise AND the mouth?  Is this a sick joke of the researchers?  Do they hope that by forcing people to smell it AND then swallow it they'll be able to weed out the "fakers," among the truly sick?

I'm telling you right now if I was suffering from an intestinal infection I would not, I repeat, I would not ever, never, ever resort to inhaling poop.  Just take the intestines out. All of them. Just take them out.  I'll figure another way out.

My Dummy

I don't usually get all real up in here on the blog, but if you will indulge me for once, I would like to tell the world, I mean, my mom and probably someone from high school, who reads this, why I love my husband on this Valentine's Day:

1. One night we went to the gym together, and while he was putting our stuff away, I jumped on the only available work out machine, which happened to be a stairmaster.  After walking on it for five minutes, my husband walked up to me and said, "Um, miss, when are you going to be off that thing - because it's really busy tonight and some of us would like to work out at some point!"  Before I could tell him to shut up and go work out, the lady on the stairmaster next to me, quickly grabbed her magazine and began to shut off her machine.  She then said, "Um, you can have mine."  Though this situations make me slightly cringe, and they do happen quite often, I also find them hilarious.

2. At some point in our married life the husband started calling me "stupid" as a nickname and for some reason I started responding to it.  One night we were at the grocery store and the husband said, "Hey Stupid, do we need more bread?"  To which I responded, not phased at all, "I don't think so." As I looked up, a woman met my eyes with the most pitiful look I've ever seen.  Not to worry stranger, who thinks I'm in an abusive relationship, that "Stupid" was just from my loveable husband.

3. When the husband comes home I no longer get the first kiss.  Instead, I get to watch a man in a suit crumble every time he gets to say hello to his daughter.  Sure, it's hard sometimes to be number two, and maybe she'll be called "stupid" one day, but hey...it's also pretty hot.

Love you dummy.

When My Faith Was Shaken

For those of you who don't know me, except through this blog, you may be surprised to find out that I'm a Mormon...a very devout Mormon, in fact.  However, as strong as my belief has been, these past 33 years, there have been some moments of doubt.  Take for example, today, Ash Wednesday, or the beginning of Lent.  For you Catholics, Ash Wednesday represents a reminder and celebration of human mortality, and as a sign of mourning and repentance.  For me, it reminds me of when my testimony came crashing down. 

It was 1994, and my team the team I sat on the bench for, was ranked number one in the state of Pennsylvania and favored to win it all.  We They were amazing, and I was convinced that no team could take us them down.  So, we traveled to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania to play Nazareth High School on...yep, you guessed it...Ash Wednesday.  As we were warming up, I was shooting the only baskets I would shoot the entire game, I noticed the entire team were observing Ash Wednesday and displayed the traditional ash on their foreheads.  Yet, I wasn't nervous.  I mean, I was a devout Christian, who prays at night, and who was standing in Bethlehem about to play Nazareth - surely, I had this.  Surely, my religion had this game.  And then we got beat.  And my world came crashing down.  Everything I believed in hung in the balance. 

Then, as if that wasn't torture enough, every year, on Ash Wednesday, we would meet some "St." something high school in some Christian town and lose.  Lose!  Never did we even have a fighting chance. 

So, today I was standing in Costco and what rides up, but an Asian woman on a mobility scooter, fresh from observing Ash Wednesday.  I'm not going to lie, I clutched my baby a little tighter, and I'm still sort of waiting to see what faith shattering experience I'm going to have to endure today.

This Is a Real Post

Family, friends, creepy stalkers I have a question for all of you:  How are we going to get out of this debt situation?  No, I'm just kidding. I don't care about that.  My serious question is this: Who decided it's alright to just empty your shopping cart and then leave it some random place?  (If you are one of those people, then stop reading, because yes, this entire entry is going to be about you lazy people.)  First of all, did you know the same amount of energy you put into hauling and heaving the shopping cart onto some random sidewalk (Yeah, I'm talking to the people, who frequent the Marina del Rey Costco) you could actually use to, I don't know, put the cart into lanes they actually designate for them. Yes, you heard me right - stores actually thought of this situation ahead of time, and even went so far, as to create "little homes" for all the carts to return to.  Wild right?

Now listen, don't give me that crap about setting the cart out for some future shopper to come and take it back into the store because it ain't gonna happen.  You know why?  Because the cart is shoved between a suburban and a huge bush, and unless you are targeting someone who is addicted to the game Operation, this cart isn't going anywhere.

And lastly, don't give me the excuse about not wanting to leave your child or groceries unattended while you walk the fifteen feet to return the cart.  One, if someone steals your child while you are returning the cart then hats off to them.  Honestly, you cannot, I repeat, cannot unlock a child out of car seat in the 7 seconds you have your back turned.  It can't be done.  I can't even do it in 45 seconds.  I swear, those locks are sealed by the devil.  And the groceries...well, you are an idiot if you think your Eggos are going to be saved from completely de-thawing with those 7 extra seconds of being sealed in your movable refrigerator car.

So, friends do me a favor - one, return your carts.  And two, when you see someone giving you the eye of, "Hey buddy take this cart in with you so I don't have to walk it four steps," look away.   Just look away.

Things That Go Bump In The Night

I got to say baby monitors are an amazing invention.  Honestly, they have literally made it acceptable to shut your child into a closet or a trunk in the basement because as long as you can hear them breathing all is okay in the world.  (Don't worry I haven't done the basement thing, but the closet thing...)

So, a few weeks ago, we finally decided waking up every 40 minutes to check on our daughter, who sleeps down the hall, was getting slightly ridiculous.  So, we purchased a baby monitor.  When we first turned the thing on, I'll admit, I was sort of hoping we were going to hear our next door neighbors having a fight, or someone having a secret affair.  (I don't know why I think a baby monitor has special powers, but there's just something about those frequency dials, you have to adjust to get a clear signal, that makes you feel like if could just find the right combination a whole new world could be open to you....well, a world of spying and voyeurism.  Did I mention I'm home alone a lot?)

Anyway, I'm currently not listening to my neighbors, but I have noticed at night they take a lot of trash out, and in their mail they once received...kidding...

So, yes, I love the baby monitor.  I love listening to my baby sigh, as she is putting herself to sleep, and the ridiculous amounts of farting that occurs when she is waking up.  But, as great as all of this is, I'll tell you one thing I hate about the monitor:  I hate the strange sounds it picks up.  You parents know what I'm talking about.  You'll be laying in bed, listening to her heavy breathing, when all of the sudden you'll hear this crackle or rustle.  And as you lay there trying to explain it away, and silently waiting for it to happen again, the thoughts begin...You parents know what I'm talking about...ALL OF THE SUDDEN YOU ARE CONVINCED SOMEONE IS IN HER ROOM.  There, I said it!  Yes, the baby monitor is making me nuts.  I've gone from a normal, sound sleeper, to a paranoid freak, who is convinced each night someone is standing in my daughter's room.  And yet, the worst part about it, as I think about it, is I STAY IN BED LISTENING!  I DON'T EVEN GET UP AND SEE IF, IN FACT, SHE IS BEING ABDUCTED.  What kind of parent am I?

So, listen baby monitor just tell me my daughter is breathing and that I'm not living next to terrorists.  That's all I'm asking for.

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?