The Most Honest Entry of My Life

Lately the blogging world has been messing with my mind, and if I'm honest, my heart.  So, as you may know, I'm talking to you my two readers, you are only the only ones who read this blog, and therefore, I don't expect you to leave comments.  I mean let's be honest, comments are really only left to tell the writer, "Hey, pathetic person, who feels the need to publicly share your thoughts, I read them, now shut up," or to kiss up to some person they feel they know because they read their public thoughts while waiting at a red light.  I mean, at least that's how I've been categorizing the place for comments on my blog.  Why?  Because folks, I don't receive a lot of comments in these parts, and therefore to make myself feel less pathetic for wasting spending thirty minutes a day writing these entries, I tell myself, "Kate, no comments mean you really stumped your readers into pondering what you said, so buck up, write some more, because there's someone in Norway, who is too afraid to out themselves by leaving a comment.  Write for them."  Anyway, there you go - I have an insecurity about the lack of comments.

So, a few weeks back I wrote some entries about being locked out my house and about babysitting - and BOOM goes the dynamite, I have 65 comments on those two entries.  65 comments?!  As I scrolled down and saw the number, my first thought was, "You've done it.  You've finally found a topic that resonates with people."  And then I opened up the comments to see what all the buzz was about and what did I find?  Oh just a small hacking problem to my blog.  Apparently, a locksmith website was, "...really interested in what I had to say about locks."  And then I was directed to check out their website about locksmiths.  (Cue depressing music after losing at Price is Right.) 

So, listen cyber world - leave me alone.  Hack into my personal bank account, steal my identity, but please, don't leave 65 comments.  It's too heart wrenching.

It's Not a Leash, It's A Lion!

Yesterday, I was out walking the little one in my new BOB stroller.  (Which I pretty much nailed getting off Craigslist.  How good did I do?  Well, first I sold my crappy "non-running" stroller for $200.00, then I found a BOB, that had been on Craigslist for a few weeks, headed over, gave an offer below asking price and shoved the stroller into the car before the guy could call his recently divorced wife to see if she was okay with the low ball offer.  Again...nailed it.  As I drove off, I'll admit I felt a little bad for swindling this poor divorced dad, but hey, that's the cycle of selling on good ol' Craigslist.)

Anyway, as I was out, sort of looking over my shoulder for the divorced dad, who would most likely be tracking me down for virtually stealing his stroller, I noticed a child, probably three years old, being walked by his father in a monkey harness.  Now, I'm not one to judge...no seriously, can we discuss this?

First of all, to the company that makes these contraptions - disguising these harnesses as lions, monkeys and dogs doesn't negate, or mask the fact, that you have built an apparatus to control your child much like reins on a horse, yokes on cattle and leashes on dogs. Seriously, what was the creative meeting like on these things? Did someone stand up and say, "Honestly, if we make them look like a fun dog with long arms no one will notice a child is being led through the mall like inmate #11432."

Second of all, what did that kid do that warranted this straight jacket in the middle of suburbia?  Did he feed too much to the ducks?  Did he stop and smell too many flowers?  Did he fall behind as the family of four gently walked the circular path around the lake?  Seriously, when I walked past this kid the only thing going on in his head was, "Hey nice looking woman, with that brand new BOB, do you know the number for Children Protective Services?"

And lastly, parents if you are going to use these animal harnesses, please don't make the kid walk with actual leashed dogs.  I mean, come on, what are you teaching this kid?  Before you know it he'll be picking up his own poop in plastic bags and asking for his belly to be scratched just so he can get some attention.

I've only been a parent for nine months, but there's got to be a better way.  Drugs, maybe?

Out of Proportion

My actual hood as seen to your right.


Last Friday I made the fateful decision to head up to Santa Monica for a doctor's appointment and a little lunch with some friends.  As I was headed to my friend's house, the road I was traveling on was immediately barricaded by police.  Now, for most of you this would spark some curiosity as to what was going on.  You might think, "Gee, I think I'm going to get out of my car here and ascertain what is the matter.  I sure hope no one is hurt...and I'm sure glad these police officers are stopping traffic and not allowing any kind of detour."  However, if you have lived in Santa Monica, or any city for that matter, sadly your real first thought is, "Seriously!!!?"  Followed by, "Awesome, what did some idiot do now?"  So, as soon as I saw the brake lights ahead of me and the flashing lights of cops, I did what any street smart driver would do, immediately, hooked a left onto a side street and rode it until I hit another barricade and then...did the same thing.  Finally, after running one red light...that was definitely yellow when my foot accidentally slammed on the accelerator...I reached my friend's house.  And then the other sad thing happened...all through lunch we listened to sirens and helicopters, and again, not once did we feel inclined to find out what was going on.  It wasn't until our friend was an hour late to lunch did we think to maybe turn on the news and found out there had been a shooting a mile away.  A mile away.  Did we panic then?  Nope.  Just kept eating lunch.

I tell this story for two reasons, one, to obviously show how numb cool and urban I had become in Santa Monica, and two, to show how ridiculous the burbs are making me because last night, while we were finishing dinner, I heard a lot of noise coming from outside.  Immediately, I sprung out of my chair to see two boys playing some type of "Throw a ball against the garage and then grunt over and over as you run to get it..." or something like that. For ten minutes I just stood there fighting the urge to not go outside and tell them to shut up.

So again, actual shooting in city, no reaction.  Boys playing loud game outside my quiet condo - about to go postal.

Fascinating

So, lately I've been doing a lot of ironing, scrapbooking, reading, knitting, putting together first aid kits for kids in Africa...alright, watching TV.  Anyway, last night as I was putting dinner together I happened to have the TV on and started listening to Jeopardy.  After nailing two questions in a row about the Dodgers, and feeling like a complete genius, I might add, Alex Trebeck took a moment in the show to do some interviews of the contestants.  I must admit, these interviews have to be my favorite part of the entire show - mainly because for a few seconds I get to feel semi-superior to these freaks of nature, who somehow know every sonnet Shakespeare wrote and the entire Periodic Table.  (Yes, being an expert on those two things would classify you as a genius in my book.)

Anyway, last night the three contestants, Alex had to interview, were particularly "awesome."  For the first one, Alex read on his card, "So, it says here you like some interesting things about rocks.  What would that be?"  What proceeded could only be described as something less awkward than watching two elderly people french kiss.  Somehow through a lot of deep breaths and stutters, the fun fact genius, but social moron, described how he likes to go to different ponds and find rocks that have been sitting for long periods of time.  And as if that wasn't awkward enough, Alex asked a follow-up question of, "So, what's the longest sitting rock you've ever found?"  To which the pond geologist responded with, "Um, there's really no way to tell."  "Fascinating," responded Alex.  Fascinating?  Which part?  The part that his hobby doesn't actually make sense?  Okay, now that I write it out it does seem interesting.

The next two idiots were equally as strange.  One, is a huge fan of Anderson Cooper because he likes trivia.  (To which, she awkwardly looked into the TV screen and said, "So...I suppose, Anderson if you are ever in New York you have a...uh, standing invitation to our...uh...trivia night.")  What did Alex respond with?  "Fascinating."  Again, Alex which part?  The part where someone named Anderson Cooper is going to be filing a restraining order pretty soon in New York?

And lastly, the two time champion had to tell everyone on live TV that his two day winning total of $19,000 is more than he makes in a year working at a grocery store.  When hearing that, Alex asked the question that all of us were dying to ask, "So, are you going to stop working at the grocery store now that you have all this money?"  After a few moments of awkward silence, the contestant responded, "Um, no, it's really not that much money."

This made me laugh out loud.  Honestly, Alex, you are surrounded by trivia all day long.  You read questions with such confidence, that for a second I forget you have the answers right in front of you.  You rock a man bracelet.  (This has got to take confidence to pull off.)  Doesn't any of this sink in?  Haven't you gotten a little smarter throughout the years?  Or are you so immersed in stupid fun facts that you have forgotten that after taxes his $19,000 might come out to $9,000?  Do you know you can't really live off that for long?  Huh, Alex?  Respond!  And don't you dare respond with...fascinating...

The Art Of Selling

Oh, the adventures of selling items on craigslist.com continues.  This time I decided to sell a stroller, that was given to me by a past customer...I was going to use it, but then I saw on the stroller's website that they don't recommend you run or walk quickly with a child inside.  Um, that's not going to work.  No, my knees can't really run, but I would like the option to walk quickly.  What exactly defines "walking quickly" anyway?  Stride must be elongated an extra four inches, and the heel remains off the ground for 2.5 extra seconds?*

Anyway, after inspecting the stroller in a dark garage I decided to post it for $200.00 knowing that all the stroller morons out there would low ball me and hopefully I would receive at least $100.00 for it.  So, I posted it, claimed I had never used it (Which is true.  I never used it. The customer before me used it.  But me? Nope.) and - if you ever post something on craigslist.com, always put some stupid stuff on there like "Product Specifications and Weight of Item."  I don't know why, but freak, those stupid details are like sirens to a sinking ship.  Sometimes I just make them up:
Warranty: Forever
Made of: 20% Carbon Dioxide and Recycled Wood
Featured in the movie Beethoven I and II

People love that stuff.

So, anyway, after a few hours of posting my stroller one guy contacted me and said this was the exact stroller his wife was wanting.  (Apparently, she is NOT into walking quickly.)  So, I text my name and address and he responds with: "My name is Jesus.  Imagine that!  Why would you sell it to anyone other than Jesus?  You make sure you enjoy your loooonnnng lunch. Don't come back home till I get there. (Creepy Smiley Face.)  The "looonnnggg" lunch reference is to the fact that I said someone else might be coming by to see it during lunch. Apparently, Jesus wanted me to skip out on that other buyer.  Not very Christian Jesus...just saying.  Not very Christian Like.

Anyway, the other buyer fortunately didn't show up and I was able to sell the stroller at my asking price to good ol' Jesus.  I love craigslist.com.  I just hope that one day I don't get beaten for my "semi-embellished" posts...cus, apparently, once the stroller was in the light, I noticed some massive scratches on it from storing shoving it in my garage.  Did I say never used and in perfect condition?


* I created that definition.  Please do not attempt to test or duplicate.

Pink, Pink, Pink Means Freaking Girl

A baby dressed in a pink onesie, gray skinny jeans and pink socks is strolled into a grocery store by a mother, who yes, in the past has been mistaken for a boy, but now has blossomed into a woman.  (Well, at least is still nursing, and consequently, isn't leaving much to the imagination.)  This baby and mother encounter five different people through their course of shopping, and each time the comment is made, "My, what a cute boy you have!"  Once the mom regains consciousness after slipping into some dark places from her past, when salesclerks would tell her brothers what a cute little brother she was, she answers, and hates herself while doing it, "Gee, thanksss..."

So, random people, lend me your ear.  What's the deal?  Honestly, what do I need to do to drive home the point that my daughter is a girl?  Dress her in pink?  Oh wait.  Answer, "Well, I'm sure proud of HER?" Or, "I know, when SHE came out, I said to my husband, 'What a beautiful DAUGHTER we have been given?'"  Or are you asking me to do the unthinkable?  Are you "All I see are boys everywhere I look" people out there trying to tell me that I'm going to have to....I'm going to have to...I'm going to have to employ bows?  Huge bows?  Bows that NASA is going to ask me to stop wearing because they are mistaking them for new masses of land?  Is that what you are asking of me?

Well, I'm not sure I'm prepared to make such a move, but I am prepared to answer back next time someone tells me what a cute boy I have with, and this depends on who tells me - girls get: "Well, and same to you Mister."  And for the misguided boys, "Right back at ya, Little Lady."

What? I'm prepared to be hit in the face before my daughter goes down the bow road.

Like Time Through An Hourglass....

So, I have completed another parenting milestone...I've traveled on a plane ALONE with a baby. Yep, high fives all around.  For those of you who don't have children and fly a great deal, do me a favor and next time you are on a flight, just close your eyes and take a quick cat nap.  Just do it.  And when you wake up I want you to crack open a book and read it.  Read twenty pages.  And while you are reading ask the stewardess for a drink AND a snack.  Proceed to eat, drink and read.  When you get tired of these exercises please close your eyes again.  Why am I asking you to do these things?  Because if you ever decide to procreate you will long for those relaxing days of flying. You will long to read some stupid article about some crappy restaurant Southwest airlines has chosen to highlight in their in flight magazine.  You will even miss considering flying to Austin to find this restaurant.  You will miss the idiots who complete the Sudoku puzzles and who write two incorrect answers in smeared black ink in the crossword puzzle you were thinking about attempting, but knowing you would only get the pop culture answers right.  (I mean, I think I've heard of people approaching crossword puzzles that way.)  And you will even miss the boredom you feel from just sitting there waiting to land.  You will miss all of it because once you have a child, time seems to stop on a plane.  Minutes that used to fly, just like the plane you are sitting in, seem to linger and stop for moments of rest. Honestly, I would wrestle my child, show her books, feed her, show her the window for the twentieth time and then I would check my watch and notice that only 1 minute and 18 seconds had passed.  Honestly, were my parents being buried down below as I was stuck in this time warp???!!  Were flying cars actually passing us and was my husband living with his second wife as I was trying to get my child to stop grabbing the hair of my neighbor??!  Come on JetBlue, answer me!

Oh well, the good news was my child didn't have an explosive diaper, throw up all over me or cry out for the entire flight.  The bad news is we fly to Maui in a few months on a direct flight.  That's almost five hours of flying...or sixteen years in baby flight time.

Adventures in Babysitting and Lost Kidneys

The other night I had a total "How did I get here?" moment.  (No, this wasn't one of those times I was left in a tub of ice, with a sign next to me that read, "Call 911 because your kidneys have been harvested."  Because let's be honest - that's a major moment of, "How the beep did I get here?")  No, compared to that this was pretty mundane, but still gave me pause...Ah, shoot I did it again - too much build up! Isn't there some creative writing teacher out there that could teach me on how to not put myself in these writing conundrums?!  Anyone? I am about to compare a black market crime of stealing some date rape girl's kidneys to...wait for it...experiencing my first babysitter.  See...just awful.

Anyway, yes, the other night the husband and I left our less than 15 lbs., 8 month old baby, for the first time, in the "responsible" hands of a 15 year old babysitter.  Now, leaving her wasn't the moment in struck me of how crazy life is, because my baby was asleep before the babysitter got there, and remained asleep the entire time.  Again, let's recap, she was asleep the ENTIRE time and I still paid this kid to text for two hours inside my house.  Speaking of black market crime...

No, the moment I questioned how life had gotten full circle for me, was when I had to drive the babysitter home.  Oh, how I hated these awkward drives home.  Sometimes it would be done by the father, who reeked of some cocktail and asked stupid questions like, "Does your dad like his job?"  "Do your parents travel much?"  And then, while checking to see if the door was open, and if I could survive if I rolled out of the car, I would answer, "Yeah, totally."  Or I would have to endure the mother driving me home, which consisted of her desperately trying to get me to say how gifted her kid was, and how out of all the other kids in the neighborhood, he was clearly the most polite and well-adjusted.  And of course, the whole time this pathetic questioning went on, all I could think about was, I hope they didn't mind I ate that whole frozen pizza, put their kids to bed about an hour earlier than they had indicated and went through their CDs and photo albums.

So, there I was being the awkward mom and hating myself for it.  I tried to stop myself, but before I knew it, I asked, "Did she wake up at all while we were gone?" (Full well knowing that she didn't wake up because of my quasi creepy baby camera I have hooked up to my phone.)  And then when she said no, I said, "Yeah, she's been sleeping through the night since she was three months old."  CREEPY.  And then, if that wasn't awkward enough, as I was handing her the hard earned compensation money I said, while giving her a roll of ten ones, "Sorry, I work at a strip joint and this is all I had after a long night of..."  And there we sat, one confused 15 year old, and one old/pathetic 34 year old.

On the flip side our two frozen pizzas were still in the freezer when I got back....so, I'll be hiring her again.

Do You Have Keys?

The other night the husband and I got locked out of our house.  When I just wrote that sentence I thought, "'got locked out of our house' sounds like someone shoved us out the door, and when we pleaded to be let back in, a crazy man, with a large janitor ring of keys ran to our window, and while jangling the keys, screamed, "NEVER!  YOU WILL NEVER ENTER THIS HOME AGAIN!" 

Okay, so let me rephrase my first sentence: The other night the husband and I thought the other one had a key to our house, and while neglecting to listen to each other ask, "Do you have a key?", closed the door, and then proceeded to mutter, and sort of shout, certain expletives over and over again while we both came to the sad conclusion, that we both lacked the super human power to walk through walls and retrieve our keys inside the house. Yeah, I think that covers it.

So, yes, this would be the fourth or fifth time of our short marriage, we have managed to lock ourselves out of our house.  Fortunately, this time our keys weren't down an elevator shaft after I threw them at my husband while we were racing to our apartment, and I thought I could buy some time with my keys gauging him in the eyes (because that never happened...)  Instead, like responsible repeated past offenders, we had finally wised up and given a key to my mother-in-law, who lives 20 minutes away.  Unfortunately, in the midst of our rage and frustration, I couldn't exactly remember if I had or had not given her a key.  I knew we had talked about it, and I know it was definitely one of my resolutions for 2012, to not get locked out of my apartment again, but I couldn't be sure.  So, until we could confirm the existence of the key, we started the: "Four Steps Of Being Locked Out Your House."  We began with step one: How Do You Break Into Your Own Home?  You know this fun game.  You all of the sudden become a stealth ninja walking around your house trying all the windows and doors. (All the while hoping your neighbors know you actually live there.)

And then you move to step two: I Wish My House Wasn't Fort Knox.  Immediately, you start wishing that a window was broken, a screen was loose, an animal had started burrowing a hole into your living room, or that you forgot to lock some back door. 

And then, when you realize you don't live in the projects, you start:  What Are My Options?  For example, do you call the locksmith on a Sunday, pay the ridiculous price to open your door, or do you take a rock and smash your own window, which could be possibly cheaper than calling the locksmith?  Do you scale up the roof and try to shimmy down the chimney?  Do you curse the fact that your house doesn't have a chimney?  Do you consider just walking away and finding this to be a moment of freedom from your possessions?  Do you tell yourself you'll just start living off the land, and not worry about keys, locks and conformity? 

And then finally, after you have weighed all your options, pulled and pushed on every window, you move onto the last step of turning to your spouse and asking: "So, seriously, do you have a key?"  This step if fun for everyone because you can keep going back to it during the whole process.  Try opening a window and then ask, "Come on, do you have a key?"  Or walk around the entire perimeter of your home, hoping you'll find a key some key fairy dropped by accident, and when you get back, turn to your bewildered spouse and ask, "Did you check your pockets?"  See?  Fun!

So, yes, we fortunately got a key from my mother-in-law...will this be the last time?  Why should it?  It's always so much fun!

Channeling My Energy

Since moving to the burbs I've been finding it hard to find things to discuss on this blog.  Sure, I could tell you about my daughter's awesome two new teeth, or the fact that she still hates anything in the "solid" department, but let's be honest, I just got bored writing that sentence.  (Not that her teeth aren't cool, and slightly terrifying to me...since I could be possibly feeling them in a very, very uncomfortable way in the near future...she eats from my...okay you got it.)  Anyway, this morning I sat down to write something and nothing would come to me.  So, after ten minutes of having college flashbacks of when I used to stare at empty screens for hours on end while my brain couldn't muster a single sentence for my current history paper, I decided to once again leave you, my faithful readers, with nothing to do but check Facebook one more time.  

And then a few hours ago, the following took place:

So, I finally feel like my body has semi-returned back to normal (minus the Dolly Parton wannabes up top) and I've been trying to do a little shopping.  So, after nap time, I packed up the little one and headed for the mall.  After one hour of looking around and trying things on, the little one had a melt down in the changing room, which would have been fine, except for the fact that, the only thing I ended up wanting, after trying on clothes while holding a baby, actually had a flaw on it and which was the only one in my size in the entire store,  So, yep, you guessed it, after all the chaos and tears, the only thing I walked out of the mall with was a crying child.  (And not even gifted wrapped.)

But, hey, after seven and a half months of being a mom, I've learned to let these things roll off my back...or so I thought.  Fifteen minutes later I found myself exiting the freeway onto the streets of Irvine, with an out of control Prius on my tail.  Fearing this driver was rushing to some liberal meeting on the next Earth Day Celebration, I attempted to change lanes to get out of his way.  However, as I was trying to change lanes I managed to cut him off as we trying to do the same.  Consequently, he slammed on his brakes, swerved into the other lane, almost hitting another car, swerved again, and then raced down the street all the while aggressively changing lanes.  And then Irvine did what it does best, stopped the flow of traffic with poorly timed lights and allowed me to meet my friend face to face.  

Now, I'm not sure what possessed me, but as soon as my car came to a stop next to his, I mouthed, "Are you okay?"  (Not in a compassionate way with the tilt of the head, but more like, "What the beep is your problem?!")  He responded, while putting his phone down, with something, but I couldn't hear him because my window was up.  So, I did what any rational mother would do...I rolled my window down and said, "You want to repeat that?"  For the next thirty seconds we traded back insults about one another's driving, I threw in the "I have a child in the back seat" for guaranteed guilt and shame, he retorted back with "you started it," and then I said, "Whatever, you are being an a**hole..."  As soon as it came out, I almost started laughing.  What was I doing?  Sure this guy was being a jerk, but where did that come from?  He then said, "Well that wasn't very nice." (He had a point.)  So, I responded with, "Hope you don't kill yourself on the way home" and drove off.  (I'll admit, I didn't actually mean that...I mean the part that he "doesn't kill himself.")

So, what did we learn?  One, I need to stop berating the lights in Irvine.  Today they were actually pretty awesome.  Two, I'm a great mom.  Why?  Because instead of hitting my child and losing my cool, I remained calm and kind...and channeled that energy into something, I would definitely deem, more productive.  High five to me.

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!