I have a new pet peeve. It really isn't new at all, I just pin-pointed it today. I cannot stand, nay, I LOATHE when an employee at a store butts in front of you, reaches over you, stands in your way, etc. You get paid because I am here douche bag. You are here until 5pm, it is 1. You have plenty of freaking time to stock that shelf. Must you find the one display I'm looking at and fiddle with it for the 1 minute I am standing there???? Oh my hell. Sure, why don't you go ahead and push that huge cart of returned items right into the back of my ankles you a-hole, because it absolutely cannot wait. This post was inspired by a guy at Hobby Lobby today. He literally pushed me into a freaking charm bracelet display, all because he was walking through the same isle to talk to another co-worker. I was seething. You should be catering to me.You stand in the damn corner until I am done looking at the charms my friend. I've worked in retail and customer service long enough to know - the customer is ALWAYS right and they come first. Period.
Speaking of period, another pet peeve. My mom is going to kill me for saying this. I hate pooping while on my period. Hate it. Crampy. Have to change your tampon usually or it comes half out. String dirty. It all just sucks. I know, I'm innapropriate. I know some of you agree, you would just never say it.
I looked at my blog on Benj's iPad and the font is like a 1997 calligraphy font - WTH??? It is not set up like that..... hope that isn't what you are seeing.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
2 good articles
Two great articles I've read lately:
Dear Mother of Only One Child,
Don’t say it. Before the words can even pass your lips, let me beg you: don’t say, “Wow, you have nine kids? I thought it was hard with just my one!”
My dear, it is hard. You’re not being a wuss or a whiner when you feel like your life is hard. I know, because I remember having “only one child.” You may not even believe how many times I stop and reflect on how much easier my life is, now that I have nine children.
All right, so there is a lot more laundry. Keeping up with each child’s needs, and making sure they all get enough attention, is a constant worry. And a stomach bug is pretty much the end of the world, when nine digestive tracts are afflicted.
But I remember having only one child, and it was hard—so very hard. Some of the difficulties were just practical: I didn’t know what I was doing, had to learn everything. People pushed me around because I was young and inexperienced. But even worse were the emotional struggles of learning to be a mother.
When I had only one child, I truly suffered during those long, long, long days in our little apartment, no one but the two of us, baby and me, dealing with each other all day long. I invented errands and dawdled and took the long way home, but still had hours and hours to fill before I would hear my husband’s key in the door.
I cared so much what other people thought about her—they had to notice how beautiful she was, they had to be impressed at my natural mothering skills. I obsessed over childhood development charts, tense with fear that my mothering was lacking—that I hadn’t stimulated her enough, or maybe had just passed on the wrong kind of genes. I cringe when I remember how I pushed her—a little baby!—to achieve milestones she wasn’t ready for.
I lived in terror for her physical safety (I once brought her to Urgent Care, where the doctor somewhat irritably diagnosed a case of moderate sniffles) fearing every imaginable disease and injury. In my sleep-deprived state, I would have sudden insane hallucinations that her head had fallen off, her knees had suddenly broken themselves in the night, and so on.
My husband didn’t know how to help me. I didn’t know how to ask for help. My husband had become a father, and I adored him for it. My husband got to leave the house every day, and sleep every night. He got to go to the bathroom alone. I hated him for it.
When I had only one child, I told myself over and over that motherhood was fulfilling and sanctifying and was filling my heart to the brim with peace and satisfaction. And so I felt horribly guilty for being so bored, so resentful, so exhausted. This is a joyful time, dammit! I should enjoy being suddenly transformed into the Doyenne of Anything that Smells Bad.
I loved my baby, I loved pushing her on the swing, watching squirrels at the park together, introducing her to apple sauce, and watching her lips move in joyful dreams of milk. But it was hard, hard, hard. All this work: is this who I am now? I remember!
So now? Yes, the practical parts are a thousand times easier: I’m a virtuoso. I worry, but then I move along. Nobody pushes me around, and I have helpers galore. Someone fetches clean diapers and gets rid of the dirty ones. When the baby wakes up in the middle of the night for the ten thousandth time, I sigh and roll my eyes, maybe even cry a little bit for sheer tiredness—but I know it will pass, it will pass.
It’s becoming easier, and it will be easier still. They are passing me by.
I’m broken in. There’s no collision of worlds. We’re so darn busy that it’s a sheer delight to take some time to wash some small child’s small limbs in a quiet bath, or to read The Story of Ferdinand one more time. Taking care of them is easy. It’s tiring, it’s frustrating, but when I stop and take a breath, I see that it’s almost like a charade of work. All these things, the dishes, the diapers, the spills—they must be taken care of, but they don’t matter. They aren’t who I am.
To become a mother, I had to learn how to care about someone more than I did about myself, and that was terrible. But who I am now is something more terrible: the protector who can’t always protect; the one with arms that are designed to hold, always having to let go.
Dear mother of only one child, don’t blame yourself for thinking that your life is hard. You’re suffering now because you’re turning into a new woman, a woman who is never allowed to be alone. For what? Only so that you can become strong enough to be a woman who will be left.
When I had only one child, she was so heavy. Now I can see that children are as light as air. They float past you, nudging against you like balloons as they ascend.
Dear mother, don’t worry about enjoying your life. Your life is hard; your life will be hard. That doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong—it means you’re doing it right.
Via: http://www.ncregister.com/blog/to-the-mother-with-only-one-child
AND:
If you follow me on twitter you already know that I’ve been battling off one of the most severe bouts of depression I’ve ever had. Yesterday it started to pass, and for the first time in weeks I cried with relief instead of with hopelessness. Depression can be crippling, and deadly. I’m lucky that it’s a rare thing for me, and that I have a support system to lean on. I’m lucky that I’ve learned that depression lies to you, and that you should never listen to it, in spite of how persuasive it is at the time.
When cancer sufferers fight, recover, and go into remission we laud their bravery. We call them survivors. Because they are.
When depression sufferers fight, recover and go into remission we seldom even know, simply because so many suffer in the dark…ashamed to admit something they see as a personal weakness…afraid that people will worry, and more afraid that they won’t. We find ourselves unable to do anything but cling to the couch and force ourselves to breathe.
When you come out of the grips of a depression there is an incredible relief, but not one you feel allowed to celebrate. Instead, the feeling of victory is replaced with anxiety that it will happen again, and with shame and vulnerability when you see how your illness affected your family, your work, everything left untouched while you struggled to survive. We come back to life thinner, paler, weaker…but as survivors. Survivors who don’t get pats on the back from coworkers who congratulate them on making it. Survivors who wake to more work than before because their friends and family are exhausted from helping them fight a battle they may not even understand.
Regardless, today I feel proud. I survived. And I celebrate every one of you reading this. I celebrate the fact that you’ve fought your battle and continue to win. I celebrate the fact that you may not understand the battle, but you pick up the baton dropped by someone you love until they can carry it again. I celebrate the fact that each time we go through this, we get a little stronger. We learn new tricks on the battlefield. We learn them in terrible ways, but we use them. We don’t struggle in vain.
We win.
We are alive.
I wrote this post a month ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to post it then. I was too weak from fighting to shout, and so instead I whispered this into the night and left it unpublished until I felt like I could speak to it with the battle-cry it deserves. Years ago, coming out about depression and anxiety disorder was something frightening, but now people are more honest and open and so much of the shame has dissipated. We may not have pink ribbons or telethons but we know that someone out there understands. That is, until we’re honest about how it affects us. I’ve never written about this because I can’t talk about it without it being a trigger but I think it’s important to be honest even when it’s scary. Especially when it’s scary.
I self-harm. I don’t do it all the time and it’s not enough to put me into an institution or threaten my well-being, but it’s enough to make it frightening to live in my body sometimes. I’m far from suicidal. I do it to self-sooth, because the physical pain distracts me from the mental pain. It’s one of those things that’s impossible to explain to people who don’t understand impulse control disorder. Honestly, I find it hard to understand it to myself and I’m working my ass off to fix it now before my daughter is old enough to see the things I don’t want her to see. It is one of the hardest things I have ever done.
I am safe. My disorder is fairly mild and is becoming more controlled. I’m in therapy and I’m not in danger. I avoid triggers and I’ve found therapies and drugs that are helping. I’m getting better. But I sort of feel like I can’t completely heal from this without being honest about it. So here it is. Judge me or not, I am the same person I was before. And so are you. And chances are that many of your friends, family and coworkers are dealing with things like this. Things that are killing them a little inside. Things that kill people who don’t get help. Silent, bloody battles that end with secret victors who can’t celebrate without shame. I hope that this post changes this somehow. I hope that you feel safe enough to be honest about the things you are the most ashamed of. I hope you have someone there telling you “It’s okay. You’re still the same person to me.”
I hope to one day I see a sea of people all wearing silver ribbons as a sign that they understand the secret battle and that they celebrate the victories made each day as we individually pull ourselves up out of our foxholes to see our scars heal, and to remember what the sun looks like.
I hope one day to be better and I’m pretty sure I will be. I hope one day I live in a world where the personal fight for mental stability is viewed with pride and public cheers instead of shame. I hope it for you too.
But until then, it starts slowly.
And for that I am proud.
Via: http://thebloggess.com/2012/01/the-fight-goes-on/
I can relate to both of these posts in so many ways. Hope you enjoyed. Also, I hope you aren't disturbed.
Dear Mother of Only One Child,
Don’t say it. Before the words can even pass your lips, let me beg you: don’t say, “Wow, you have nine kids? I thought it was hard with just my one!”
My dear, it is hard. You’re not being a wuss or a whiner when you feel like your life is hard. I know, because I remember having “only one child.” You may not even believe how many times I stop and reflect on how much easier my life is, now that I have nine children.
All right, so there is a lot more laundry. Keeping up with each child’s needs, and making sure they all get enough attention, is a constant worry. And a stomach bug is pretty much the end of the world, when nine digestive tracts are afflicted.
But I remember having only one child, and it was hard—so very hard. Some of the difficulties were just practical: I didn’t know what I was doing, had to learn everything. People pushed me around because I was young and inexperienced. But even worse were the emotional struggles of learning to be a mother.
When I had only one child, I truly suffered during those long, long, long days in our little apartment, no one but the two of us, baby and me, dealing with each other all day long. I invented errands and dawdled and took the long way home, but still had hours and hours to fill before I would hear my husband’s key in the door.
I cared so much what other people thought about her—they had to notice how beautiful she was, they had to be impressed at my natural mothering skills. I obsessed over childhood development charts, tense with fear that my mothering was lacking—that I hadn’t stimulated her enough, or maybe had just passed on the wrong kind of genes. I cringe when I remember how I pushed her—a little baby!—to achieve milestones she wasn’t ready for.
I lived in terror for her physical safety (I once brought her to Urgent Care, where the doctor somewhat irritably diagnosed a case of moderate sniffles) fearing every imaginable disease and injury. In my sleep-deprived state, I would have sudden insane hallucinations that her head had fallen off, her knees had suddenly broken themselves in the night, and so on.
My husband didn’t know how to help me. I didn’t know how to ask for help. My husband had become a father, and I adored him for it. My husband got to leave the house every day, and sleep every night. He got to go to the bathroom alone. I hated him for it.
When I had only one child, I told myself over and over that motherhood was fulfilling and sanctifying and was filling my heart to the brim with peace and satisfaction. And so I felt horribly guilty for being so bored, so resentful, so exhausted. This is a joyful time, dammit! I should enjoy being suddenly transformed into the Doyenne of Anything that Smells Bad.
I loved my baby, I loved pushing her on the swing, watching squirrels at the park together, introducing her to apple sauce, and watching her lips move in joyful dreams of milk. But it was hard, hard, hard. All this work: is this who I am now? I remember!
So now? Yes, the practical parts are a thousand times easier: I’m a virtuoso. I worry, but then I move along. Nobody pushes me around, and I have helpers galore. Someone fetches clean diapers and gets rid of the dirty ones. When the baby wakes up in the middle of the night for the ten thousandth time, I sigh and roll my eyes, maybe even cry a little bit for sheer tiredness—but I know it will pass, it will pass.
It’s becoming easier, and it will be easier still. They are passing me by.
I’m broken in. There’s no collision of worlds. We’re so darn busy that it’s a sheer delight to take some time to wash some small child’s small limbs in a quiet bath, or to read The Story of Ferdinand one more time. Taking care of them is easy. It’s tiring, it’s frustrating, but when I stop and take a breath, I see that it’s almost like a charade of work. All these things, the dishes, the diapers, the spills—they must be taken care of, but they don’t matter. They aren’t who I am.
To become a mother, I had to learn how to care about someone more than I did about myself, and that was terrible. But who I am now is something more terrible: the protector who can’t always protect; the one with arms that are designed to hold, always having to let go.
Dear mother of only one child, don’t blame yourself for thinking that your life is hard. You’re suffering now because you’re turning into a new woman, a woman who is never allowed to be alone. For what? Only so that you can become strong enough to be a woman who will be left.
When I had only one child, she was so heavy. Now I can see that children are as light as air. They float past you, nudging against you like balloons as they ascend.
Dear mother, don’t worry about enjoying your life. Your life is hard; your life will be hard. That doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong—it means you’re doing it right.
Via: http://www.ncregister.com/blog/to-the-mother-with-only-one-child
AND:
If you follow me on twitter you already know that I’ve been battling off one of the most severe bouts of depression I’ve ever had. Yesterday it started to pass, and for the first time in weeks I cried with relief instead of with hopelessness. Depression can be crippling, and deadly. I’m lucky that it’s a rare thing for me, and that I have a support system to lean on. I’m lucky that I’ve learned that depression lies to you, and that you should never listen to it, in spite of how persuasive it is at the time.
When cancer sufferers fight, recover, and go into remission we laud their bravery. We call them survivors. Because they are.
When depression sufferers fight, recover and go into remission we seldom even know, simply because so many suffer in the dark…ashamed to admit something they see as a personal weakness…afraid that people will worry, and more afraid that they won’t. We find ourselves unable to do anything but cling to the couch and force ourselves to breathe.
When you come out of the grips of a depression there is an incredible relief, but not one you feel allowed to celebrate. Instead, the feeling of victory is replaced with anxiety that it will happen again, and with shame and vulnerability when you see how your illness affected your family, your work, everything left untouched while you struggled to survive. We come back to life thinner, paler, weaker…but as survivors. Survivors who don’t get pats on the back from coworkers who congratulate them on making it. Survivors who wake to more work than before because their friends and family are exhausted from helping them fight a battle they may not even understand.
Regardless, today I feel proud. I survived. And I celebrate every one of you reading this. I celebrate the fact that you’ve fought your battle and continue to win. I celebrate the fact that you may not understand the battle, but you pick up the baton dropped by someone you love until they can carry it again. I celebrate the fact that each time we go through this, we get a little stronger. We learn new tricks on the battlefield. We learn them in terrible ways, but we use them. We don’t struggle in vain.
We win.
We are alive.
**********
I wrote this post a month ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to post it then. I was too weak from fighting to shout, and so instead I whispered this into the night and left it unpublished until I felt like I could speak to it with the battle-cry it deserves. Years ago, coming out about depression and anxiety disorder was something frightening, but now people are more honest and open and so much of the shame has dissipated. We may not have pink ribbons or telethons but we know that someone out there understands. That is, until we’re honest about how it affects us. I’ve never written about this because I can’t talk about it without it being a trigger but I think it’s important to be honest even when it’s scary. Especially when it’s scary.
I self-harm. I don’t do it all the time and it’s not enough to put me into an institution or threaten my well-being, but it’s enough to make it frightening to live in my body sometimes. I’m far from suicidal. I do it to self-sooth, because the physical pain distracts me from the mental pain. It’s one of those things that’s impossible to explain to people who don’t understand impulse control disorder. Honestly, I find it hard to understand it to myself and I’m working my ass off to fix it now before my daughter is old enough to see the things I don’t want her to see. It is one of the hardest things I have ever done.
I am safe. My disorder is fairly mild and is becoming more controlled. I’m in therapy and I’m not in danger. I avoid triggers and I’ve found therapies and drugs that are helping. I’m getting better. But I sort of feel like I can’t completely heal from this without being honest about it. So here it is. Judge me or not, I am the same person I was before. And so are you. And chances are that many of your friends, family and coworkers are dealing with things like this. Things that are killing them a little inside. Things that kill people who don’t get help. Silent, bloody battles that end with secret victors who can’t celebrate without shame. I hope that this post changes this somehow. I hope that you feel safe enough to be honest about the things you are the most ashamed of. I hope you have someone there telling you “It’s okay. You’re still the same person to me.”
I hope to one day I see a sea of people all wearing silver ribbons as a sign that they understand the secret battle and that they celebrate the victories made each day as we individually pull ourselves up out of our foxholes to see our scars heal, and to remember what the sun looks like.
I hope one day to be better and I’m pretty sure I will be. I hope one day I live in a world where the personal fight for mental stability is viewed with pride and public cheers instead of shame. I hope it for you too.
But until then, it starts slowly.
I haven’t hurt myself in 3 days. I sing strange battle-songs to myself in the darkness to scare away the demons. I am a fighter when I need to be.
And for that I am proud.
Via: http://thebloggess.com/2012/01/the-fight-goes-on/
I can relate to both of these posts in so many ways. Hope you enjoyed. Also, I hope you aren't disturbed.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
uterine comfort
"Worried that your uterus is too small? Wow them the next time you go to the gynecologist, be the envy of all of your peers. Why is this Spanish woman so happy? Just look at the size of her uterus! Order now and see instant results! All that and a money back guarantee!
This pillow is 20" tall, 29" wide and has a wing span of 69"! (Basically she is really really big).
Made with super soft fleece and flannel ovaries she makes a great cuddle buddy.
*This item is made to order, so each pillow will vary slightly. Please allow 3 days for production*"
This pillow is 20" tall, 29" wide and has a wing span of 69"! (Basically she is really really big).
Made with super soft fleece and flannel ovaries she makes a great cuddle buddy.
*This item is made to order, so each pillow will vary slightly. Please allow 3 days for production*"
I have no further comment.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
more thoughts
Sweaty men = a fine line. It can be attractive in the right situation, but super repelling in the wrong one. (Chopping wood vs. walking around Wal-Mart).
Yes Carly, sneak into the corner in Wal-Mart and paint my nails fast and then leave.
Ya know "objects in mirror are closer than they appear"? Why the hell don't they just make a mirror where the objects are just as they appear, not closer? Seems to be almost a safety issue.
Yes Carly, sneak into the corner in Wal-Mart and paint my nails fast and then leave.
Ya know "objects in mirror are closer than they appear"? Why the hell don't they just make a mirror where the objects are just as they appear, not closer? Seems to be almost a safety issue.
Remember this?
I freaking loved it.
"Lurking in the shadows with thier lip-gloss smiles" conjures up a perfect picture in my mind of high school dances/high school in general and I like it. Good one Taylor Swift.
Is it weird to anyone else that deer poop is in perfectly symmetrical balls?
And, have you ever seen it come out? I don't know why I have (maybe a movie?) but thier hole opens up and it comes out like corn coming out of a cup or something. The whole operation is kind of unusual. Just sayin.
I don't seem to have a problem with the phrase "just sayin" like most people do. I actually kind of like it.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
random thoughts
I came home yesterday from my sister Em's house with hay in my cleavage. Only at Ems.
Clerks: for hell sakes, especially at a drive thru, DO NOT give the change with bills on bottom and change on top. We have to angle our hand all awkward and half the time they slide off. It's really annoying.
Is it bad to go to Wal-Mart and paint your nails and then leave?
The other day at the gas station, I ran into the freaking counter, hard. I serisouly had a lump the size of Cleveland on my hip - not even exaggerating. Anyway, it isn't going away, so my right hip is like an inch bigger than my left and that is the last damn thing I need. I'm already fat, I don't need to be lopsided fat. I've prided myself on being evenly distributed fat, and now this.
I was at the State Drill Competition Friday and of course everyone is dressed immaculately, except one. Let us discuss this. Skinny pants can be worn by few. The biggies are not one of the few. Skinny pants with cargo pockets can be worn by no one. Skinny pants with cargo pockets with things inside the pockets CANNOT be worn. It created a horrible upside-down triangle shape. Cargo pants are for guys who are actively at a construction site - period.
I hesitate to say this because I know a lot of people who say it - but the phrase "too cute" absolutely makes my skin crawl.
And finally - why the hell are vision and dental not included in health insurance? Are our eyes and teeth not part of our health? Are opthamologists and dentists not technically docctors?? What kind of messed up joke....
Clerks: for hell sakes, especially at a drive thru, DO NOT give the change with bills on bottom and change on top. We have to angle our hand all awkward and half the time they slide off. It's really annoying.
Is it bad to go to Wal-Mart and paint your nails and then leave?
The other day at the gas station, I ran into the freaking counter, hard. I serisouly had a lump the size of Cleveland on my hip - not even exaggerating. Anyway, it isn't going away, so my right hip is like an inch bigger than my left and that is the last damn thing I need. I'm already fat, I don't need to be lopsided fat. I've prided myself on being evenly distributed fat, and now this.
I was at the State Drill Competition Friday and of course everyone is dressed immaculately, except one. Let us discuss this. Skinny pants can be worn by few. The biggies are not one of the few. Skinny pants with cargo pockets can be worn by no one. Skinny pants with cargo pockets with things inside the pockets CANNOT be worn. It created a horrible upside-down triangle shape. Cargo pants are for guys who are actively at a construction site - period.
I hesitate to say this because I know a lot of people who say it - but the phrase "too cute" absolutely makes my skin crawl.
And finally - why the hell are vision and dental not included in health insurance? Are our eyes and teeth not part of our health? Are opthamologists and dentists not technically docctors?? What kind of messed up joke....
Thursday, January 26, 2012
painting project!
I've said it before, and I will keep saying it....... I love Pinterest! We did finger painting tonight (he ended up with a paintbrush and Q-tips too....) and loved it!
I told him we were going to color so he went and got these and a piece of paper and sat down at the table - which is cute of him.
I didn't have paint or really any "cooking" ingredients to make paints, so I just did flour and water and food coloring (and let him help mix it). I was actually surprised I had flour. I've used it once since we got married. Yep, I'm cool like that. He was freaking thrilled with the changing of color when we added the food coloring!
He didn't want it on his hands!
From Pinterest: press paper down on the finished product - then let dry! Here are the masterpieces, drying!
They call me.... shredder
I know, this is freaking disgusting. I debated if I should post it, but you have to see this in order to understnad the next picture.
Soooo..... clearly, I have a problem with dry feet. An extreme problem. This is a few months ago, after a shower, with one of those razor tools the Veitnamese use in the nail places.
Since I was a baby, I rub my feet together to go to sleep. Really, whenever I am tired (at work sometimes....). So this is my bed. My freaking foot got caught in a hole in the sheet the other night. Soo, after much deliberation, and some denial, Benj and I came to the conclusion that the combination of me rubbing my sandpaper/wire-brush feet together vigorously every night and crappy quality sheets = hole in the sheet.
Pretty intense.
(note: I can control it with the Ped-Egg + cream from the dermatologist, I just don't sometimes. I know there are thousands of remedies out there - I get "suggestions" all the time.)
Anyhow, Benj has started calling me Shredder.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Happy Birthday Max!!
His actual birthday is tomorrow (Jan 22nd) but we had a little shin-dig tonight with the fam. Can you tell what it is he is into lately....?
Cars tent from lovely Liz & kids. He took all his stuff and sat in there :)
Classy framed Buzz for Max's room from Em
New "diaper" bag....
Scooter! He actually knows how to do it!
(not pictured: Balloons, Buzz helmet for scooter + probably more things I am forgetting. He was spoiled!)
Watchin a show with his new buddies....
Isn't that precious??
Happy birthday little guy!!
I quit.
No more Bachelor blogging. At least this season. It is nauseating -slash- I get too stressed about finding time to do it. Good luck to Ben.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
The Bachelor: Week 1
Sooo, yes I am going to blog it again. I bitched all through last season, and to my dismay, it is even more ridiculous, based on the first episode, than last year. And here. We. Go.
- Starts off with a flashback from the humiliating finale last year.
- Man I DID NOT miss his sweaty bald spotted flappy hair.
- Contrary to popular belief, the phrase "Good things don't end unless they end badly" is stupid. My marriage ceremony ended and it was good. The hot dog I just ate was good, and it is over. Idiot.
- Don't sail in a peach tank top.
- I cannot believe they chose him.
- What should I have for lunch tomorrow? I'm already boredish.
- Squatting in the orchard sifting dirt through your hand?? Really? Tractor?
- Most promos they do on new Bachelors are them pumping iron and running on the beach. Nope, not Ben. Sailing and manual labor at the winery for him.
- Fly aways. Get him some pomade. Good helllll.
- Does he even have a home? He has been walking around in the orchard the whole show so far.
- OOooh snap. He plays the piano too.
- NOSTRILS.
- V-neck.
- Don't kayak.
- Did someone just say "lesbian cream pie"????? What!
- ****commercial The Vow looks soooo good. Channing Tatum. Mmmmm. Wasn't there a Sandra Bullock movie with the exact same plot??
- I'll say this once: the grandma stunt is a horrible staged desperate move by the producers. Hate. Not even funny.
- Horse girl is cute.
- Dumpsville - population YOU? I can't believe I just saw/heard that.
- Cow balls. She is a critical care nurse. Cow balls. Fried.
- Oh please don't make a heart with your hands.
- Of course model girl "isn't worried". They never are. Nor should they be. Hiya.
- Cue the curtain open: "Hi! I'm Jamie!" That wasn't cheeeeese at all.
- Just caught myself looking out my window.
- Semi-impressed with adopt you siblings RN girl.
- London + wardrobe changes + corny sayings = NEXT please.
- Oh, this is good. Over analyst blogger girl. That isn't a set her up to fail plan AT ALL......
- Holy shit.
- Ok, I'm no doctor, and I've only just met this girl, but I'm saying Xanax + inpatient therapy and come back in two years lady...
- Don't make a PBJ in an apron.
- That could turn into Emily/Brad pretttty quick. Leave kids out of it.
- Don't sit on a steer.
- Nicki - cute.
- Again, did I just hear "share a tampon"? No, I must have misunderstood.
- ****commercial I cannot look at the Asian girl on Greys Anatomy. She is so weird looking. Creepy. **shudder**
- Mom - you said they kind of fixed his hair this season. No, I'm afraid they did not.
- Stare at a hummingbird Ben. That is cool. You homo.
- Why the hell are the sidewalks always wet at that mansion? Annyoing to drag your dress through freaking water.
- Chris H has a really square head.
- So I understand Ben's dad died. Why don't we keep talking about it every 3 minutes for half of last season and half of this episode. Ok?
- He just went cross eyed.
- Oh man, he just turned that sentance into a gay one by changing his tone to a gay voice. Woah.
- That, actually would make sense....
- That would be a good turn of events one season. Maybe this one.
- LOL, the hummingbird is his dad - or whatever.
- First car of girls pull up = sounds like hens gaggling.
- Verdict comment by law student girl was lame.
- "That's funny." He says, with no emotion or smile.
- The Baconator? Not a turn on sweetie.
- Candadian Bacon?? Isn't that ham, anyway?
- She has big boobs.
- Woah this one looks pregnant.
- Jenna = awkward.
- Like really awkward.
- More hens.
- Model girl reminds me a lot of someone I used to work with.....
- Don't play with his stupid hair.
- Quit playing with your own hair. This isn't a photo shoot.
- "She's pretty" he says. I'm no supermodel, but she isn't that gorgeous to me.
- Sash girl - Miss what? What is she? I missed that.
- See thru black legs dress is no bueno.
- What the HAT?? Derby?
- This is getting super desperate.
- And here we have anorexia manifested in real life. I missed her name, I was too busy watching her arm to make sure it didn't BREAK IN HALF.
- Grandma situation: Ok, I didn't see that coming.
- That girl just said: "Sash + HAT + grandma" Funny
- Ben: "The caliber is unreal." Caliber of what, those girls? Are we talking about the same thing?
- What time do I work tomorrow?
- There aren't many cute redheads. Annnnd, still, there aren't many cute redheads.
- 54 dresses?
- London = Cheese. Swiss + Provolone + Bleu + Cheddar freaking cheese. She could be cute if she'd change her personality completely.
- What the walk-by girl?
- Did Utah just say "oh hell" when she got out of limo?
- Don't have a lime green mermaid dress with ashy blonde hair.
- He likes a slug on the arm. LOL.
- "Do you know how many there are supposed to be?" Didn't they brief you sweetie? Have you ever seen the show?
- Oh good. Ben has "never dismounted anyone".
- Good thing she is cute. That could have been really really stupid.
- Gorgeous. Amazing. Handsome. Tall. Great body. Beautiful. Sexy. Great hair. Are we talking about Ben? Who??
- London just did a coyote call when Ben walked in.
- I like Rachel. Quit her job about it though?
- Nicki is overly excited here. Maybe a little tipsy??
- Oh. Bubbly. Bubbly = Ashley = Ben's type, evidently.
- "Hooves", he says.
- In the promo she said she's been riding since before she could walk. Now she says 6 years old. Umm, was she a non-walking 6 year old or is she exaggerating?
- This one has interrupted him twice.
- I am an interrupter. I'm working on it. Like really, in therapy, I am actively working on it. I'm supposed to get a notebook and when I'm having conversations write things down I want to say and wait for the person to finish talking. Good when in a meeting at work or talking seriously to Benj.
- Grandma again: She could have gone home after the limo stunt. No need to stay and chat.
- "I know more about you than you do". That isn't freaking creepy at all.....
- Does the granddaughter talk?
- "She has a heart" grandma says - LOL
- Family impression. She wants to make a family impression. Ok, again, the grandma getting out of the limo thing was good enough, now send granny home.
- Oh man, I love this trash!!
- There is some plastic & botox up in here!!!!
- And the drinking ensues.
- Rap = kinda cute. With a side of cheese.
- Ok. I'll say it. His personality is developing a little.
- Model: "I'm at the point in my life where, I'm a model". Genius.
- Jenna is either drunk and/or needs an Ativan.
- Did a lesbian activity just happen?
- Not surprising that the producers dropped that. I'm actually surprised it didn't happen sooner.
- I'm also surprised they haven't had a black Bachelor/ette.
- "You're in my life forever....Beautiful....Amazing....Need your #..... If you are the only thing that comes out of this...." holy hell.
- Jenna is hyperventilating. How do you maintain sanity, she asks?
- I know it's been said, but is it a staged move to have all the crazies come from Utah? It is the Last Days, for sure.
- Don't say "No tears". He just full on watched you crying you idiot.
- WTH is she even saying to him? What...?
- Wowza - she is a freaking train wreck.
- Is she throwing up?
- I like the first impression rose girl (horse girl).
- Hey Lindsay's parents: Don't spell Lindsay LINDZI next time around. It's stupid.
- Cow balls girl looks like the hairdresser on Legally Blonde:
- Model is a bit of a scrunch face.
- At this point in the show, Jenna looks like a meth addict.
- Woah, sweet little nurse showing some underboob.
- Why is the lesbian clapping?
- "You're a good hugger" "Get used to it" That was cute.
- London = huge head. In addition to her annoyingness.
- Woah nelly, Adams Apple on the back row!
- Aw man, the redhead.
- Jenna, for the love. It has been a rough show and you don't have many fans. DO NOT pout your lip like that. It isn't making it any easier to like you. Plus, you look like a troll. On meth.
- Adams apple got a rose. I could see that turning into a transvestite situation here shortly.
- That girl on the front row is so botoxed she can't even close her mouth. Ironically, I think it is Hat girl.
- Jenna gets a pity rose. P.I.T.Y.
- London feels like an absolute failure. It was one night. A little dramatic?
- Cow balls just wheeled her hands in circles for a good 30 seconds.
- Well kids, there has been lots of F-words tonight. The sweet little ladies.
- This promo for next week is a little over the top with drama and emotions. Almost turn-me-off instead of wanting to watch. Good one, producers.
- "I want to verbally assult her". That is actually a freaking good line.
- I am looking at my notes paper and I had written "love blonde bangs girl" and my mind immediately went to the gutter.
- Anyway, I do like the girl who is blonde and has bangs. A lot. Classy.
- Again, the 'scenes from next week' cut is really, um, theatrical.
- Annnnd they kind of completely give away the finale....? Or is it just me?
- Is the finale in the mountains?
- Whew. It's over.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Max 2 year old pics!
I just got them back and am sooo excited! I love all of them! This is only a few of the 50! Isn't he the cutest thing ever?!
Sunday, December 18, 2011
upon reflection
Pondering the last few shit filled days with max & just in general, I wanted to point out some of the positives......
- That diarrhea wasn't involved.
- That child abuse wasn't involved.
- That a psych unit wasn't involved.
- That I was able to get sleep.
- That I have meds to help me.
- That all of a sudden Max will just lay in his bed and go to sleep without the milk sippy + holding in the recliner at night (as of like 3 days ago).
- That I have family to help me.
- That my boss/Amanda are flexible and understanding.
- That grandma Tam was able to come to the picture event. I'd have never made it.
- That Max gave kisses and "please" and "ank oo's" in between the terror moments.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
a rough one.....
It all started Wednesday night. Benj wasn't feeling well (we all feel like shit, is it going around??), so I was trying to be nice and picked up Max from the sitters and took him shopping so Benj could rest. Yeah, well that was a dumb idea. I stopped home and grabbed a go-gurt and some juice, just incase he got munchy, and we headed to Old Navy. I'm hunting for a shirt and/or some khaki's for Max's pictures the next day. Put Max in a cart, take his huge puffy "Christmas Story" coat off and leave his hat on. Immediately he tries to get out of the cart, and I immediatly put a stop to it. And there it started. Freak out cry cry, hit me, throwing shit, opened my purse and threw contents all over. As I am on the ground searching for my belongings, one arm up trying to keep the damn kid in the cart, I see a rack of boys long sleeve shirts - clearance for $5. Yay! So many colors and options! So I roll over and start looking thru. I knew I wanted some sort of blue to bring out his amazing blues, and of course there are 12 different blue ones. He is screaming. Thermal fabric or normal? Hell I dont know. I personally would hate thermal - would he? Here comes my anxiety. I look around. A lady with freaking newborn twins, like right out the canal, is pushing around a 12 foot double stroller complete with 2 huge diaper bags, blankets, coats, and half the baby section piled on top. Who goes out shopping with a newborn? Or 2?? Or any kid? Of course she is taking up a lot of room, so I have semi-stuck, which causes clausterphobia. More anxiety sets in. Another couple, 2 kids, 2 carts, 4 huge purses (it seemed like). Mom yelling "Honey, does this match? How about this? Go find a worker and ask if they have this in 24 months. Hurry! Sam GET OVER HERE," etc, etc. And dad is screaming back "Hey Jennie, look, here are matching sweats. Did Annie get boots this year? What was that shirt she had on last week that I liked?" Kids all of the place. At one point thier boy was on the bottom of one of the carts, driving it with his hands, and of course, hit the back of my ankles, which causes me to scream "shit!" to which I get "the look" from the parents. In the meantime I have tried to take pictures of 4 different shirts and text them to Rae and Manda (the only ones who were responding out of all my friends and fam) and the text wouldn't go thru. Damn AT&T. Max screaming he wants down, out, cry, cry. At this point I was almost in hysterics. Sweating. Tried to call Benj, who is home in the tub watching a movie and he doesn't answer, which pisses the hell out of me. Try to email Rae, the pics, they won't go thru. Max has taken everything out of the cart again and thrown it on the floor. Where is his shoe?? I give him a drink of his juice and he promtly spits it out onto merchandise. It was all I could do to not smack his face. So I slapped his mouth, not hard, and told him NO. Of course the lady next to me looks at me like I am a damn child abuser. Whatever. So I park my cart, gather Max and go outside for breather #1 of the night. Re-group, go back in. Put Max in the big part of the cart, trying to change it up for him. There are zeroooo khaki's in his size. I found one labeld 2T that literally could have fit me, if you know what I mean. Do they have shoes here, like to buy? What the hell are those? They look like the penny loafers I wore to the first day of school in Kindergarten. I don't know what color to get. I narrowed it down to 3. They are $5 each, to hell with it I will get them all. I'm standing in line and Max has emptied half of one of those ball bins, from his seat in the cart, I don't even know how. He does have a really long torso. Throwing them at customers. As I get all the balls back into the bin, some lady 'nudges' me telling me the line is moving. Hoe. Next thing I know Max has 2 nail files and is poking some little kid. As I am putting those back, he takes some gum and throws it at the cashier. Somehow finds his juice and dumps it out everywhere. Ok, in the back of my mind I am nervous because the shirts I picked out are all that thermal fabric and I don't know if I like it. Plus they are 3T because the 2T looked too small. Shit. So I get out of line, sweating, and go back to the rack. Try 19 more times to call someone, anyone, for an opinion. I get Amanda's finally and just go with it. Back to the line. One of the workers is walking back from the back room with a "Caution, Wet Floor" sign + a mop forhis juice, glaring at me. It wasn't enough for a mop about it you big snot. Pretty much the exact same thing happens again, I pay and get thru. And it's a damn good thing the guy didn't ask me to open a credit card because he would have gotten a bitchy response. So I'm by the door, which isn't easy to get out of with a cart, so I'm trying to back out of it like a big fat dumptruck and and mentally looking around thinking "where the hell is Max's hat?" I love that hat. So back freaking in we go. 3 rounds and 2 employees looking later, nothing. I literally got on hands and knees and was looking under racks. Pissssssed. So I get in the car and immediately started crying. I gathered myself enough before I walked in so Benj wouldn't be stressed, but the minute I looked at him I started crying again. I told Benj to please clean Max's shoes for pictures tomorrow and went in my room for timeout #2. Re-group. Come out and get Max in the bath. I get that done, while he yelled and cried for ice the whole time, got him out and was trying to get him dressed. He was crying so hard he almost threw up. I looked at Benj and told him I was leaving. I was in my garments only, so I put a jacket on and went outside for breather #3. I felt like a smoker, sitting on my front porch crying and puffing air in the cold. Ahhhh.
Fast forward to today. We slept in, kind of, got up at 8:30 to get ready for Max's pictures. I wanted to make sure he got something to eat so he wasn't fussy. His breakfast of choice was yogurt with bread chunks in it (I used to do it, don't ask.....) so halfway thru that he gags on his flegm and throws up projectile all over the recliner. In the crevices. Cry cry cry. I didn't have time to properly clean that and get both of us ready, so out of the 3, I'm the one who didn't shower and do my hair. I couldn't get it cleaned up very good so I just did my best and tried to hurry and get myself ready. In the meantime you better believe I opened me a Dr. Pepper. I turned on Buzz thinking he'd sit and watch it. He started crying so I went in there (I was naked at this point, don't judge) and sat my ass right in freshly spilled apple juice. Like right in my crack. So I go back in and am doing my makeup and of course he has to be all up in my business. He emptied my case into the sink and turned the water on, on all of my makeup, before i could even blink. I slapped his hand and told him no, to which he starts bawling, borderline throws up again (meaning a handful of spitty stuff) and falls into the tub backward. I give him loves, wipe the sweat of my face, and try to continue getting ready. I'm thinking this whole time that I'm glad grandma is coming with us to pictures...... Next thing I know, my fresh DP is being poured all over the wet makeup I had just set out to dry. Ok, now I'm pissed. Deep breaths. Yada yada yada, We go pick up grandma and are on our way. I knew the general area of the place but couldn't find it exactly. So we were a pinch late and they are kind of nazi-like, which made me nervous. Max is immediately flustered; thinks we are in a doctors office. They take us back, with our male photographer, which initially made me nervous, and started trying to get Max comfortable. The guy was awesome, trying to get him to throw balls, play with cars, jump, eat fruit snacks, M&M's, anything. Nope. Max cried THE ENTIRE TIME. Tried to get out of the doors. Was clinging to grandma like a damn spider monkey. At one point the guy had me & grandma leave, which didn't work. He said this is the first kid who has stumped him. He said they normally get 50-80 shots and by the end of it he had 15, maybe. He told us it was no-charge and we could reschedule. They are awesome there and I love them, it was just Max was a TERROR. He said he would edit the ones he got and we could come back and look at them and just see. So we went to get lunch. The adults wanted Cafe Rio, but with the way Max was acting I knew damn well he wasn't going to sit in a highchair and eat beans, so Carls' Jr. playplace we went. Of course he was a darling angel once we got there. Laughing, smiling, playing in the playplace. Ate a little. Pooped. This was the best part of the day. We got back to look at the photos and ther are 2 cute ones and 2 semi-cute ones. Both semi-cute ones you could see a HUGE MASHED UP BALL OF KOOK on his shoe (hmmmm, didn't I ask someone to clean his shoes?). So they call in the office manager and the 'photoshop expert' to see if it could be fixed. It's a $5 charge and maybe was the answer. I just say to hell with it, let's reschedule. I don't know if Max is sick of what, so I did it out a few weeks. They are booked thru January but she found me a place at 8PM one night after Christmas, mostly because she could tell I was going to lose it any minute. I don't know how well 8PM will work, we will see. Did I mention that serisouly probably 90% of this story Max was crying????? We were trying to keep Max awake on the way home so his mother could get a nap with him. Yelling in his face, pinching his feet, etc. He was pissed. I was pissed. We get home, I give him some more Tylenol and a dash of Benadryl since he as so mucous-ee and let him run around until he gets tired. He was asking for Buzz, but SOMEONE lost the remote and so I tryed to get it on my phone. It kept cutting out and he kept crying everytime, so I finally just turned it off. Well, he wasn't having that. He rolled around on me and cried and kicked for probably a good hour. I was frantically texting Benj, calling my mom, etc. He wouldn't stop. I finally put him in his bed and shut the door. Not 20 seconds later he puked all over his bed and the floor. Get him out, rip off his clothes, he is clinging to me bawling. I feel semi bad for him. We lowered his bed so even I can't reach the matress, so I was trying to hold him, bend over and get the dirty sheets/blanket, and pinch his leg. CRY cry cry. At this point I am crying too. I try to lay him in my bed with me. He is soooo tired he can't keep his eyes open, yet he won't freaking sleep. He wasn't having my bed, so we end up on puke drenched recliner, still wet. I put him in a headlock and tried to give him his sippy with milk. Finally he drank some and spit it out. AGHH you are kidding me. Sitting in puke, milk all over. I smell something yucky, besides the puke. Yep, the milk is sour. Terrific. I get up to change it out, which I don't even know why because he doesn't drink it anyway, and he freaks out because I left him on the chair alone. He chases me into the kitchen and trips on his sock. I trip on a freaking toy on the way back and full on fall to the ground with a stubbed toe. I can't even see straight I'm crying so hard. Max is turning the Christmas tree lights on and off and on and off, crying. We are about 3 hours into it now. I put him back in his bed and he actually layed down!! Ah! So I sit by him for a second. Once he starts breathing normal I am assured he is asleep and get up to walk out. NOPE. Freak out cry scream throw up again. Whole scenario again, start another batch of wash yada yada. We are both hyysterical again. I call my dad to see why the hell my mom ins't answering (I thought there better be a damn good reason, like she is in the hospital, for example) and he was quite alarmed at my state. He called around and found her, but by the time she called, Max had FINALLY fallen asleep on me on the chair, so it woke him up. I cannot even explain how horible this whole thing was. I swear it was worse than it even sounds. Something is off with my meds anyway because this whole week I have been a wreck; crying, mad, upset, tired. I packed him up and took him to the brother-in-law and left him there. I came home to see if I could lay down for a while and I was so damn anxious I couldn't sleep. And now here I am. I'm a wreck. Arguably one of my top 5 worst 24 hours ever. Right up there with Physch unit entrance #1 and the postpartum poo day.
Ugh, I feel better venting. Hope tomorrow is better. And I am not proof-reading this - sorry Amanda.
Fast forward to today. We slept in, kind of, got up at 8:30 to get ready for Max's pictures. I wanted to make sure he got something to eat so he wasn't fussy. His breakfast of choice was yogurt with bread chunks in it (I used to do it, don't ask.....) so halfway thru that he gags on his flegm and throws up projectile all over the recliner. In the crevices. Cry cry cry. I didn't have time to properly clean that and get both of us ready, so out of the 3, I'm the one who didn't shower and do my hair. I couldn't get it cleaned up very good so I just did my best and tried to hurry and get myself ready. In the meantime you better believe I opened me a Dr. Pepper. I turned on Buzz thinking he'd sit and watch it. He started crying so I went in there (I was naked at this point, don't judge) and sat my ass right in freshly spilled apple juice. Like right in my crack. So I go back in and am doing my makeup and of course he has to be all up in my business. He emptied my case into the sink and turned the water on, on all of my makeup, before i could even blink. I slapped his hand and told him no, to which he starts bawling, borderline throws up again (meaning a handful of spitty stuff) and falls into the tub backward. I give him loves, wipe the sweat of my face, and try to continue getting ready. I'm thinking this whole time that I'm glad grandma is coming with us to pictures...... Next thing I know, my fresh DP is being poured all over the wet makeup I had just set out to dry. Ok, now I'm pissed. Deep breaths. Yada yada yada, We go pick up grandma and are on our way. I knew the general area of the place but couldn't find it exactly. So we were a pinch late and they are kind of nazi-like, which made me nervous. Max is immediately flustered; thinks we are in a doctors office. They take us back, with our male photographer, which initially made me nervous, and started trying to get Max comfortable. The guy was awesome, trying to get him to throw balls, play with cars, jump, eat fruit snacks, M&M's, anything. Nope. Max cried THE ENTIRE TIME. Tried to get out of the doors. Was clinging to grandma like a damn spider monkey. At one point the guy had me & grandma leave, which didn't work. He said this is the first kid who has stumped him. He said they normally get 50-80 shots and by the end of it he had 15, maybe. He told us it was no-charge and we could reschedule. They are awesome there and I love them, it was just Max was a TERROR. He said he would edit the ones he got and we could come back and look at them and just see. So we went to get lunch. The adults wanted Cafe Rio, but with the way Max was acting I knew damn well he wasn't going to sit in a highchair and eat beans, so Carls' Jr. playplace we went. Of course he was a darling angel once we got there. Laughing, smiling, playing in the playplace. Ate a little. Pooped. This was the best part of the day. We got back to look at the photos and ther are 2 cute ones and 2 semi-cute ones. Both semi-cute ones you could see a HUGE MASHED UP BALL OF KOOK on his shoe (hmmmm, didn't I ask someone to clean his shoes?). So they call in the office manager and the 'photoshop expert' to see if it could be fixed. It's a $5 charge and maybe was the answer. I just say to hell with it, let's reschedule. I don't know if Max is sick of what, so I did it out a few weeks. They are booked thru January but she found me a place at 8PM one night after Christmas, mostly because she could tell I was going to lose it any minute. I don't know how well 8PM will work, we will see. Did I mention that serisouly probably 90% of this story Max was crying????? We were trying to keep Max awake on the way home so his mother could get a nap with him. Yelling in his face, pinching his feet, etc. He was pissed. I was pissed. We get home, I give him some more Tylenol and a dash of Benadryl since he as so mucous-ee and let him run around until he gets tired. He was asking for Buzz, but SOMEONE lost the remote and so I tryed to get it on my phone. It kept cutting out and he kept crying everytime, so I finally just turned it off. Well, he wasn't having that. He rolled around on me and cried and kicked for probably a good hour. I was frantically texting Benj, calling my mom, etc. He wouldn't stop. I finally put him in his bed and shut the door. Not 20 seconds later he puked all over his bed and the floor. Get him out, rip off his clothes, he is clinging to me bawling. I feel semi bad for him. We lowered his bed so even I can't reach the matress, so I was trying to hold him, bend over and get the dirty sheets/blanket, and pinch his leg. CRY cry cry. At this point I am crying too. I try to lay him in my bed with me. He is soooo tired he can't keep his eyes open, yet he won't freaking sleep. He wasn't having my bed, so we end up on puke drenched recliner, still wet. I put him in a headlock and tried to give him his sippy with milk. Finally he drank some and spit it out. AGHH you are kidding me. Sitting in puke, milk all over. I smell something yucky, besides the puke. Yep, the milk is sour. Terrific. I get up to change it out, which I don't even know why because he doesn't drink it anyway, and he freaks out because I left him on the chair alone. He chases me into the kitchen and trips on his sock. I trip on a freaking toy on the way back and full on fall to the ground with a stubbed toe. I can't even see straight I'm crying so hard. Max is turning the Christmas tree lights on and off and on and off, crying. We are about 3 hours into it now. I put him back in his bed and he actually layed down!! Ah! So I sit by him for a second. Once he starts breathing normal I am assured he is asleep and get up to walk out. NOPE. Freak out cry scream throw up again. Whole scenario again, start another batch of wash yada yada. We are both hyysterical again. I call my dad to see why the hell my mom ins't answering (I thought there better be a damn good reason, like she is in the hospital, for example) and he was quite alarmed at my state. He called around and found her, but by the time she called, Max had FINALLY fallen asleep on me on the chair, so it woke him up. I cannot even explain how horible this whole thing was. I swear it was worse than it even sounds. Something is off with my meds anyway because this whole week I have been a wreck; crying, mad, upset, tired. I packed him up and took him to the brother-in-law and left him there. I came home to see if I could lay down for a while and I was so damn anxious I couldn't sleep. And now here I am. I'm a wreck. Arguably one of my top 5 worst 24 hours ever. Right up there with Physch unit entrance #1 and the postpartum poo day.
Ugh, I feel better venting. Hope tomorrow is better. And I am not proof-reading this - sorry Amanda.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
are you kidding?
I was flipping thru a magazine at lunch today, which I haven't done for a looooong time. The 65 year old nurse I was eating with knows more about the Kardashians than I do. I just found out today thier dad was the lawyer for OJ Simpson...... Anyway, I came across a few things that I just couldn't resist taking another half hour talking to my friends about and then scanning them in to my work email and so I could post them. Maybe I am over-reacting.
Favorite Holiday tradition: Vanessa Hudgens says "opening presents in the morning"
ummm
Isn't that what everyone does?? Does she think that is just her tradition? Does she know what a tradition is? (Do I?) Stupid comment. Stupid. She is, however, hot. (p.s. - here's a fat joke for you: I was eating chips during lunch and see those two dark spots on that lady's dress? yep, greasy finger spots. pretty sick.)
I know, it is obvious that "snooki" is a big idiot. I thought everyone was aware of that. Apparently, someone isn't though because they went and let her "write" not one, but TWO books. On being a "Guidette"???? What the hell even is that? No, really? If she was a tour guide, maybe, maybe she could pull that off, but isn't she just a sluttly little fowl mouthed puke? Are people serious? Like 3 people looked at that ad while I was there and no one said a word - like it was normal. Wake up pale? I understand the eyelashes. Whatever!! What a freaking joke.
And finally. Carmelo and Lala. That's right, I said LaLa. As in, "La de freaking da-la". Please don't tell me you read that name and thought it was normal just now. Are you kidding me? Carmelo is one thing, and if Caramello candy bars weren't so good, I'd be bitching about his name too. Call me rascist or whatever, but a lot of African Americans have some messed up-made up names (Shaniqua, LaFonda, Quarlisha, SNOOKI, etc) (is Snooki black?) and this, my friends, is a perfect example. Don't. Even if it is a nick-name, for hell sakes grow out of it already. At the very least use your real name for the magazine. Seriously. {Let me just interject here that there are plenty of "white" made up names I could whine about too.... Talon, Canyon, Timber, etc}.
I either won't be reading magazines for a while, or I will and have to continue bitching about the dumb celebrities. Until The Bachelor starts again....
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
funnies
I just can't handle how funny these are. They always make me giggle, at the very least - sometimes LOL, sometimes LMAO. The pictures crack me up. I've posted some on FB & Pinterest, so some of you may have seen some already. There are thousands - but these particular ones are very "me" I thought. Enjoy!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)