Heidi's Hell Hole

There’s been an ongoing debate for a while now as to whether or not men PMS. Rest assured, folks, they do. I don’t know if they’re just feeding off the women in their lives, or if they genuinely need some Midol. Personally, I’d like to get a few of the men in my life some Midol.

 

When I PMS, run for cover. My moods will change sides faster than a politician. Ican go from 0-bitch in 2.3 seconds. I will be smiling & laughing one minute and screaming obscenities the next. I try to rein it in, because, frankly, I wouldn’t want to deal with me and I don’t think you should have to, either. One innocuous comment from Bryan, one less-than-adoring tone will turn me into a homicidal maniac. However, it’s pretty easy to chart out when I’m due to be a fire-breathing-hormonal-rollercoaster dragon. (Yeah, pregnancy was a joyride. Nine months of hormone-fueled fun!)

 

Men, on the other hand…Not so much. For example, Bryan will have weeks when he’s just…What’s the word…A jerk. He doesn’t break down bawling because oh my GOD, I can’t find my black shoes, and nothing else matches, and I hate my life! No, he doesn’t do that. He just gets touchy. You ask him if he took out the trash, for example. “No, I haven’t taken the trash out yet! Can’t you see I’m busy, jeez! If you will give me just 3 freakin’ seconds, I’ll get it done!” Whoa. Okay then, sor-ree!

 

One of my friends posted a status update saying he was “nursing his new tattoo.” I commented, “Aww, poor baby. Man up! ;)” He replied with, “Everything has to be about appearing tough with you huh? Maybe I am just stating that I am taking care of it so that it doesn't get ruined. Obviously I "manned up" enough to get a 9 1/2" tattoo across my hip so I want to take care of it. So take your sarcastic pity and shove it!” Whoa. Dude. Seriously. It was a joke. So, me being in a less than chipper mood m’self, replied with, “Dude, seriously. It was a freakin' joke. Take it for what it's worth. Jesus Christ. You can take your PMS and shove it up your ass. I've got enough of it here between one psycho exwife and my Mother, thankyouverymuch.”

 

Now, I’ve known this guy since High School. By now he should know that I have a sarcastic sense of humor. However, if he’s PMSing like me, I can see why he got snippy. Heck, I get snippy even if I’m not PMSing and we’re out of coffee. (Actually, I don’t think ‘snippy’ is a strong enough word.)

 

The guys at my office are being just effing peachy today, too. It could be that it’s Monday morning and unless you’re crazy, you don’t like Mondays. I prefer to think that men across the United States right now are PMSing.

 

And to them I say: MWAH HA HA HA! Suckers! I go through this every month, and I get cramps! Pull yourselves up by the bootstraps and cowboy up. Don’t be such a wuss. Oh, and I put some Midol in the breakroom next to the coffee pot. Just FYI.

 

Lots of families have Christmas traditions. My family was no different, but Boyds being Boyds we had to do things differently. Here's some of the traditions in my house:

H1 and I would get up at 4 AM to compare stocking loot. We'd grab Dad's Maglite flashlight and rifle through it all, stuff it back in, and sleep for another hour or so. Then we'd race into Mom & Dads room and screech, "GET UP, GET UP, GET UP! SANTA CAME, GET UP!" To which they'd mumble, "Yes, we know. Now get the coffee going."

Another iron-clad tradition was the food. Every major holiday we had olives & deviled eggs. Food played a big role in my house growing up. H1 always got 2 cans of olives in her stocking, and I got a can of Frenches French Fried Onions. Weird, maybe. Delicious, yes.

Most kids lay out cookies and milk for Santa. Oh no, not us! We lived up to our Arkansas & Idaho roots! We left directions to the microwave, a can of soup, apple juice, deer jerky, Chapstick, a toothpick, and baby carrots for Rudolph. (Though one time H1 and I were debating as to whether or not we should lay out apple or grape juice and the Old Wolf muttered, "I think Santa would like a cold beer.")

How did we find out Santa wasn't real? Well, for starters, the Old Wolf wrote a letter from Santa to us every year. We started to wonder why Santas handwriting was a spot-on-spot match for his. The coup de grace came when we caught Mom on the phone, arguing with "Santa" over the Visa bill for H1's guitar and my porcelain doll. When I questioned her on it, she replied, "Santa's interest rates are damn near usery!" Later on that night, the Old Wolf made me see the light. As it turns out, the Easter Bunny & Tooth Fairy aren't real, either. Who knew?

One rule my mother enforced: Thank You cards. You couldn't play with it, wear it, or spend it until you wrote and sent Thank you cards. H1 & I learned real quick to get those sent right after gifts were opened. And hey, nothing wrong with some manners, right?

 

Anyway, that's all she wrote for Christmas 2008. Merry Christmas, y'all! Love you!

 

 

Not a whole lot goin' on right now. I bit my tongue in 3 places, and it's swollen as hell. I can't talk without sounding like a total moron, and if I talk too much I drool. There is no way I can look & sound professional, and compitent when you're drooling. Sorry, not happening. Thankfully, most of the people I work with are pretty cool about it and if they notice it (and they'd have to be deaf not to), they don't say anything.

In other news, my friend John is getting a divorce from his wife of a little over a year, Delana. Can't say I didn't see this one coming. They met and got married in a hurry. He bought her all kinds of cars, a new house, and new furniture to put in the house. Did I mention he's got a $250k trust fund? He wanted to wait to have kids. Now, this is just my personal opinion, but....I think Delana saw that this was in danger of going south quick, and whoopsie! I'm pregnant! John was not happy that she got pregnant so quick. They'd known each other a little less than a year. At any rate, once John told Delana "Honey, we need to reign in our spending. My job is looking at laying me off, and you only work part time at Sears as a security guard." she got pissy. She started picking fights. He didn't find her attractive, he didn't "lust after" her, the whole shebang. So they're getting divorced. I feel horrible for John, but we did try and tell him they were moving just a skoach too fast.

On the homefront, I have my office Christmas party this weekend. I bought a pretty little $19 Wal-Mart dress. (Because why on Earth would I shop anywhere else?) Bryan's parents are taking Pook overnight on Saturday. I'm not sure how I feel about that. It's not that I don't trust his folks, I do! It's just...This is the first time away from Mama. She's used to seeing my face first thing when she wakes up, and she won't see my face. I'm nervous. On the other hand, have y'all any idea how long it's been since Bryan and I went on a date by ourselves? 7 months. (Yes, we went on a date when Pook was 3 weeks old. Screw you.) Besides, I haven't been able to find a good excuse to dress up in years. And by dress up, I mean shave my legs and put on make up.

As for Christmas...Bah Humbug to you, too! Money is (of course) tight as hell. The kids are getting $10 board games from Wally World, my Dad and Stepmom are getting handmade gifts, Pook...Crap, I forgot Pook! What the hell do you get a 7 month old who just wants to eat the wrapping paper?! Oh, and I don't think Bry and I will be exchanging gifts, besides, Bubs birthday is Christmas Eve. (In your next life, kid, pick a better time, wouldja?!) And let's not forget! I'm trying to save every freaking dime so I can have some fun in California!

For the 2 of you who give a damn, here's a picture of the dress I'm wearing. Nice. Simple. Plain. Boring. Unsexy.  Don't want to give these old fogies a heart attack.

Well, as I expected, Jess came over and went O-F-F on me.  Whatever. She said I didn't have the right to post what I did (I do) and that I should apologize (not anymore) and that she's more mature than me (rrriiiggghhttt. The yelling and screaming at me really showcases that, too.) how I clearly think the world revolves around me (Really? I'm that special? When did that happen?) And as for her little tantrum she said that she was waiting and giving Joe a chance to calm her down. (Okay...But isn't she your child? Shouldn't you be the one to handle that? Just curious.) And she predicted that LMA will do the same. Funny, that. Bryans kids didn't, H1 and I didn't, Bryan didn't...Because we all knew better. So, I guess thanks for the heads up? I somehow think things will turn out a bit differently.

They said I should make my blog private. Y'know, I thought about it. And I'm not going to. After that little episode? No way.

She asked if I was sorry. No, actually, I'm not. I was sort of sorry before, but I'm not at all sorry now. If anything, my opinions of her just got reinforced. Look, Jess, I know you're reading this. Let's just be content for me to not like you very much and for you to hate me, mmmkay? By the way, your laundry is still here. Might want to pick that up since Bryan and I really want to get the den done. Thanks, honey bunch.

 

See, here's the great thing about living in the US. I can write whatever I want. As long as I'm not threatening bodily harm or any otherwise illegal activity, I can post whatever I want. That's the great thing.

Nobody can tell me what I can't post. So, if I want to write about my opinions on someone, I can. IF it hurts your feelers, tough cookies. If I find out more of the situation later, I may amend it, I may not. If I feel I was in the wrong, I'll apologize.

The right to freedom of speech is recognized as a human right under Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and recognized in international human rights law in the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights . So please, people, don't tell me "You better take that down." Or you'll do what? Piss and moan? HA! Okay, have at it.

 

If you want to tell me "You're so dumb, and so young. You are so immature, you're a conniving, selfish, immature, manipulative evil bitch" (that is a direct quote from Ms. Mature herself) I don't have a problem with that. Why? Because you have a right to it. What I do have an issue with is you telling me I can't have mine. 

Let's review: my opinion=mine to have. My right. Your opinion=yours to have. Your right. Do we have to agree? Clearly, no.

My bloggy friend Jacquline  fought her ass off in Iraq to defend my freedoms. So did millions of other Americans. Do you think I'm about to cheapen what they did and dishonor them by not using the freedoms some of them died for? Hell no. Why make their lives in vain?





 

So John, Bryans friend is in town. Bryan and I are cleaning the house, there's crap everywhere. Out of the blue he says "John will be here in a few." Rewind...huh? He says when he called he was already en route, and he hasn't seen him since March, and he just couldn't tell him that now wasn't a great time. I'm covered in furniture polish, Windex, dust, and dog hair. I haven't showered or brushed my teeth. I am still in my ratty PJs. So I run and put on some old jeans and a shirt. At least now I'm dressed. John does indeed stop by. While Bry holds the baby, I continue to clean. I clean furiously, like I've never cleaned before because I am, in truth, P.I.S.S.E.D.

I was raised (and my father who follows my blog can confirm this) that before you go a-visitin' you call before you come over! You do not call when you're turning onto their street. Because who knows? Maybe, like me, they're cleaning. Or maybe they're having nasty, dirty, sweaty monkey sex. Maybe they're having an argument. Maybe it involves you. At any rate, YOU CALL. John, apparently, never got this memo.

 

Bryan says, "Well I'm gonna go with John to CDA for a few hours." And upon seeing the death beams coming out of my eyes asks,

"What? That cool?"

I turn sickly sweet. So sweet that he knows he's moving into dangerous territory and that at any minute I can (and will) throw the Mother of all Snits. He's seen them before, and he knows how nasty these can be.  Yessiree, I can give your two year old a run for your money in the tantrum department. Childish? Maybe. Does it work? Yes.

"No, honey, that's fine. I'll just clean and keep her entertained. You boys go and have fun. I will be just fine. Run along now!" Timidly, he kisses my cheek and shuts the door. Oh, he'll get his.

 

Now the argument could be made "But Heidi you go out every Thursday with your girls!" True, young Padawan. But that's planned. And when I go, everything is done and Pook in in bed. Slightly different.  I want a fucking break, dammit.

I hate to say this...I need a break from being a Mom. I love my daughter, I do. But my whole life is centered around being a Mom, and I feel I've lost my identity as a person. For example, we were out grocery shopping and they had San Pellegrino on sale 2 for $6. I almost bought it but I broke down in heaving sobs because that $6 could go for baby things. Not that Pook wants for anything, but still. HUGE guilt trip.  To the point where buying anything or doing anything for myself feels like I have committed one of the 7 deadly sins. It would be nice to go somewhere where I'm not worried if we have enough diapers for the outing, is she comfortable, does she have enough toys, et cetera. And just to have some uninterupted me time. Hanging out with friends, just having a good time. Not worrying about "What if she wakes up and I'm not there? She's used to seeing my face first thing when she wakes up."

 

And just for writing that last bit, true as it may be, I feel like I. Am. Going. To. Hell.