I Regret to Inform You....

Regrets. I've got 'em. The first regret I have is that I've apparently been lacking in my entertain-the-masses duties, according to all of two people. I haven't posted much of anything this month, and not because I've been having an amazing, exciting summer, but exactly the opposite. Every day is much like the others, so there's nothing new to report other than I'm alive. And you can just go ahead and assume that anyway, barring any large news stories contrary to that assumption. (Reminds me of what my dad always says when we wish him a safe flight home: "If I don't, you'll hear about it on the news!") So really, you haven't been missing much. But apparently I have. Hence the lack of writing.

Regret #2: that I'm not in the hospital at this point. I was telling Lovely Lisa the other day that I feel genuinely awful that I'm not at least on bed rest by now, and hospitalized at the most. I've been threatening/been threatened with horrible news this entire pregnancy, only to have it pan out that I'm still merrily chugging along at nearly 34 weeks. This is not to say there are no more concerns, but so far none of them have forced me into desperate circumstances. Or at least none beyond guilting my loving friends into helping me out when apparently there was no need to help me at all. I can only blame one set of people for this paradox: My Loving Friends. Yes YOU all are to blame for this and let me tell you why. You have all admitted to sending good thoughts and prayers in my direction for months. How many times have you been warned to be careful what you pray for, huh?!? God is listening! What, do you think this is some kind of joke or something?? My goodness folks, if you expect me to wind up medically incapacited at some point it would really help if you didn't pray for the opposite effect. And on top of that, you actually volunteered to take my irritating child when I asked you to, which has significantly lowered my blood pressures all around! So on top of praying to the one person who can actually perform miracles in this department, you also did all you could to help me physically. I just don't know what to say to that except that my still being in tact and running on full steam here is all your doing. I just hope you're all sufficiently happy now.

And finally, regret #3: not speaking to my son directly since the day he was born. Supposedly speaking to him results in his speaking back to me or some such voodoo like that. But since I don't talk to anyone on earth if I don't have to, let alone my adorably annoying children, my kids don't hear "words and phrases" or "communication in any form." This has led to Peanut's inability to speak on command. At 21 months he should be saying at the very least six words, and by two years should be speaking in two-word phrases. Pfffttttppppphahahahahaha! Oh my, but he is no where close to that. Now, PW wasn't a quick, early talker herself (again with the not talking to her either), but extended family came through and talked to her instead and now you couldn't pay her to shut up (I know this for a fact from sorry experience). Peanut has not had the travelling advantages that PW had early in her life and he is paying for it now. So today he has a hearing test to make sure he's hearing us correctly, which I'm assuming he is, and tomorrow he's being evaluated by speech therapists to make sure he doesn't require professional intervention (which I'm guessing they'll say he does, regardless of whether or not he actually does require it because that's simply what they do). His pediatrician, Dr. Smart-alec, isn't overly concerned as he himself didn't say a word until he was three and he seems to speak OK now and all, but ever since the incident he and his overwhelming guilt will never allow him to take things in stride with Peanut ever again. Hey, whatever does the trick.

And FINALLY finally, Regret the Fourth is admitting to you jerks on facebook that I have occasional bouts of stupidity in my head that I typically keep to myself as a form of natural deception in an attempt to convince you I'm a genius. I regret this because according to two of you bastards, I'm not good at keeping those thoughts to myself at all. In fact, according to one of you, that's exactly what my blog is for. My blog (this one right here) is full of nothing but idiotic ramblings having no purpose here on earth except to expose my vast lack of intelligence on any scale. Did I mention I hold grudges? And that I gave you ample opportunities to take back what you suggested, which neither of you cared to do? I just thought I should remind you two of that. Every single time I speak to you from now on. You know, because we're friends and all.

My Kid Is More Talented Than Your Kid

Now, I don't normally brag about my kids on my blog. Mostly because it isn't funny at all. I mean, come on. "My kid is better than your kid at something and allow me to prove it here! Are you laughing yet?" No. However, I will at this time point out that my child is better than your child at something. No, she can't speak in grammatically correct sentences in our language or any other language, nor is she terribly polite when she's angry ("OK, Your Highness...." Why does my child have to be just. like. me?).

However, one thing she's always excelled at was drawing. This kid can draw some pretty amazing things. She can draw the hell out of any character on SpongeBob, as well she should given the number of episodes she sees in a week (Me: "Oh look, it must be another SpongeBob marithon." Husband: "Isn't every day a SpongeBob marathon?"). But this kid also has creativity coming out of every orafice. No kidding. She has actually come to the point in her artistic progression where she is equal to me (not that that's saying much, but I AM in my 30s remember) in artistic talent. The first picture she ever drew that actually looked exactly like it was supposed to look was of a bunch of balloons. She was two. I was thrilled. And she's excelled at an impressive rate since that time.

She can usually draw more complicated characters than this so that in and of itself was not impressive so much here, but what shocked the Husband and I about the following drawing on her favorite medium, the ProDoodle, was how obvious the intent of her expression was. I mean, it's as plain as day to us. Tell me if it's as obvious to you what this is a picture of:

It's a damn fencing match. A fencing match! It even has a sign. And check out the masks and foils, let alone the stances. Where on earth does she get this stuff anyway?

A Fool In Love

Hey, remember that writing contest where everyone submitted stories to be included in the NieNie Fund book? I sent in a handful of stories at the time, nearly all of which came directly from this blog. I could only manage to come up with one previously unread story. It wasn't the one that got picked, obviously. Possibly because it was depressing and pathetic. I don't know. Anyway, I figured I'd finally stick it on the old blog. Again, for posterity's sake. Man, posterity is SO fricking lucky!

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A few friends and I were talking the other day. I wondered aloud how some people managed to get married in this world, what with them being complete freaks and all. Then I continued by noting that I'm positive many, if not all, of the people I've met have wondered the very same about myself, calling my husband's selection criteria into serious question.

It should come as quite a shock then to learn that no fewer than five men/boys/weirdoes have sought my hand, some with more aggressiveness than others. I think the most aggressive of the group had to be Crazy Italian Boyfriend. I will call him Guido. I met Guido at work and my-oh-my was he crazy. However, I didn't know this until later. On our first date his incomprehensible ranting was endearing--after all, I assumed he was showing his Crazy because he was perhaps a bit nervous on our first date together. And our second date. And our third date. It was on that third date that I came to the conclusion that his insanity was not a nervous mental tick, but rather his normal state of mind. It hit me right about the time we finished watching a movie and he turned to me and announced that he was going to marry me but we had to do it right away so we should go ring shopping as soon as possible. Overwhelmed by his romantic gesture, I swooned, "Excuse me?" To which he insisted this was the prescribed course of action, after which he gave me a rundown of his savings account and how much of a ring he could afford. "Must...escape...Nutty...McStraightjacket...." I whispered to my terrified myself.

It's here that I would like to abandon my Christian principles and pick the man apart. First of all, I dated him for his sexy uniform. He was a cop, complete with badge and gun and everything (more on that later). I will also admit that I found him more than attractive even in civilian clothing, let alone in the uniform (the rippling pectorals didn't hurt, either). He was genuinely kind to me--at first--and I found his Brooklyn accent amusing as well. A few conversations at work with him (he stopped me in the hall each time to talk to me, which was intensely flattering) and I was taken. Sure, he talked about odd things, but who doesn't have strange thoughts, right? So I decided to date him. And kissing him was fun, too (yes, I was a kissing slut. Shut up.).

When the real Crazy started to come out I learned that he was not the funny or entertaining kind of crazy, but rather the fricking scary kind of crazy. He would drop off photos to be developed at the drug store and use an alias. He never put down his address or his real phone number. When we decided to meet at a Metro subway stop to go into D.C. on a date, he pretended to be talking on a pay phone until I arrived so no one would know he was waiting for someone. He never sat with his back to the door. You know, stuff like that. Then he'd brag about the neighbors he'd spied on as a strange sort of father-son bonding activity he and his dad used to do when he was young. He suddenly decided he desperately wanted to work for the CIA, and he filled out their application in a second-grader's scrawl in pencil (he surely could have done no worse if he'd filled it out in crayon). I imagine his being thrown out of the Navy after only a few months in (for what he claimed was a problem with authority, but which later came out to be for psychological issues, like...wait for it...delusions of grandeur--the real kind) probably did not help his chances either (thankfully, they never called).

Guido used to regale me with his brilliant thoughts, all of which he repeatedly insisted were completely original, despite my having learned some of the very same concepts in my college Freshman entry-level classes (which he never believed). And he proudly invented inventions, brushing away my comments that they already existed. When I told my father about the insanity I had immersed myself in, he exclaimed, "You know, one day you're going to be watching the news and you'll see this guy on the steps of city hall, ranting and raving, wrapped in a Nazi flag, and you'll say, 'Hey! I used to date that guy!'" Indeed.

Why didn't I drop him sooner? The gun that he carried everywhere whether he was in uniform or not. Angering/surprising an armed, insane police officer is not my idea of bright. And frankly, I loved living at that time and did not wish to stop. So I kept dating him, putting off his matrimonial advances, and trying to gradually distance myself until perhaps he tired of me. I intentionally made comments that I knew he strenuously disagreed with. My favorite response came after I suggested that if a wife made more money than her husband she should go to work and he should stay home and raise the children. He FLIPPED OUT. Did I mention he disapproved of the fact that I had a job at all, saying that I was the cause of the decline of society? I asked sarcastically if I should be still sitting in my parents' house, waiting for a banker to knock on my door and propose marriage to me. He said yes. And he was very, very serious. Again, with the Crazy. So suggesting that a wife should be the breadwinner I think finally did the lad in and he never pushed the marriage issue after that. However, he still wouldn't leave me.

I had been looking for a good enough excuse to dump him--an excuse so obvious that even he would see the value in it--and I found it at Thanksgiving. A kind couple in his church congregation had invited him to their Thanksgiving feast and he invited me to go with him. He lived a good 45 minutes from me and traffic was terrible. I arrived at his place 15 minutes late. He had already left. No note. No directions to the couple's home. No nothing. I was angry, to say the least. I called his cell phone from a payphone nearby and he was already having dinner. He said I was late so why should he wait for me? I gave him my one good fricking reason, which he had apparently not thought about prior to my pointing it out to him. I hung up on him and drove home. I spent Thanksgiving in my apartment, alone. I was thrilled and relieved.

The following Monday after work I knew I would run into him on my way out the door. I asked my boss to walk with me, which he didn't mind at all. My boss was somewhat wide, and I figured if shots rang out I could use his body as a shield. I saw Guido standing near the exit, waiting for me. He asked if he could talk to me and I told him no. He asked again as I walked past, again telling him he could not, nor could he at any point in the future. I kept walking and lived to tell the tale. He emailed me a few times afterwards, which only set my blood pressure spiking, and he eventually stopped after my many angry responses pointing out his raving lunacy to him. He married some poor, young, unsuspecting thing, despite her mother's pleas to reconsider. And then he got fired for spying on his coworkers--something he found perplexing since he was positive that they were terrorists. "Stupid laws!" he complained. So. Very. Comforting.

Is there a moral to this story? But one: clearly, I am entirely and completely irresistible. And you can take that to the bank/asylum.

Goodnight, Loud Prince....

I honestly can't believe I'm still getting visitors to this blog from people googling how to murder people and get away with it. I admit, the most recent search from an individual in England is my favorite so far though: "how to kill your girlfriend and get away scott free like no csi stuff or nothing." That's the British education system for you there, friends. Sooooo many things wrong with that search specifically, sooooo many things wrong with that person in general.

Is it bad that of the 14,351 celebrities to die within the last two weeks the one that devastated me the most was that of Billy Mays? And not just because I was in the planning process of making fun of him on my blog, either (THANKS FOR THAT). I genuinely liked seeing his huge face screaming at me through my TV. I watched a program on TV pitchmen not too long ago and they interviewed Billy. I was absolutely dumbfounded. He was...normal. He spoke in a quiet, calm voice, and he sat there like a regular person and not, you know, racing around the room at a fevered pace with the interviewer throwing one word at a time at him with every lap past him. I don't know what I expected him to sound like in reality, either, but it sure wasn't that. I guess I was imagining him at home, sitting at the dinner table with his family, screaming, "SO IT TURNS OUT THAT LUMP ON MY LEFT TESTICLE WAS JUST BENIGN THANK GOODNESS BECAUSE I WAS GETTING WORRIED. WHERE'S THE BUTTER? JOHNNY, GO GET IT FROM THE FRIDGE WILL YOU? AND WILL SOMEONE PASS THE SALT PLEASE?" Turns out he was normal all those years and we just never knew it. Surprising, really.

Anyway, I'm sad that he's gone. My New York City Slider Station and I will miss him severely. I'll also miss my opportunity to tell him personally that the damn thing doesn't work!! Stupid slider station.

And yeah, Michael Jackson's gone too, but he wasn't putting out any new music anyway. Meh.

Hey, speaking of things not working, did you know there are companies and agencies out there that actually test TV products to ensure they actually do what they claim to do? And that they can halt sale of the product and impose heavy fines if found otherwise? Whodathunk?! I just assumed buying things off TV was akin to buying magic elixers from 19th century travelling salesmen (which I do infrequently); you buy at your own risk and if you get a dud, hey, you're stupid! Not so! And did you know that these companies also guiltlessly admit to raising the shipping and processing fees to make an extra buck? I knew they did, but I didn't expect them to fess up to it. Amazing what having a lack of conscience will do for you these days.

FYI: one company tested the ShamWow absorbant cloths on the show and concluded that they do indeed do everything they claim to be able to do. So I ran out and bought some. No, I haven't tested them yet. Why would I? That's what those companies are for, remember?

"Dear Abby"'s Most Helpful Advice

We're doing a quite bit around here to prepare for Baby #3. One thing that appears to be essential is finding sleeping arrangements for this young thing (supposedly dresser drawers are no longer kosher or something; whatever). I belong to a parenting group out here and we have a fancy mailing list and everything. One day a mother in the group was selling quite a bit of her baby stuff for very cheap and I noted a mini-pack-n-play for $25. Hardly ever been used and exactly what I'd been looking for. How great is that? So she drove it over and we made the exchange. At the time she asked how far along I was and when I told her she very wonderfully exclaimed, "Why, I'd never guess you were that far along! You look great!" I felt fabulous. Right until I remembered that she had likely already read about my rant regarding such things in the parenting newsletter I write for. Yes, My Neighbor Melissa Who Lives Three Doors Down From Me asked me to write a humor article for the parenting newsletter each month. I'm sure she's regretting that decision now, but there's also little she can do about it without hurt feelings ensuing (mostly hers, like when I set her car on fire out of spite).

Looking for something to write about on my blog today and not actually wanting to write it, allow me to reproduce that month's article here, won't you? Yes, I am that lazy. Take it or leave it.

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Q: Dear Abby,

I’m 34 weeks pregnant with my first baby. My husband has shown less and less interest in me physically over this pregnancy as my girth has gradually increased and I worry that he won’t ever be attracted to me again, even after the baby’s born. Do you think he’ll ever think I’m attractive?

Sincerely,
Heartsick


A: Dear Heartsick,

Well, that kinda depends on if you were attractive before. If you weren’t, then there’s probably not a lot of hope for you now. Good luck, Gigantor!

Hey, that totally reminds me of a story! I was six months along with my first pregnancy when my husband and I flew out to spend Christmas with my family. None of them had seen me pregnant so I was a bit nervous. I’m the baby of the family and the only girl to boot, so I didn’t know how my family, particularly my parents who still treat me like I’m five, would take to seeing me very pregnant and, you know, adult-ish. When I got a moment alone with my folks I decided to satisfy my curiosity and simply ask if they thought it was strange to see me pregnant. And my ever-helpful mother immediately replied, “Oh honey, you’re supposed to look puffy.”

OK, 1.) Thanks a lot, Mom,
and 2.) NOT WHAT I MEANT.

I’m working on my third pregnancy right now and am recently into my second trimester. You would have thought that my mother would be used to seeing just how huge I can get during a pregnancy, despite my never gaining more than 23 pounds total per ordeal thankyouverymuch. And yet, last week I caught my mother telling complete strangers (to her AND me I might add) over the phone that I am most likely having twins. Mind you, I’m not. When I corrected her she said,

“Are you sure? They have sonograms now that can tell you these things.”
“YES Mom, I’m sure. I’ve had three sonograms so far and they’ve each said there’s just one baby in there.”
“Perhaps you should check again. Sometimes those things can be wrong.”

SIGH. I’m getting to the point in my pregnancy when I’m becoming quite insane, belligerent (more than usual I mean) and rude (actually, that’s about the same). I swear that the next time someone asks if I’m overdue or just expecting multiples, I’m going to take that person’s fist and shove it down their throat. So, you know, don’t ask that. ‘Cause I don’t want to have to give birth in prison.

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FYI, Melissa's husband (who had read this article previously) asked me recently if I was having twins. Because he's that VERY FUNNY KIND OF PERSON. I'M WATCHING YOU, PAL. AND YOUR CAR.

Spread the Talent

Even if you've never seen an episode of SpongeBob, you've gotta admit this is pretty funny. (For those who haven't seen an episode, Gary is SpongeBob's pet snail. All snails sound and act like cats where SpongeBob lives.)



Apparently the voice talents behind SpongeBob and his friends wanted to prove they were capable of more than just cartoons (or so goes the story they tell anyway). Heh heh. The "Singin' in the Rain" bit still makes me laugh.

Revelation: the Creepy Kind

My boy Peanut is adorable, despite the crying. And yet, I get the uneasiest feeling in my gut when I put him in one specific outfit:

Like I've seen him somewhere else before.

Keeps me up nights.

An Apron Has a Thousand Faces

Hey, hey, hey, remember back when I finally won a blog giveaway and got that beautiful apron that Lovely Loralee made and subsequently mailed to me? And I said I'd post pictures of it when I got it? And then I never did it? And you all forgot? Except Loralee who now thinks I'm the most ungrateful person ever? Well, fret not my little hamsters, I've finally downloaded the pictures and am prepared to post them at this time! Unfortunately, the cat was far more tolerant of wearing clothing than I had previously anticipated (lousy cat!) so those pictures were less than exciting. So I had to find other, BETTER models to show off this gorgeous apron! Let's go!

Tic, you irritating cat! Run away! Do something! You're boring! Stupid thing.

Peanut, pre-haircut. He's wondering why I'm abusing him so (with the apron and the girly hairstyle)

By far, the most cooperative of my models.


A tad too cooperative.


And the youngest, SweetPea. She was asleep at the time. Wake up! You're as boring as the cat!

Thank you, Loralee! It's gorgeous! I will make sure not to wear it around any foodstuffs so as to not soil it. 'Cause we sure wouldn't want that to happen. You know, more than it has been already being dragged around the house by my various models. Hooray for family! And free crap!

A Veritable Online Book of Faces

Wow, I haven't posted in eight days! Did anyone notice but me? No? Fine. Now, it's not uncommon for me not to post for short periods of time, but there are usually other reasons for it. Like, I hate you or something. You know, good reasons. But this past hiatus is due to only one person: Nancy. I feel very comfortable in talking about my friend, Nancy, on my blog because she has never ONCE deemed her time useless enough to visit here. Ever. No, Nancy only does facebook, that treasure-amongst-preteens. She has made this very explicitly clear on more than one occasion. If we want to communicate outside of email and Christmas cards, it will only be through facebook.

Fine. So when I got that email reminder telling me I was ignoring valuable friends on facebook RIGHT NOW, I finally gave in and signed up. And oh my, the glory I beheld before me! Why, the stalking possibilities are up there in the thousands of dollars!

Now, I'm still new to this facebook thing by nearly a week (nearly a week of reading about people's thoughts, mocking others, and taking online quizzes and ignoring all else in my life, if I may be specific). If I understand this correctly, the concept behind this game is to con/guilt/confuse as many friends/brief acquaintences/total strangers as possible into admitting they know you and adding you as one of their "friends," thus pushing your overall numbers high enough until someone wins. Is that about the long and short of it? What do we get at the end? A prize of some construction? I sure hope it's candy. Because candy is totally worth exposing my personal information to a gaggle of people I barely know.

And is it just me, or is this publicizing of one's thoughts in brief sentences for all the world to see exactly like Twitter? I hate Twitter! I don’t even care about what I think about every second of the day, let alone anyone else on earth. And I'm the most interesting person I know! You could be the most fascinating person on the planet and I wouldn’t care what you’re thinking every blasted second of the day. So stop asking me to. 'Cause it ain't gonna happen. Now let us never speak of this again.

If you are already on The Facebook and I haven't yet added you to my group of facebook friends it's because I don't have your email address, I don't know your full name, or I hate you. If I have your email and I know your name, well, I guess you know where that leaves us. Take the hint already.

And Nancy? Thanks. THANKS A LOT.

Why Do I Even Bother?

Blogs are for whining and complaining, right? Right? Fantastic. Let it proceed.

So yesterday I developed a bad headache that I knew would wind up to be a migraine. I knew because I'm brilliant. Around 9:15 pm, coincidentally right at the moment The Husband walked in on me watching that freakshow "18 Kids and Counting" and said, "What the hell is this?!" I developed said whopper of a migraine. After arguing for 30 seconds about who "the hell" the Duggars were and if, in fact, The Husband had indeed heard of them before that very moment like I know he had, I stumbled to bed. And I didn't sleep until 4:45am. This had to be one of the worst and most painful migraines I've ever had in my life. And not only that, it freaked me the crap out because it didn't hurt in the same places it usually does, cold didn't help it but made it ten times worse, and lying down made it downright unbearable. So I would sit in bed clutching my head until I would pass out from lack of sleep, only to bolt straight upright in bed again 30 seconds later because the excrutiating pain had woken me up. As I mentioned, this went on all. night. long. *

Finally, I got desperate enough that I decided to call the hospital, or more accurately, the Labor and Delivery doctors at the hospital since they love to hear about any complaint you have while you're pregnant. Now, you know my thoughts on hospitals and their effectiveness when it comes to solving migraines. As in, they suck at it. And so it was with great misery and desperation that I called them at 4:30 in the morning. This after avoiding such all night, thinking The Husband would have to miss work and Peanut would starve to death while I was gone, and blah blah blah. I finally stopped caring about my loved ones at all and made the call. I mumbled my problem and the doctor asked a couple of questions and said...wait for it..."Take some Tylenol and call back in an hour if it isn't better." If I could have seen straight I would have driven to the hospital and murdered this doctor. TYLENOL?? OF COURSE! IT'S ALL SO CLEAR NOW. THE WORST MIGRAINE EVER CAN BE SOLVED BY TYLENOL. WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF IT FIRST? BECAUSE I DIDN'T GO TO EXPENSIVE DOCTOR SCHOOL, THAT'S WHY.

But I couldn't see to drive, so I decided to do what she said just out of spite. "FINE, I'll take the damn Tylenol. Stupid doctor. Yes! Tylenol! That genius of medications that solves absolutely nothing! Hooray! *popping of Tylenol in mouth* Just wait you jerks. My brain will be bleeding out of my ear when I show up on your doorstep in an hour, you wait and see. Tylenol. That's the fricking stupidest thing I've been told yet and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

I woke up two hours later to my inner baby trying to kick her way out of my stomach and with the worst migraine of all time, uh, gone. I was left with only a standard migraine. I can deal with that. I know how to handle that kind. That other kind, not so much, obviously. And I missed the one hour deadline to complain to the hospital, too. Damn.

No, I will most certainly NOT apologize to you, Tylenol! Where were you all those years before when I needed you?? Sure, you come riding in on your white steed at the last possible moment before I cram my head into the garbage disposal and claim victory, but that just isn't good enough! It doesn't make up for all the other failures, do you hear me??

Stupid Tylenol.

*In case you're confused, I long ago made a pact with The Husband that my migraine=his sleeping somewhere else. He gets sleep and I get to thrash and writh about in agony without worrying that I'm keeping him awake. Plus I can hog the blankets.