Some chain link accessories for the fall

Guest post written by Karen Earhart Lately, I've been all about buying accessories. I think that it happened because I realized that I had way too many pieces of clothing and not nearly enough accessories to change up my look! So I decided to fix that and have been buying accessories like there's no tomorrow. But they are cheaper accessories from places like Forever 21 and H&M. Besides they're better to buy, especially for trendy stuff, because I'm not investing a whole bunch of money into jewelry I won't wear the next semester. But one thing that I need for fall but I don't have yet is some chain link accessories. I've seen so many of them in fashion magazines and blogs over the past few months and I really want to get in on that. I shopped around online with my wireless internet Las Vegas and found several accessories on the more affordable side. I ended up finding the perfect fall chain handbag that I think is just adorable. I love that the chain in it is like bonus jewelry when I wear it!

Home Loan

In the past two years I'm starting to finally learn about money.  I don't know how somehow that life skill went over my head, but it did, and thankfully it didn't kill us.  Mr Incredible has a good grasp on money, which negated my zero concept.  On the other hand, I always knew that I couldn't overdo it, but that was more for modesty reasons than anything.  I'm learning that coupons actually do save money, and not buying something is the best way to save money as well.  I'm telling you.  I was bad with money.  No.  Really really bad.  

When we were searching for a home, Mr Incredible told me what our mortgage limit could be, and what price tag limit that would put on our house.  Thankfully I respected what he said, and tried aiming lower than our top range.  First strand of smarts I've ever had about money.  I didn't really get everything that was going on in home loaning market, but I knew that I'd better have a cushion.  I'm glad I did, because it's hard to consider things like vet bills and online shopping when you make a loan budget.  Even though we are fine where we are, I still wouldn't mind downsizing for our next home.  Things before we owned a home that seemed so important are really not.  And as a good friend of mine says (a very half glass full friend, at that) "it's all how you look at."

We got a fixed home loan unlike an Aurora loan.  It's through our bank that I love and would recommend to anyone.  A man came and made me sign my name about 75 times.  The Aurora loan may or may not have had some shady business associate with it.  ie lawsuit.  Anyway, I digress.

So if you are looking into buying a home, and are terrible with money like I was, you should go onto a website like http://www.mymoney.gov/.  It's really anything you need to know about how to get on the path to financial not-failure.  Do that and Dave Ramsey.  Everyone loves Dave Ramsey.  I saw a car filled with Dave Ramsey quotes.  Him and Suze are where it's at.  Even though any time I pick up any of their books I kind of get overwhelmed.    They are like FlyLady for the financially messy.  And if you just take baby steps you'll realize how easy finances can be, and how, no matter what your situation it can be successful.  Like I (she) said, "it's all how you look at it."

No More Rack

Have you heard of NoMoreRack?  At first my odd ticking brain thought that it was a Breast Cancer Awareness site.  Something along the lines of "save the tatas."  Needless to say, I was hesitant to even look at this website, because I was nervous to see what it entailed, and what I would commit my brain and emotions to.  (Not much has changed, I'm still an emotional basket case).  Then my friend told me that she'd heard of nomorerack and had a $10 credit there for really cheap, nice jeans.  And once again, retail therapy prevails.  I went to the website and actually had to pick my jaw up off of the floor.  It's like a GLORIFIED Groupon site.  (apparently there IS something better than Groupon).  It's made up of awesome things (THINGS!  We all love things!) everyday at super super discounted prices.  I heart.  I die.  I'm staying up until midnight tonight to see the new deals.  iphone 4s for $60?  mhmm.  A Canon Rebel for $60?  yes.  (Mr. Incredible, take notes.)

I've had a hard time trying to find the nomorerack reviews, but you know my love affair with Martha.  And say no more, it's been featured on Martha's show, The View, USA Today, House Beautiful.  You must be joking me.  But no.  I'm sold.  And the sucker I am, I signed up.  And I'll update you tomorrow about how this sucker will be holding up tomorrow after staying up late finding deals on the computer.  I don't need drugs, I've got deals to get high on.

The one review I did read about was the nomorerack scam.  (Remember my Derrick blog flop?)  It got me nervous.  I knew it was too good to be true!  But apparently the site was hacked into or something, but it's all taken care of now.  It's as secure as any other online shopping (and cheaper, cheaper, cheaper!)  I'm really excited.  See you later when I'm decked out in Gucci and mac accessories.

Found

My fingers literally cannot stand typing this story over, because a) it's heard it too many times b) it's so mysterious there's really nothing to say.  In short, Mr Incredible picked up Peppy from Ohio.  We don't live in Ohio.  Ohio is three states away from us.  Weird.  Better than Austin.

But he came back with a cough, covered with fleas and so ungroomed that we need to shave him.  He also came back completely housebroken, really doesn't jump or bark anymore, and begs for food.  He might just be stunned.  But if these people who had him trained him, then I'm sure they'll need professional odor removal austin.  But they might not care about that sorta thing, considering the amount of fleas that were on him.  yuck.  But I'm really grateful to these people.  It's gotta be hard parting with our terribly behaved but awfully cute and fluffy dog.  Now he is well behaved and looks like a shaved fool.

'scuse the heavy breathing and the extra deep voice.  i was sick.

Last Post Update

Coincidentally, right after I wrote the last post, someone contacted me to my other gmail account through craiglist saying, "i think i have ur dog."  I replied back for info etc, and she hasn't contacted me back.  I'm dying.  I need a trade show pop up parked in an empty parking lot with Peppy's longing face on it so I can actually meet the people claiming to have my dog.  This virtual, un-contactable stuff is too much.  Could you imagine?  I could have pop up booths in different regions of New York with employees and police officers and PETA people.  FOR THE LOVE OF PEPPY.!  Pop up displays at Fairs!  Pop up trade show displays along the highway!  In Amish country, alongside the dried apples and mincemeat pie!

Oh, Peppy, you've taken my sanity.

Some Say Shaken Up, I Say PTSD

Do you remember last year I made the mistake of my life and bought a dog?  Well I topped that mistake.  Ready. Set. Guess.  WRONG.  I didn't buy another dog.  I lost the one we had.  FAIL.  And I've gone through exhaustive efforts trying to find him.  In my defense, I didn't really LOSE the dog.  He went missing from our back door.  Literally scratching at the door waiting to be let in, while I decided I would wait for a commercial to let him in.  We think it was a coyote.  They are not uncommon in our area.  So so so so sad.  We went searching for him that night, then I began driving around.  I saw a police officer, so I flashed my lights to signal him to pull over.  When he did and asked what he could do, I replied, "our dog went missing"  I started sobbing and said, "I didn't even like him!!!"  Officer responded, "Ma'am, did you say that you don't even like your dog?"  "yes!"  And so it goes, the dog that has literally left me in a heap of tears of frustration has now left me in a heap of desperation.  I've called every police station in the area, flyers, put out our blankets with Mr Incredible's cologne on it (because he was more partial to him than me.  I have no idea why.), visited every shelter, SPCA, craiglist, etc.  No luck.  It's been about 5 weeks now.  AND for all you who think that he ran away.   Peppy never runs away.  A) his electric (controversy!) collar was on B) his breed is known for always following around their owners, and never leaving their side.  C) he always always always comes when he's called (only thing he was *moderately* trained at D) he hates the rain and will do anything to get inside.

turns out Peppy and I had quite the love story, since every lost love country song has left me in a mess of tears.  cue sara evans.  Let's take a moment:

aw baby puppy when we first brought him home

This picture is like I had intuition that he would go missing.  It's very milk carton-esque.

Nesting Round 4

I'm really tired and really overwhelmed.  Which should tell you one thing: frantic.  When I'm feeling this way I start setting absurd and unattainable goals, such as needing to look like I live in a Martha Stewart home, make Martha Stewart sort of money (pre bankruptcy), and have Martha Stewart looking dinners and Martha Stewart craft times with my kids.  And I'll be damned if I don't make the Martha Stewart Walnut wreath before the end of November.  I'm damned.  MarthaIloveandhateyourdaily5emailstome.

Oh wait.  I forgot to mention.  I'm nesting.  And above paragraph has nothing to do with nesting.  Above paragraph is added to already innately nesting maternal crazies.  Heh.  I'm posting things on craigslist, making weekly trips to the SPCA, arranging Amvets pickups, dropping off at Salvation Army, and arranging junk removal with Shenandoah Junk Removal.  Because I. gots. junk.  And the house is still trashed.  Because I'm about one notch above motivated, and striking neither a negative score nor positive with discipline.  None better said than by Hitler, "Mein Kampf."  (I'm not sure how that becomes applicable in so many aspects of my life.) (Oh wait, yes I do know why, maybe I'm dramatic.)

UTILITY RESEARCH

Content by Kyle Lowe When we moved to Texas wireless internet providers Houston. It was important to me that we found a service that was well reviewed and that was competitively priced. My kids think I’m crazy about getting good deals and saving money, but the truth is that I work hard for our money and want to make sure that I am spending it responsibly. I assure them that they will understand one day when they have a job and start making and spending their own money. Luckily, at our new home in Texas we have a choice of service providers for our utilities. Previously, we lived in rural Georgia and there were not any choices of utilities providers. If your utilities were out and you couldn’t get anyone on the phone you were just out of luck. Even if you could get someone on the phone, it usually ended up taking a long time to get someone out there to fix it, but you had no choice. You were stuck waiting. Choice is one thing that I love about living in a big city.

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a LOT to say

Casey Anthony, you serious?  You serious, prosecutor?  Maybe this case should not have been brought to court so soon, with such holes in the bucket.  AND SHE CAN NEVER BE TRIED AGAIN.  For Murder in the first degree, manslaughter or aggravated child abuse.  All of which I'm sure she's guilty of.  You're a psychopath, Casey, (and so is your mom and dad.)

It seems you've had a lot of time to think in jail, Casey.  About your loss what's to come of your future.  "partial memoir/comedy/relationship advice book for those not in the know."  Memoir of what?  Aunt Jemima, your cell mate?  Comedy?  Is there something comic that I'm missing?  Relationship?  With you mom?  Your dad?  Caylee's absent father?  Or is it Caylee.  I'm sure in her short two years, you guys really bonded while you partied.


I could scream.  Let's brief this case:

• Baby missing for 30 days.  
• Grandma's 911 call screaming that her grandbaby has been missing for 30 days, oh and btw, my daughters trunk smells like a decaying body
• Day of 911 call you ask neighbor to borrow a shovel.  You don't use it.
• Google searches are "chloroform," "neck breaking" and the like. 
• 55 days from Caylee's birthday you switch your password to timer55.  As in, by the time her birthday rolls around you're going to need a good explanation as to where she is.
• Caylee was found in a dumpster with three pieces of duct tape over her mouth and nose.  With a heart sticker on it.
• That heart sticker belongs to the sheet of stickers that is in your house.
• Her decaying hair is found in your trunk.  
• You partied and got tattooed while your daughter was supposedly missing.
• You say she was with her nanny, who a) has a name that is shockingly close to the drug you're on b) is a completely fictional person.
• You're sick.

K i'm done.

Big Plans

I'm very pleased to announce that today I have ALL OF MY SUPPLIES ready to starting this Etsy shop.  I hope to have it opened by August.  I want to have at least 6 items in the shop when I open it.  I'm not going to let the cat out of the bag just yet as to what will be in the shop, but ideally I would love to have more than one creation of choice.  Where there is a will, there is a way.  Another way to put it, as my friend pointed out, where there is a way there is a will.  I tend toward the former, probably because I'm a hopeless overachiever.  But big plans mean big changes.  Which means that I'll probably do less eating cookies and drinking beer at night and more creating.  I'm pretty pumped.  Hopefully this will take flight.  Seems that when things and situations don't go perfectly I quit.  I've got to get over that.

In other Etsy related news, Mr Incredible is getting nervous because of this.  Quite frankly, I am too.  It's glorified Groupon and I'm hooked.  So when you see the house and myself and my family donned in beautiful handmade goods, you need not ask where they're from.  Love you, Etsy.

wait for it

.... probably not anytime soon, but I think (and we all know what that means- big plans, little results) I'm going to open an Etsy shop.  Skillz?  We'll see.

I'm delighted to see that I had 3 comments on my last post.  I'm motivated with nothing to say.

So there you have it.  An Etsy shop.  And in tribute to all you, love, virtual and non virtual alike, what do you think I'll be naming it?  IMPERFECTDAISIES.  so much love floating all around here.  I'll keep you posted.

That was a Hell of a Hump

Wowzers those last few posts (apart from the Koreans) left this blog in ill standing.  Well to me, anyway.  I really have no interest in reading the last few posts.  Actually I never have any interest in reading any of the previous posts.  They make my blush and feel nauseous.  Don't know why I'm the author of a blog.

I'm on the up and up, finally.  I've overcome my quick bout of Depersonalization Disorder (thank you Kim Iverson and Casey Anthony for putting a name to my mind/body disconnect.)  I can once again formulate thoughts, articulate feelings, and listen to people without feeling like I'm in an underwater dream.

And then come apologies.  Please excuse me, friends and family for the repeated questions, nonsensical answers, and overall DPD.  I'm sorry to my faithful readers for nary an update, and I apologize to myself for losing about 20 followers and all my readers along the way.

So let's get back to the good ol' days.  Nothing says I'm back to my old self like a few obscure linkups (trying to open my own Etsy shop, here.  Gotta use benefactors where I can find them.)

We're getting a new roof soon, with the lowest estimate at $10,000.  Ten thousand dollars.  ching chong rashem.  Homesecurity greatfalls can be a b$&%^.  But since there always is that silver lining, we can think, ha!  maybe we'll get cable!  www.localtv-satellite.com  If they'll be on the roof anyway we might as well get some sort of entertainment out of it.  (doubt it.  I'd rather shop with the extra $90 a month.)

Other than that, I don't know what to update you with.  But let me leave you with this, my fellow blog people.  I'm gaining weight and for once in my life I don't care.  Dare I say, I'm embracing it.  We'll talk more about that later.  But for now, I have freshly baked cookies awaiting me.

Talent

Fortunately I love kids, I love Koreans, love guitars and love talent. Eat your heart out.

anxiety dream

This is probably tmi.


You know those anxiety dreams that you're standing around your elementary school in just your white underwear?  I tend to have a million different versions of them.  Particularly when I'm anxious.  Last night I had that dream in miscarriage form:

I was visiting at a friend's house (a very laid back friend, at that) and went to her basement to find G, my 17 month old.  When I found her I found black stuff all around her mouth. I searched around for what she had eaten, then saw a bottle of rat poison in G's hand.  I went ballistic and began searching for a number for poison control or the hospital, meanwhile my friend wiped the evidence off G's face and reassured me that "now she's fine!"  After precious long minutes of finding the number, dialing wrong numbers, poison control not answering, hospital lines busy, I finally got ahold of someone on poison control.  They told me that she can take ipecac (the medicine that makes you throw up) but it will be "violent" throwing up, and it may do her more harm than good since she is so little.  .....  woke up in a sweat. ....

I then realized that I'm anxious.  Tomorrow (St. Patty's Day) I have to go to my doctor to take medicine.  I haven't technically "miscarried," there was just no sign of life at my last appointment.  I had three choices- wait it out, take medicine, or get surgery.  Waiting it out was risky and didn't seem to be happening.  The DNC (surgery) seemed invasive and reminded me of abortions, which thoroughly depressed me.  The option I was left with was taking the medicine.

Here are the parallels, just in case they are not as clear to you as they are to me:  My baby= my baby.  Rat poison= medicine to be taken tomorrow.  Friend= "everyone goes through it"/ the unknown.  No medical assistance= I take the medicine, go home and wait.  "Violent" throwing up= Doctor saying that it's worse than a period, not as bad as labor.

I'm nervous.

This ain't last year's St Patty's Day.  <-- real link to my blog from last year.  Have I scarred you all with all those sketchy links?  Sorry.

By the way, if I haven't made it around to your blog yet to personally thank you, I want to let everyone know how much I appreciated the support and kind words through this bad Bad time.  Thanks for not being awkward, thanks for just letting me write what I had to write.  a) it was a lot of emotion b) I'm a terrible story teller :)  and furthermore, thanks for showing me so much virtual love!

On Grief

Everything was a little too appropriate today.  It's a grey, gloomy, rainy spring day, there's not a cloud in the sky or a sliver of sunlight.  I was even dressed appropriately for the occasion.  Big clunky boots, jeans, a grey shirt with a navy blue cardigan and a summer scarf.  Hair down with just cherry chapstick.  All of the glimmerings of new life, hidden under all the sure signs of the dead of winter.  I dropped the girls off at my mom's house so I could go to my 12 weeks appointment.  When I first got there I did the routine weigh in.  I gained one pound.  Normally by my 12 week appointment I'm far into about 12-16 pounds.  Nurse asks if I had any concerns, as normal, and as normal I think of something that they reply as "well, every pregnancy is different!"  This month's concern is that my morning sickness literally stopped overnight ("like all my hormones just went away!") and, "why have I only gained one pound?"  This cues the nurse to joke that that should be the least of my concerns, and it's because my selective memory only remembers the times I come in and gain six pounds at a time.

If there's one thing that I remember well, it's my weight.  When, where, why, what number, what size.  I've been wondering lately why I'm still wearing my regular clothes.  By this point in the game, I usually am in the awkward two sizes up, crotch too low, legs too long, but still a muffin top.  Typically I throw in the towel and wear sweats from here on out.

Doctor goes through the routine first trimester questions; each of my previous births, when? full terms?  weight?  Then goes through the routine: heart disease, high blood pressure, depression?  I answer no to all of them, "although, sometime I do get a bit down," when she replies, "Kiera, eveybody gets a little down all the time, but you are the happiest person I've ever met."  She notes that my belly hasn't grown.  She skips the doppler (the machine used to hear the heart) and goes right to sonogram.  Last appointment all the nurses were impressed that the baby had already begun moving.  His little arms and legs were going the entire time.  This time there was nothing.  No heart beat, no sweet limbs flailing.

Couple mothers' guilt and Irish guilt and my mind starts racing, even though it probably had nothing to do with me.  Was it the days I forgot to take my vitamin?  Zumba class?  When I got the flu two weeks ago?  Was it just too much for the little baby to handle?

The doctor has to send me to "make it official," to the imaging floor of the hospital.  The scene must've been set by a director.  I finally saw the hospital through a new lens, and I realized why people feared it.  Full of death and sorrow.  I had to walk down too many dimly lit hallways, with shiny floors, and the smell of bleach.  For the first time I realized that the hospital is just kind of dank.  I couldn't pull my knit cardigan tight enough around me.  I waited in chairs, while listening to news full of more destruction, and read a times magazine through blurry eyes.  Then I was simply called in, got a quick, bit too harsh, efficient sonogram, with the tech saying, "yep, I'm just confirming what they already told you."  And I was cattled out like any other patient that found out grief worthy news.

I've always loved the hospital, I loved the smell of the cleanliness, the soap, the squeak of shoes.  When I think of the hospital I think of unlimited cranberry juice and Lorna Doones on beckon call.  I think of clean white sheets, with the tv on low in the background, while I sit Indian style with my new sweet baby wrapped up sitting in my lap.  (While I eat hospital meatloaf and buttered corn, topping it off with jello.)  I love smelling my baby's sweet head and choosing which outfit to put on her.  A white tshirt with a diaper or a yellow tshirt with a diaper?  It seems all of these things I was so looking forward to in September is just gone.

This all may seem a little dramatic.  I've experienced miscarriages second hand, and I still had no grasp of how devastating it is.  In the book of etiquette, you're supposed to never say, "maybe there was something wrong with it," or "you'll have another baby soon," or "at least you have other kids!"  All of these things are true, but there is something so earth shatteringly unique about this baby.  This hope, this dream.  What this baby was going to offer to the world.  What I was going to offer to this baby.

The thaw is setting in my bones, and I'm just getting achier.  Hopefully the nurses and doctors understand that I was in complete shock when I said, "well there's always a silver lining, and now I can drink beer on St Patty's day!"  Because that's not really how I feel.  I would give up anything for any amount of time for my children.  sl;fsdf;lasjdlasfkhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Impractical Net.

With the help of a friend, today, I realized that I'm in survival mode.  Survival mode really can be intense, but thankfully for me I do a wonderful job at not realizing things/ignoring them.  I just had a million friends unfriend me on facebook.  Now that's serious.  And Mr Incredible has no idea what he'll be doing for job(s) in the next two months.  And I have a serious dilemma going on with sending my 4 year old to school next year.  And, are we moving relatively soon?  Are we going to be having a pay cut?  Will Peppy live to see next year?  Crisis mode.

Impractical enough.  I hope you see the parallel.

Relatively speaking, this all looks just fine.  Things work out.  Thankfully my marriage is not failing, my children are healthy, and my dog doesn't have lock jaw.  And he's little enough that the one and half year can restrain him if need be.  There has never been a need, but the little comforts in life are the ones we emotionally fall back on, no?  And there is always Mr Incredible to fall back on, too.  He's painfully practical, with a tiny streak of idealism in him.  Like, for instance, when we recently bought our new van, he confidently yet carelessly threw the "valet key" in the glove compartment.  When a wrinkle formed between my brows and I asked him what he was doing, he replied, "it's a valet key!"  As though we're going to need valet parking.  Ever.  Maybe once a year we go somewhere with valet parking, but even still we get there approximately 4.5 hours before the rush.  Like 4pm not 830pm.  Ideal thinking, eh?  In reality we will need that key within the first month of owning the car, because the kids will lose the other keys, and the doors will be locked, and then we'll realize that the "valet key" is in the glovebox.  Then we'll really be SOL.  But sometimes his tiny proton of idealism is just so comforting.  Valet key when we're about to experience pay cut.  Tell me you don't want it.

I'm expecting Mr Incredible to come home tomorrow, and tell me that he's purchased Burial insurance.  Or, in the midst of all of his exams, papers, work, Peppy walks, kissing the girls goodbye, I'll find him on the computer looking up Medigap Insurance.  I'm 24.  But seriously, what's not to love about the impractical idealist side of him?  One has to rein the other in.  We've got it under control.  Kind of.  Thank God for my recent burial insurance for senior citizens.

A Redneck Joke is Just a Redneck Joke. Don't Hate.

Phew.  I think we've gone a week with nonstop blogging.  Go me.  I even have a giveaway coming up.  Jewelry.  Nice jewelry, at that.  Stay tuned.  (I'm waiting for readership to go up more, so if you want this giveaway as much as I want to do it, then comment, so I know that readership is up.)

Some posts are wordy, some are not so much.  That used to rub me the wrong way.  I'm coming to terms with it now.  So here's another short post.

You might stare a second too long, then be ashamed that it took you that long to figure it out.  Maybe.  heh heh heh.

Thank you, *friend*, who sent me this!

Redundant

I'm sure if you read my little tiny independent blog, then you probably read Cup of Jo. And if so, I'm very sorry for reposting this. I want to post this everywhere, I'm tempted to on facebook, but I know that would just be overdoing it. So excuse the potential redundancies, and watch this hilarious hilarious video. And, like Joanna said, even if you're not the watch-videos-online-type, it's still worth it. Because tears were streaming as I watched this:

Film director Johannes Nyholm made this short video, starring his baby. clever. hilarious.

Working off the Ramen Noodles, One Hip Swivel at a Time

I'm two steps behind, bringing up the caboose, a straggler, trend follower. Call it as you may, but I finally took my first Zumba class. My friend invited me to go with her, and as we were walking in, I said, "well since you've done this already, I can rest assured that it's not going to be sexy Brazilian moves." She casually replied, "no it is!" OH. I'm Irish and have tacked on a few or more extra pounds. I was nervous I'd have to zoom-ba right outta there.

It was amazing to a fault. As in, I want to be a Zumba instructor. The biggest problem was the mirrors. Those freakin mirrored walls will get you every. time. I was bouncing around feeling so good, feeling like I had the Brazilian Rhythm (how hard is that word to spell, seriously. I just googled it three times.) Then I would catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror (and the lady behind me staring at my underwear lines in my spandex) and I realized that probably the closest thing to me becoming brazilian is my dark hair and pear shaped body. But honey, that di'nt stop this dancin' machine.

l

I looked less like the girl in the foreground, more like the lady in the teal in the background. With spandex, to boot.

What failed me in the mirrors was quickly rebuttaled in the class of ladies. (Friend not included) There was a big chested lady of about 6'1, a 220 pound man, an anorexic looking teenager with oversized feet, and better yet, the instructor was funky, cute, but she was not necessarily Rio de Janeiro ready either. AND to top it all off, her cool down music was just as amazing as the Brazilian rap. No sarcasm: (thanks, Pearls, for the hint)

Strong and Confident

I'm starting to wonder if anyone is truly confident in themselves.  Seems that the more I learn about people, the more I realize that everyone acts out of their wounds.  Seems as though the more confident a person acts the more broken they are.  Which loops around into a huge large circle with the beginning and the end being 'be kinder than necessary' because you just don't know anyone except yourself.  And chances are, that's scary enough.

But this lady.  I'm not sure she has one single wound, because THAT is confident:

Foodie Unleashed

I am a true blood foodie.  This isn't a condition, this is me.  It's as innate as survival to me, not just a too comfortable marriage, a backfired eating disorder, or stress.  I love food.  Really any food, apart from mussels or cannolis.  When I was a tender age around three or four and someone asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, I replied, "eat nutritious foods!"  And that is as to the core as I can get.

beef barley soup and oranges, more accurately

Now imagine a foodie unleashed via pregnancy.  Yes, imagine.  We're talking Hostess cupcakes and spaghetti with butter and cheese and squash with brown sugar and grapefruit! and ginger ale with maraschino cherries! chicken, (so gross), elbow noodles (never mention that word again), bologna! salad with bacon and bleu cheese and pickled onions (for realz), mango coleslaw (do it) (ps that is a link on my own accord.  First time in a while, I know.  It will actually lead you to a real website, not San Diego car repair or Minneapolis real estate.  heh.).  You get the picture.  But that's only in the evenings.


Did you see this past weeks Glee about drinking awareness?  And all of the students and Mr Schuester come to school wiht sunglasses on because of their hangovers?  And Mr Schue mentions that the principal's cologne is so strong?  This is what my morning are like every morning.  My body wash makes me nauseous.  The smell of coffee, nauseating.  The idea of a Reese's egg is literally vomit inducing.  The foodie in me is nonexistent, and I feel like a sassy and picky fourth grader.  But that hasn't stopped me from  outgrowing my pants.  So soon.  And it's all because of the glorious 1pm-on eating.

The best part about it is when I hit the 50 pound weight gain mark and have the baby, by then I'm burnt out on eating so much junk and all the time.  (knock on wood- chances are just because I'm saying it means this time I won't lose it)  So unlike Giselle, who claims that it is a shame that some pregnant women think of themselves as a garbage disposal, I will eat to my content in preparation for labor.  Because (this is my ultimate fallback excuse) did you know that calorically speaking, going through labor and delivery is equivalent to participating in a triathlon?  Bring it on.  I've got some carbo loading to do.

Bus driver

For most of my elementary years I had this one Bus Driver.  Her name was something along the lines or Diana or Tracy or Nancy.  She was really cool.  Really cool until she got pregnant, and to my young and innocent mind she was more or less a bunny rabbit.  (Pot calling the kettle black, whatevs.)  When she was not pregnant she was simply a highlighted haired, slim lady with crayolaed pictures of her favorite little riders and a love note from her husband hanging on the dash.  When she was pregnant, she really turned into a downright monster.  We'd literally tiptoe on the bus.  If we made it on the bus, anyway.  Because she was not unknown to drive right past you, jsut for kicks or some authority, I'm assuming.  Not pregnant, on holidays she would give us our favorite candies and erasers and maybe a construction papered craft that she'd done the night before.  When she was pregnant we would tiptoe on the bus and before even making it to the second step she would bark, "DIABETES OR ALLERGIES?" then toss a bag of candy corn at us.

After her maternity leave she would come back radiant and beaming, showing us new picture of her ugly (you know they are) newborn.  She would practically hand cigars out to the boys.  It was very jarring for us, and took us the full rest of the year to recover and realize she was not a maniacal monster.  But then every fall we'd come back and she'd announce the dreadful-to-us news: she was pregnant.  Again.

It hit me like a mac truck today, that I am Tracy, Diana, Nancy.  I have rage that cannot be tamed.  Take, for example, yesterday, my round four to get a license at the dmv.  By round four red flags should probably be going up in NYS with quotes like, "slow!" "does not respond well to direction!" "does not read direction!" "unworthy of driving if she can't do this right!"  Instead, after a long line and my kids running in and out of rooms, the lady at the desk calmly told me that my proof of address didn't qualify because it's an insurance bill.  Red pen circling, "it's right here under the list of unacceptable."  I could've climbed over the counter and strangled her with my own hands.  I understand this is irrational and unreasonable, but hormones are hormones and I was seeing red.  RED.

Or, take for example today, when my washing machine broke for the second time in 6 weeks.  I nearly fell on the floor weeping.  I called service and they told me that they could come on Friday.  Friday?  I have clothes that are locked in my washer, my husband WORKS THERE and this just happened a few weeks ago.  Friday my ass, ma'am.  Again, I realized this was irrational and the whole shebang, but my rage cup was overfloweth.  At least today I channeled my adrenaline into efficiency and sorted all of my laundry into garbage bags and brought it to the local laundromat.  (That's what she said.)  SIXTEEN loads I got done in two hours.  Frankly, I don't even know why I own a da*n washing machine.

So friends, if you, too ever run into a Tracy, Nancy, Diana, don't judge, don't hate, don't think they are angry because they're pregnant, because they're not.  You'll just never know when it's going to hit them (or you).  It may be in a scrub store, (Mr Incredible needs medical scrubs, what can I say?) when you or her are buying scrubs, maybe when you're even buying scrubs online.  YOu just don't know.  Just the progesterone, OH! the progesterone.  It's a downright drug.  It basically causes severe narcolepsy, rage and hunger.  All at once.  All day, for approximately 13 weeks.  Don't hate, don't love, just give me my way then get out of the way.

BOO!

Well well well, friends and frenemies, it turns out I am in the midst of being punk'd.  I'm just waiting now for anyone to jump out at me and scare me out of my boots.  Then I'm sure my laughter will turn to rage really immediately.  Because as that country song says, "God is great, beer is good, and people are crazy."

Turns out Peppy the dog is pretty crazy, too.  Oh and I'm pregnant, to boot.  Pretty nuts.  Good nuts, but nuts nonetheless.  Nuts is nuts, eh?  So what I should be doing is sitting in my Eames lounge chair eating Hostess cupcakes whilst my chillens color with sparkley crayons, but in reality I'm trying to keep the house in decent order, begging the kids not to mess up anymore rooms, and eating Hostess cupcakes.

On a more upbeat note, we finally got a Swaggerwagon.  Should I star in its next commercial?  I would, if I could just get some creative juices flowing and a new video camera.  (Don't order one from Dell, no matter what the price.  It doesn't hook up to the computer to dl, and when you call customer service they transfer you the middle of a Bali street where only 25% english is spoken.)

Well, that's all I've got for now.  Later.

I've been punk'd

There was all this hype about a huge snowstorm that was supposed to hit last night.  My bff, in her usual fashion, stocked up on milk and beer.  Me, in my atypical but becoming all too familiar fashion, stocked up on beef barley soup and pastry hearts.  Oh, the joys to be hormonal and weight gain expected.  Anyway, this "snowstorm" maybe maybe would've thrown San Diego for a loop.  But not us Buffalonians.  The pending anxiety of it, however, threw everyone (University at Buffalo included) into a tizzy, schools and businesses closing.  (I'm warming up at the mere idea of this)  My next door neighbor's plow came at least twice during the night.  Naturally, I expected to wake up and see nothing but a winter wonderland.  Instead I woke up to see no more snow than there was on the branches and the steps to the play set in the backyard.  (La Jolla I'm coming for the rest of the winter).

me!??!?!?!!?

I've recently begun to think that I'm constantly being Punk'd.  Like there are all sorts of conspiracies around me and hidden cameras are just waiting to get a ridiculous reaction out of me.  My reaction always ends up being, "am I being punk'd?" which always ends up twice as ridiculous because a) I'm not on camera, b) I give myself away by thinking the world revolves around me.  So by the light of the moon this morning, only half-way in my pajamas, I squintedly asked aloud, "am I being punk'd?"  There was no snow, but next door neighbor's driveway had been repeatedly plowed, and the ice trucks were up and down my street all night long.  Whaat?  But apparently, here we are, in the middle of a storm.  I'm dutifully eating my beef barley soup and pastry hearts, and I turned up the heat, just for effect.

Sell Out

In this age of war and economic crisis, what's a better idea for a stay at home mom to do than blog for money?  My friends, I have been blogging for money now for months.  And have you been awares?  I'm a sell out.  A big ol sell out.  Which works out conveniently, because this blog (as I've mentioned before) makes me want eat sand.  It bores me.  As much as boxhead 2 or grand auto theft.

What's a girl to do?  Start a new blog?  Revamp the old one?  Lose lose.  Maybe I'll just keep blogging for money until I re-like the blog again.  Yea, that's probably what is going to happen.  I'll blog to make revenue.  And someday soon I'll like this again.

Poetry. MMMMhm.

My life through my blog eyes looks rather bleak.  I haven't been painting a very colorful picture in the last few months.  Maybe year.  Are there consultants for hire?  Maybe I need a consultant to counsel me.  But I wouldn't need to pay them because everyone has opinions on other people's blogs.  Dad, this is for you:

A long, long sleep, a famous sleep

That makes no show for dawn

By stretch of limb or stif of lid,--

An independent one.

Was ever idleness like this?

Within a hut of stone

To bask the centuries away

Nor once look up for noon?

-em dickinson

Come to think of it, I think I have my own personal directory of consultants.  Everyone always tells me what to write.  Mostly what I shouldn't've written.  

All in all I think I have to pick up the pace, take it up a notch in terms of blogging.  Because many a time at night, as I'm drifting off to sleep I think, ! that would be the PERFECT cheerful blog post to write.....

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