Since I’m kinda out of topics, here’s more randomness.
-If you’re looking to foster loyalty among employees, try paying them on time. Announcing that everyone will have their pay cut by 9% doesn’t help, either.
-I discovered Yahtzee this weekend. I also discovered that I pretty much suck at it, too.
-Bryan is the shit at Yahtzee.
-I watched Eyes Wide Shut this weekend. I don’t get the movie. I can’t believe I wasted over two hours of Tom Cruise trying to convince himself he’s not gay. (Dude, if you are, you are. Be proud of it.)
-God has a sick, twisted sense of humor. He gave me a daughter just like me. A stubborn, refusing to listen, temperamental daughter. I can hear my Dad laughing from here.
-I’ve declared war on the weeds & bamboo in my yard. Your days are numbered. I know the last people let you run loosey-goosy, but there’s a new Commander in Chief. And she’s pissed, and she’s getting ground sterilizer. Run while you still can.
-I’ve become severely addicted to Panda Express. I cannot get enough of their chow mien, orange chicken, and mushroom chicken. If I wasn’t broke as hell right now, I’d be noshing on their artery-clogging goodness.
-My daycare is closed this week, so my in-laws are watching Pook. They come and pick her up, and they drop her off. It’s like having a baby delivery service. It’s great.
-When she first wakes up and reaches for me, and lays her head down on my shoulder, all sleepy and warm, I remember why I say I love being a Mom.
-When she throws her sippy cup at me in protest, I wonder why exactly I want another one. I also wonder about God’s humor.
-Speaking of weeds…Last weekend I had T helping me pull up dandelions. Only to discover my lovely stepson running around blowing those little puff balls everywhere. You probably heard my scream of, “NOOOOOOOOO!!” at your house.
-Trying to eat healthier sucks. I’m drinking more water instead of Dr. Pepper, (read: liquid cocaine for me). I now have caffeine headaches. I’m choosing ‘lite’ versions. They don’t taste the same!
-Besides, it’s easier to just deep fat fry everything in lard, and smother it in gravy.
-It’s not so easy to watch my ass slooowly expand, and my waistline to disappear.
-Besides, TF is on a diet and as much as I hate her…She looks good. And we can’t have the exwife looking better than us, can we? No, didn’t think so.
Yeah, that’s about it. Hope everyone had a FABOOSH Memorial Day Weekend! Remember: we live in the home of the free, because of the brave.
Up until now, the recession hadn’t really affected Bryan and I. Sure, we shopped a little smarter, and things like that. But we both had our jobs, and our full pay.
That changed this morning after a little meeting I had.
My company is cutting base salaries all around by 9%. But wait! We want to make it up to you! We’ll give you ten, count ‘em, ten extra paid vacation days!
Um, thanks? So we have an extra two weeks of vacation but we have less money to enjoy them with. What do you expect me to do? Vacation time doesn’t pay my bills, folks.
First payroll admits they didn’t process my return to work paperwork on time, and delays my check for two weeks. Thusly, I’m going a full month without pay. Now this. My loyalty to this company is plummeting.
I’m not sayin’ I’m gonna up and quit. I need all the moolah I can get. But if something better were to come along….Let’s just say it won’t be a hard decision, y’know?
If they’re going to do this, they should at least let us drink at work. It’d make my collection process more interesting.
So, yeah…..HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND TO ME.
I had this saved in my drafts folder for a while. I hope SOMEONE (not me) learns from this. I suffer for you. It might be TMI, but it's funny TMI, dammit.
Bryan and I had a date night planned. Our first real date in a long time. Got the in-laws to watch the baby overnight, had dinner reservations, and everything. Heck, I even bought a pretty little black dress for the occasion. Wanting to make this special, I wanted to look my very best.
In the shower that morning, I happened to look down and YIKES! I said to myself, “Self, you need a weed whacker for that bush.” I figured no man likes to dive face-first into a hedge, so I started to think. I figured a salon would probably charge around $50 or more to wax what I had so woefully neglected. Being in a recession, and wanting to save a few bucks, I figured I could go buy a waxing kit, and get the same results as a professional for a fifth of the price, right? I go to Wal-Mart and pick up a Nair waxing kit, which says it smells like “fresh peach melon”. Never smelling a fresh peach melon (or Nair for that matter) in my life, I figured what the heck? It’ll smell pretty!
I get it home and the box says to microwave the tub of wax for 15 seconds. Our microwave is ancient, so I figured another 10 seconds will do the trick. I pop it in, and when I pull it out its pretty warm but I figured it’s supposed to be that way, never doing this myself, what do I know? (Nothing, as it turned out later.)
I position myself on the edge of the bathtub, ready to get to work. I’m thinking to myself that I’ll do a Brazilian wax, and oh how clever am I, and oh won’t he be pleased? I put the little stick in the wax, and start to spread it over my hoo-hah. HOLY LORD, this stuff is HOT! Maybe I should’ve only nuked it for fifteen seconds after all! I put the paper waxing strip on the goop and wait a bit; wanting to make sure it really sticks. Problem number one: this stuff cools and dries rather quickly. Great, so now this stuff is the consistency of bubblegum under my shoe that I stepped in on a hot day. Oh, and the “fresh peach melon” scent that it advertised? Unless the peach melon has been rotting inside Satan’s ass for a week, I’m pretty sure that’s not what it’s supposed to smell like.
Well, no use putting off the inevitable, right? Time to rip this sucker off. I figure it’ll hurt like a band-aid. Bracing myself, and damn near choking on the washcloth I’ve jammed on my mouth to muffle the screams, I rip it off.
Blinding pain. Oh sweet merciful Jesus, kill me now.
I look down. I see several problems. Problem number one, it’s not totally off. I was apparently too much of a wuss and stopped halfway. So I need to do this again. What has come off not just ripped out my pubic hair, it took skin. Now I’ve got a freaking bleeding scab on my muffin! I look at the directions, and sure enough, it says not to leave it on very long, because it dries and freakin’ adheres to skin like Anna Nichole to a dying rich old fart. Shit. Taking my blow-dryer and putting it on the hottest setting possible, I blast my cooter. SON OF A BITCH THAT HURTS! My exposed skin in screaming at me, while the wax heats up, and I shove the washcloth in again so the neighbors don’t think we’re harboring a banshee. I rip off the last half and it takes me a second before I can look down.
Well, no skin this time but there is leftover wax. I’ll be damned if I’m going to rip my pubic hair out by the roots again, and choke to death in the process. The directions say warm water. Carefully, I step into a warm bath and take a loofah and scrub unmercifully until every last bit of was is gone.
When Bryan saw it that night, he recoiled (in terror, I presume.) and said, “Holy shit, what the hell is THAT?!” I explain to him my adventure into waxing. He can’t stop laughing. I’m miffed because dammit, I went through extraordinary amount of pain to be sexy, (and ended up looking like a moron.)
The moral of the story here, folks is that there are some things in life you want to pay someone else to do. Waxing your cooter is one of them. Take it from me. I sacrifice myself upon the altar of education, so that you, my fellow bloggers, may benefit.
The GREAT:
Mothers Day. I was able to sleep in until 8:30! No screaming infant rattling her crib to be changed, played with, and I WANT FOOD! NOW! I'M STARVING! I'LL NEVER EAT AGAIN! HURRY! So yeah, that was nice. I woke up to freshly brewed coffee, a content baby girl in an adorable outfit, a tearjerker card and lovely red roses. OH! And we spent the day with my mom! And it was good! Nary a snide comment in sight!
The Not-So-Great:
Mothers Day. I desperately wanted to stop and see my AWESOME YO! Stepmother Cindy and the Old Wolf. (Who, by the way, just turned eleventy billion and spent the night I'm sure howling with the pack. Show him some love and wish him a happy birthday. Especially you, Triplet. He's your adopted Dad, too.) Anyhoo, I wanted to see them and wish her a happy mothers day. But by the time we were done with Ma, it was 1630. Pook had FINALLY fell asleep after no naps that day, Bry and I were flat pooped, and if we stopped it would be roughly 2130 by the time we got home. We. Were. Just. Too. Tired. But hopefully they can come up here sometime soon and see me. (Not that I'm dropping hints or anything. Nooope.) And as it turns out it was probably good we didn't stop. Halfway through our trip home, Pook woke up hungry. She sucked down haf a bottle, and promptly puked everywhere. To top that off, she started to lick it off. Yeah, that smelled great. She also decided to explode her ass on Saturday, and play in it. EWWW.
The meh:
I don't know why but I got a bug up my ass to clean the whole house on Saturday. So I did. All by myself! Bryan came home from the dentists to a clean house. I also discovered that A) I hate laundry. With a passion. and B) I could NEVER be a SAHM like my Triplet. I
Every so often, we need reminders. Over the course of the last week or so I've run into quite a few people, who will mostly remain nameless, who need to be reminded of a few things. And me, being the loving, generous person that I am will remind these people.
-Remember, if you're going to play the holier than thou card with me, be careful. I'm rather snarky and sarcastic and I'm not afraid to use it. So, if you want to play the holier than thou card with me, let's just recall who had to have a paternity test done to figure out which of the three men fathered your child. Oh that's right, it was YOU.
-Remember, if you're going to complain that you're oh-so-broke and can barely afford to feed your family...Posting that you just bought $250 jeans and roses for yourself isn't the brightest idea.
-Remember, if you're going to complain that your children have nothing and they're so deprived, also posting that you bought said child a cell phone of her own contradicts your previous statement. Also, what does a nine year old need with a cell phone?!
-Remember, if your best friend lets you live with him and his pregnant girlfriend for 18 months, lets you borrow his truck...Don't get pissy when he wants it back. You borrowed the vehicle. And were told when we needed it back.
-Remember also that if you're going to borrow something with the caveat that you fix it, getting upset when the thing breaks and only offering to pay half isn't in your best interests. In fact, you'll never borrow the vehicle again. You were warned. You agreed. Tough if you blew all your cash on stupid stuff.
-Remember, if you're going to put down somebody 11 years your junior on her life, examine your own first. Lest you forget, you're 35, with a dead-end part-time minimum wage job, live in your Aunties basement, can't afford to pay your $45 cell phone bill, and don't have a car. Whereas I'm 24, have a full-time job that pays decently, live in my OWN home, afford my Blackberry, and don't have to bum rides to go anywhere.
-Remember, you're NOT damaged goods! If I have a dollar and I crumple it up, throw it in the mud, and smear dog doo all over it...It's still a perfectly good dollar bill that any merchant will take, no matter how much crap it's gone through.
-Remember, clothing manufacturers. Not all women are 6 feet, 120 beanpoles who have yet to hit puberty. Some of us are not quite petite, but certainly not 6". Some of us have curves. Not quite enough to go into Lane Bryant, not quite enough to shop in a regular store. Just putting a bug in your ear.
-Remember, undergarment manufacturers...If you are designing a bra for us larger chested women, for one: the straps need to be thicker than a pencil. It hurts when those dig unmercilessly into your shoulders. Secondly, when you design a bra for larger chested women...MAKE IT PRETTY. No woman wants to feel like she just raided Grandma's lingerie drawer.
-Remember, if Mama smacks your hand and tells you, "NO!" when you crawl over to the dog bowl for some kibble, she means no every time. Not just that once.
-Remember, Mama's got eyes in the backs of their heads. It comes with pregnancy. I blame it on the hormones, but they are handy.
-REMEMBER! This Sunday is Mothers Day, so call yo' Mama and tell her you love her, you're sorry for making her hair go gray. And if you're a Mama, remember that soon enough you'll be understanding why your own Mama never let you out of the house looking like that, and to get your hair out of your face. And if you're married to a Mama, thank her and tell her you love her!
|
RSS Feed