Heidi's Hell Hole

Yes, it's the dreaded LIST. The ultimate blogging cop-out. But I'm the list Queen, so it is less of a cop-out...So, here's my newly minted list.........

WHY MY BFF DOESN'T SUCK:

1) I am almost convinced that my Mom had triplets, and she's my missing triplet.

2) We have not only had the same life experiences, we had them at the same time. In some instances, within moments of each other.

3) We can talk about ANYTHING, and it's never weird or TMI. Seriously, ANYTHING.

4) We get each other, on everything. Our sense of humor is shared, and neither one of us feels weird laughing at our own jokes because we know the other person is laughing with us.

5) She's not afraid to [virtually] smack me up alongside the head, or disagree with me.

6) If I was a SAHM, she'd be my role model. On the rare day I stay at home with my child, I'm constantly texting her "WHAT DO I DO NOW GAHHH!"

7) We talk for a minimum of an hour every day, and have yet to run out of discussion points.

8) She is every bit as hot as I am, if not more so.

9) She's witty, smart, kind, and generous.

10) She's not only invited me to spend a week with her, in her home, but her and her husband have invited me to the USMC Ball, AAAAND she's graciously, generously, offered to pay for it.

Jacqueline, I <3 you, sis. In case I haven't screeched it into your ear, through IM or text messaging..

I LOVE YOU, THANK YOU! OMFG, THANK YOU!

I've been thinking for months that Pooker is speech delayed. Yet everyone told me I was overreacting, every child is different, and how I need to calm down. I cannot effectively articulate how much those statements frustrated and angered me. I knew something was wrong with her. I knew her speech was off, I knew that she wasn't as developed as she was supposed to be. And yet everyone told me to shut up, she's fine.

Finally, I philosophically gave everyone the finger and scheduled her to be evaluated by the county. "You're just wasting your time" they said. I said they could shove it up their asses, I was going to test her anyway.

They were WRONG, internets!

As it turned out, she is indeed speech delayed. As of this posting, she is 16 months old. She has the speech abilities of a 9 month old. She should have at least 2-3 words in her vocabulary, and trying to mimic what we say. She will try to sound out consonants, but she doesn't say WORDS. When the evaluator asked her where I was, and who I was she just shrieked.

So where does this leave me? Well, the nurse is coming to our house next Thursday to do a more in-depth evaluation. From there, she'll keep coming to the house and to daycare to work with her. For once, I was right. But I wish I was wrong, that she was normal.

This is my Pooker Butt. The baby I fought so hard to keep healthy when I was pregnant, despite my body working against me. The little girl who has my heart, melting every time I see her smile.  The baby who is so upbeat, who runs as fast as her little legs can carry her to give me a big hug. She is my heart. She is my soul. She is my life. She's....just...she's everything.

I love being a woman, most of the time. Really, I do. But damn if there’s not times when I wish I wasn’t a man.

For example, I love long hair. I love how it looks when it’s down and loose, how soft it is, and how it makes me feel so utterly feminine. Yet, I hate it. I hate the maintenance on it. I have to be careful not to damage it with styling tools, lest I get split ends and it looks like straw. Yet, I love how it looks when it’s blow dried and curled. I hate the amount of time it takes to style it, which is why most of the time I keep it in a ponytail. Yet, I’ll never cut it short, ever, despite how easy it would probably be to maintain. I envy how my boyfriend can get out of the shower, and not do a damn thing with his military-style buzz cut, and still look handsome.

I love how I look so polished, so put together, so pretty when I have makeup on. But I wish I didn’t have to wear it. I feel naked and disgusting when I don’t wear makeup. However, I hate the amount of time and effort it takes to put makeup on, and how the media makes you feel like a leper if you don’t like makeup and you’re a girl. I hate how it runs on hot days, because lets face it: there is nothing remotely attractive about streaky foundation and raccoon eyes from the mascara that melted. Also, there’s day makeup and evening makeup. I can’t go out for a drink after work wearing the same makeup I did during the day, or I look out of place. Likewise, I can’t walk into the office with smoky eyes, as I look not only out of place, but also like I’m trying to seduce the old-as-dirt warehouse manager. I have two different sets of makeup I’m supposed to wear, just to make it through the day. Men, (well, straight men), don’t have this problem. They wash their face, and they’re good for the rest of the day.

I love how high heels can make my legs look freakin’ amazing; yet walking in them is a pain. Ever try walking in high heels when the ground is slick? You look like a newborn colt just finding its legs. But, alas, it doesn’t look professional to walk in with your skirt and sweater wearing tennis shoes or work boots. (Which are infinitely more comfortable.) I love how men find me alluring in my black pencil skirt, my form fitting turtle neck that outlines my (spectacular) chest, and pumps. But sometimes I wish I could show up to the office in jeans, a tee-shirt, and sandals, and still turn heads. This brings me to my next rant.

Women’s clothing, what a joke that is. Have you seen the usurious prices on a freakin’ pair of womens jeans these days?! I’m sorry, I like your jeans, Mr. Designer, but there is no way in hell I am paying $200 for a pair of jeans. If I’m going to pay $200 for a pair of jeans, they better wash, iron, and fold themselves. I’ll just buy my jeans from Target, thank you very much. I don’t follow fashion. I couldn’t tell you what is “in” this season if my life depended on it. I know what I like to wear, and if that happens to be in style, great. If it’s not, I really don’t care.

 

Also, if you’re a woman, you’re expected to accessorize. You’re supposed to have earrings, a necklace, and a matching bag. I’m weird in that rarely ever do I consider if my purse matches my outfit. However, when I do occasionally accessorize, I do it well, and look nice. Also, with jewelry…Bracelets get in the way of my work. I type a LOT in my job, and bracelets make it hard to type comfortably. Earrings tend to hurt my ears when I’m on the phone, something I also do a LOT in my job. Necklaces have a tendency to fall in between my boobs, and that just looks weird.

Also, being a girl sucks in that Mother Nature kinda screws us over. Once a month, for a week, we bleed like stuck pigs. During that time, we are bloated, headachy, broken out, our boobs are huge and sore, cranky, and we’re either wearing a diaper or a cotton rod shoved up our hoo-hah. This is not a fun time. The week preceding this blessed event sucks because we’re PMSing, and we know the next week is going to be unpleasant. During this week there is also no hanky-panky happening, which is a bummer, to say the least. Mother Nature can take her “monthly gift” and shove it up her ass.

Being a girl also logistically is a pain, as well. Men, when you need to pee, you can do it wherever you pretty much want. The world is your commode. Women don’t have that convenience. We have to do this weird crouch thing if we’re outside with no toilet in sight, and then try to find a leaf to wipe with. There’s no shake, shake and we’re done. If we have to use a public (shudder) restroom, that can equally be treacherous. Some of those bathrooms don’t get cleaned very often, and there’s no way I’m plopping my bare bottom on a toilet seat that looks like its got a new strain of herpes on it. So, we cover the seat in copious amounts of TP, and pray that it’s enough protection from some other girls crotch rot.

 

Also, thanks to Bryans help, I like cars, and can tell more about a car than most girls. I can tell you if a car has a turbo by listening to it. I can tell you why some cars actually need a spoiler on the back. I can tell you if a car is automatic or a manual by listening to it. I like to drive fast. I like to race cars. But, oddly enough, I do not like to work on them, lest I get dirty. The sound of a fast car is music to my ears, just as much as Beethoven. Some girls kvetch with their girlfriends to calm down. I drive.

 

Most girls have a “scene”. I do not. I feel equally at home in some backwoods honky-tonk shooting pool and drinking beer as I do in an upscale martini bar sipping mojitos. I do not look out of place in either venue. I am comfortable in jeans and a tee-shirt, but can feel just at ease in an evening gown. I like to go out to a crowded club and dance the night away, but I also like staying in and reading a book. I liked Die Hard with a Vengeance just as much as I loved the Notebook.

 

I hate the games that women play, but I understand them. (Being a girl and all…) I can completely understand why men hate the petty little games that women play, but I also understand why women play them. Hell, I’ve played a few myself. I don’t understand why women are, in general, catty, manipulative, gold-digging whores. (This is also why I’m friends with very few women.) I understand what would compel some men to turn gay. On the flip side, I can also understand what would compel some women to turn gay.

 

This next point, Dad, you might not want to read. Like most men, I’m always in the mood for sex. Three AM? Sure! Right after dinner? Why not! You’re sick? Who cares, so we don’t kiss, no big deal, now c’mere! I don’t get why some women use the headache excuse. Science has proven what I’ve known for years: sex actually helps your headache. I’m game pretty much any time, any place. Hell, if you’re sleeping and want some nookie, just wake me up, really! It’s okay! I just don’t understand why some women never want sex. You like it, it feels good, and it’s free. It’s like getting the perfect present, for free!

 

This is probably why I am, hands down, the weirdest girl you’ll ever meet. I think I missed some girly gene or something.

 

Last weekend we had the kids for the WHOLE WEEKEND, YOU GUYS. From FRIDAY until MONDAY. This is huge, we NEVER get them this long. And it was a great weekend!

Friday night, T was upset because since Bub's in football, she doesn't get a lot of attention. I told her to pick whatever she wanted to do, and Saturday, we'd do it. She was beside herself with glee, and even snuggled with me on the couch. (She's NEVER done that. She barely has allowed me to HUG her.) To make her feel better, we made rootbeer floats, just for us, and shared girly secrets.

Saturday, she wanted to spend the whole day at the Library, which was FREAKIN' AWESOME with me. I love to read. I read every chance I get. Hell, I'll read the back of the Mentadent bottle if that's all I've got. So, to the library we went, and WE READ OUR ASSES OFF. No cell phones to interupt us. Yes, even I, the Blackberry QUEEN, turned mine off and left it in the car.

T and I had lunch, and giggled and laughed our way through lunch. I've never in my life had a better time with her. It's taken 3 loooong years to get to this point. Three agonzing, slowly moving forward, frustratingly painful years. And yet, there we were. Giggling, laughing, sharing secrets conspiratorily, and having some good ole fashioned girl time. To say my heart was bursting with joy is such an understatement.

When we got home, we got a call saying that she placed in the top 95th percentile for reading and math IN THE STATE. THAT'S MY KID! THAT'S MY GIRL! My super smart, top 95th percentile, got a congratulatory letter from the Govenor, girl!!!! I let out a big whoop and grabbed her and gave her the biggest hug ever, and actually, think I bruised a rib or something. Sorry about that, T.

It was just such a perfect day, with my perfect little buddy.

T, however, is a complicated little genious. This same girl, not 20 minutes after getting her WASL results, tied a scarf around her head like a blindfold, started walking into walls and asking, "Heidi, why can't I see?!" I somehow doubt I will be adding this to her Harvard application.

Nonetheless, we snuggled every night, her and I. I don't cry from happiness much. But I sure as hell choked up from joy then.

T, if by chance you're reading this. I love you, GOD, how I love you. I love you as if you were my biological child. You are the most awesomely awesome stepdaughter a Mom could ever ask for. I hope I can be as good a stepmother to you and you have been a stepdaughter to me. In case you didn't know...I LOVE YOU.