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.