Tag Archive: i can’t make this sh*t up

Pet Peeves {GTT}

January 21, 2010 | about mommygeekology, featured | Tags: , , , ,
54 Spoke Up - Say Something

I believe that getting your bitch on is part of the human condition. That’s why I just couldn’t pass up this Girl Talk Thursday topic – Pet Peeves.

Here’s a short (ahem) list of mine:

Breathing Very Loudly: If you didn’t just participate in a foot race, I should not be able to hear you breathing from across the room. Stop it. Stop it now. I would rather see you passed out from lack of oxygen than hear you breathe like that even one. more. time.

Related: Breathing Very Loudly WHILE Eating: This is even worse than just Breathing Very Loudly. Unless you just hunted and killed your meal after nearly starving to death (without stopping to cook it, because that would have given you a chance to catch your damn breath), you need to stop.  So unless you are Breathing Very Loudly While Eating With Blood Dripping Down Your Chin, it’s unacceptable.

Almost Putting Things Away: If you got up off your fat, lazy ass long enough to pick up your glass and walk it over to the kitchen, don’t you dare put that next to the sink on the counter. You either put it in the dishwasher, or IN the sink. If the sink is so full of dirty dishes that you cannot fit it into the sink, then guess what? IT’S TIME TO DO SOME FUCKING DISHES ASSWIPE.

Related: Almost Putting Away: groceries, toys, toiletries, laundry, papers to be filed, etc etc. {yes, I am totally guilty of most of this. And it pisses me off when I do it, I don’t need you doing it too, ok buddy?}

Yawning Without Covering Your Mouth: This is not your annual physical. I am not your doctor, nor your dentist, nor your prey. Cover your damn mouth when you yawn, I can see all the way to your tonsils and it’s just indecent!

Arguing About “Over” or “Under” re: Toilet Paper: Who the FUCK cares? Seriously? Is your life SO MUNDANE?! {not YOU, of course. I can understand why YOU care.}

Nicknames When You Don’t Know Me: Don’t nickname me. You don’t know me. And if you continue to call me whatever stupid nickname you’ve chose, you never will. Possibly because you’ll spend the rest of your days in a coma.

Wiggling Your Toes Within My Line of Vision While I Watch TV: Yes I know this one is a little insane. But if you are sitting on the couch next to me, and your legs are crossed such that your foot is next to me, please do not wiggle your toes. It’s all I can see and it’s driving me fucking batty.

Breathing On Me: When you breathe on me it makes my soul shrivel up into a tiny, wrinkly, crushed version of it’s former self, and that allows me to do horrible things to you. Don’t breathe on me.

Related: Breathing On Me While I Am Trying To Sleep: I cannot sleep if you are facing me and if I can feel your breath on my face. It will keep me awake. Please turn the other way, I like to lay facing this side.

Exemptions: Breathing On Me While I Am Trying To Sleep If I Gave Birth To You: You are adorable. Breathe where ever you want. But stop kicking me, you little fucker, or I’ll shove you off the bed.

Not Calling When You Said You Would: I understand, life gets in the way. But if I expect you to call and then you don’t, my mind goes bad places and I start to panic and consider calling hospitals and patrolling the dark alleys to find your rotting corpse. So call me when you say you will, OKAY?! ::crazy eyes::

Catty Behavior: Everyone hates high school for a reason. It sucked, everyone acted immature and petty, and you weren’t as cool as you wanted to be. Yes, I understand that the blogosphere brings up all those emotions that you repressed after you got to college because you wanted to be more adult. I don’t care. Repress them again, go to therapy, whatever.  Just stop sniping at each other, ok? We’re all human, we all fuck up, we all have our own issues. We get attitudes, we make rude comments… Do Unto Others, y’all. Just be nice.

Touching My Eyebrows: Don’t touch my eyebrows. It’s a thing with me. And don’t touch YOUR eyebrows while I’m looking. That’s a thing with me, too.

——–

Runners up: judging my list of pet peeves, reading over my shoulder, not saying please and thank you, leaving your shopping cart in the middle of the grocery store which makes me wonder whether I can take it or whether you’ve left it there for a reason, leaving your shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot so I hit it when it’s dark and scratch my car, leaving your shopping cart in the parking lot in an open space which means that a) I can’t park there or b) I can’t pull through YOU WHORE, obvious twitter ads filling up my twitter stream all the time don’t you ever tweet ANYTHING else?, following me on twitter and then not accepting my follow back request because you are protected, MySpace just as a general rule, people who want to purchase something from me on Craigslist as a general rule, overuse of hashtags, using IM/Twitter speak in a real conversation (i.e. SAYING “lol”)

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Brazilian, Baby {Green Post}

January 8, 2010 | featured, making memories | Tags: , , , , , , ,
10 Spoke Up - Say Something

I’m calling this a “Green Post” because it’s been recycled from my old blog. One of the challenges of the Mominatrix #sexualrevolution was to do a little down-low landscaping, and I thought I’d share one of my experiences with waxing. This is supposed to be funny, so LAUGH DAMMIT.

————

I understand that there are some cultures where body hair is accepted, even admired. There are cultures also that demand that women or men remove all or parts of their body hair, either as a religious rite or simply because it is culturally unacceptable otherwise. I tried to do some research on this, but have you ever tried doing a Google search for pubic hair and cultural perspectives? Yeah, don’t. Or turn safe-search on.

Anyway, other cultures aside, my own personal preference is to be clean-shaven – pretty much anywhere that I can be. I love the hair on my head :-) But I also keep that short. I don’t like long hair. Hubby had long hair before we met. If I had known him during his goth or subsequent quasi-goth stages, we would not have dated. When we did meet, he had a nice military haircut. Totally acceptable and attractive!

My reasons for wanting to be hairless “down there” are numerous, from simple to upkeep, to cleanliness, to the “eww gross” factor during oral… the list goes on. No landing strips for me, either. Not a fan. It looks funny, to me. And it’s more upkeep! I’d have to trim and shave. I think that’s asking a bit much from a girl who doesn’t even get to shower as often as she’s like. (Aren’t you glad that you only know me virtually? lol. )

So, with that oh-so-essential background information, my candid account of getting a Brazilian wax while 7 months pregnant last Saturday follows:

***

The spa room was very nice. There were nice fresh sheets and towels on the table in the center of the room. The walls were painted in calming earthy tones, and soothing music played in the background. There were some nice iron scrolls on the walls, a hook and hanger for my clothes, and a display of creams and lotions.  I had just come from getting my hair cut and my maternity massage, so I was relaxed and feeling sexy and fun and flirty. The clinician, Rachel, offered me a drink of water or some tea. I politely declined – I think that peeing on the woman clearing out your bush is rude, right? I’ll be honest, I’m fuzzy on the proper protocol during a Brazilian wax.. but I think peeing on people is out unless you’re filming a crazy porn or something.

Rachel, by the way, is absolutely gorgeous. Long, dark, curly hair, big big eyes with long lashes, little cupid mouth. It was almost a little insulting how pretty she was. I mean c’mon. If I’m going to have someone staring at my vagina for an hour, I’d rather that she be less attractive than me. If she’s going to be more attractive than I am, and she’s looking at my vagina, she better not be down there to give me a Brazilian.

(Whoops, just outed myself. Bisexual, anyone?)

So, where was I? Oh yeah. Gorgeous girl, first Brazilian wax, 4 months of growth because I can’t reach my own hoo-hah and a huge pregnant belly.

She told me that I could hang my clothes on the hanger and get up on the table, she’d be right back.  That’s right folks, she left while I undressed. She also left while I dressed, at the end. How weird is that? I mean, it’s not like she wasn’t going to see it anyway!

Then again, after I had stripped and gotten up on the table, I draped a towel over myself. Even as I arranged it to keep my bits from showing, I questioned why I was bothering. I mean, she was going to be getting up close and personal. And yet… it would have felt so weird to leave it all hanging out!

So when she comes back in, I’m lying on my back, wondering why they didn’t bother to drywall the ceiling because those dated ceiling tiles are really unattractive to look at, when she pulls my leg to the side and plops some sugar-lemon gel on the area with a little spatula. No “How do you do, let me grab your leg here for a sec.” No “How about dinner? A movie? Sex in the back of my conversion van?” Not even a warning “Let’s go!” Just flip the towel aside, grap the spatula, plop the wax and hello, pain. Let me tell you – that gel is hot. And when it catches on the little hairs, it hurts a little. But I thought to myself, so far, so good. This’ll be quick and dirty. It’l hurt, but then I’ll be able to go, and I’ll never have to look this beautiful woman in the face again.  Then she grabbed one of those little waxing strips and laid it on the gel.  No problem. Then she took her whole hand (gloved, thankyouverymuch) and rubbed the strip down with significant pressure. Let me just say this – not so much a problem on the bikini line area. Totally strange when you get to the “inner” area. I was really, really glad that I wasn’t going to have to see her outside of this context.

Then she started talking to me, asking when I was due, did I have any names picked? I thought it was a little weird, but figured that she was curious and maybe trying to get her mind off of the task at hand (literally….)

I was right in the middle of telling her that I was due on ((RIP)) ((internal scream of surprise and pain)) November 4th, but that my daughter was ((RIP)) ((oh good lord that burns)) about 10 days early, so ((RIP)) ((I bet I’m as red as a tomato down there right now)) this one might be an October baby. With every bit of gel applied, she would apply the wax strip several times and rip, rip, rip away.

I was horrified at the pain. It burned. It hurt. It ached. It was sharp, and tingly, and there was nothing good about it, no way. I had heard that some women like to get this done. I think that whoever told me that was mistaken. They probably said that they like it as much as they’d like an ice pick to the eye. Or they like it as much as they’d like to swallow burning coals. Or that they like it as much as a visit from their mother-in-law while potty-training their first child, who happens to have diarrhea.

But I had started. And I figured that as long as I could just sit there, deal with the pain, and get it over with, I’d be fine.

But no. Rachel was seriously chatty.  She would ask me about how I liked living in B-town, and whether I liked it more than BL-town versus N-city, and how her boyfriend wanted to live in B-town but she wanted to live in N-city even though the commute would be worse, etc etc. Every so often, she’d pause, and squint at my lower half. I’m not sure if she was puzzled, or strategizing, or what. It was all very surreal and strange, and somewhat awkward.

It went on and on. This is not a quick process – it took 50 minutes to get everything.It was a pattern. Apply wax, ask a question, furiously rub on waxing strip, wait until I started my answer, RIP. I swear, she was doing it on purpose. She probably got some sort of sick thrill out of seeing whether she could get me to scream in the middle of my answer. (I’m proud to say that I did not! Though there was much wincing, pausing, and flinching)

I tried to rationalize the whole experience and say that it was good practice for childbirth.  I mean, pain at intervals lasting for 30 seconds to a minute (oh, the burning!) while maintaining conversation with the people around you. Because that’s totally how we all imagine our birth experience. Discussion about politics and complex science while also bringing life into the world, without any pain medication. I mean, that’s what my childbirth plan reads…. yeah.

The worst part was the end, though. I had told her that I wanted everything – even the wayyy back – gone. She tells me that the last part is the least painful, don’t worry, and if I could get up on the table on my hands and knees and arch my back, that would be great. (Oh, how many times have I heard that? “This won’t hurt a bit, now bend over… ) So, with my big ass and my pregnant belly and my ridiculous stretch marks, I got up on that table and posed like I was asking Hubby to do it doggy style. My stomach rested on the table. My back was arched, my ass was in the air, and she says to me “That’s great.”

Oh goodness.

So she applies the gel and gets the strip, and right after she pulls the strip off, I start to giggle.

A word of advice: the next time that you’re in a table, ass proudly displayed in the air, while someone removes the hair from your body using a spatula, wax, and some cloth strips, do not giggle. It’s weird. It puts a strange mood in the room. No matter that you quickly, VERY quickly explain that you’re just thinking about how funny this will be to tell people later, and that you’re thinking of getting an at-home wax kit so that your husband can see how it feels to have the hair brutally ripped from his body, or that you know it’s totally inappropriate and you’re so sorry you don’t mean to giggle but you just can’t stop…

It’s weird. And for the last few minutes of that waxing session, there will be a silence in the room, like a thick, wet, flannel blanket, dampening everything. And you’ll still be stifling giggles.

Needless to say, I’ll be back in four weeks to get it done again. (That’s right, go back and read that sentence again. No typos, I promise.) (It lasts four weeks!) (And Hubby is paying!)

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This is why I don’t clean.

December 28, 2009 | featured, making memories | Tags: , , ,
4 Spoke Up - Say Something

Christmas has come and gone, and though we didn’t have anyone up to visit*, I can’t enjoy a quiet family holiday without the house being clean. The piles of stuff sit in the back of my mind and nag at me until I start cleaning, and obviously that sort of ruins the Christmas Family Moment.

Thus, I found myself the weekend before Christmas preparing for a week-long bid to get our home clean.

Me: We have a 1200 sq ft apartment, so it shouldn’t be too hard. Right?
Universe: Ha! Ha ha ha! Whoo! Oh Lordy that’s a good one. Heh heh. You foolish woman.

Yesterday I went ahead and picked up a bunch of necessities before the big storm hit. We’ve got a nice little weekend nor’easter here, and it’s already 10 inches high out there, still falling fast. I hit up the Target, and $260 later I had groceries, a bunch of cleaning supplies, a new winter jacket for the baby, new gloves and hat for the big girl, and a few other miscellaneous items. Not bad, I thought. Among my purchases were a bottle of Resolve carpet cleaner spray, and Resolve carpet cleaner powder. I picked up the powder because it was for large areas of carpet, and it involved some scrubbing with a brush, which I figured meant that it would get all the nasty nastiness up and un-ground from the carpet.

I got home, read ALL the instructions, and picked a spot of the carpet to work on. Per the instructions, I covered the carpet thoroughly with the powder and got to business with my scrub brush. I could see it getting cleaner! I don’t know if it was the fumes from the cleaning chemicals or the joy of getting rid of the ground up Oreos, but I felt elated. Hopeful. Thrilled, even!

I look back at the instructions. I need to wait 20 minutes and let the stuff dry, then vacuum it up.

Me: That seems easy!
Universe: Ha! Ha ha ha! Whoo! Oh Lordy that’s a good one. Heh heh. You foolish woman.

20 minutes later I start up our little Shark Roadster, 5 years old, to vacuum up the powder. I get a square the size of the vacuum brushes cleaned before I lose suction. The canister has to be emptied. I take care of that, noting how much the powder really clogged the hepa filter! I continue vacuuming. Another 12in x 2in area is cleaned. Clogged again. I empty the canister and realize this may take a while. I start again and as my husband walks behind me, the vacuum stops. I figure he knocked the cord out. Nope, cord still in the wall. I push the on/off button a few times. Nothing. It feels hot. I call for DaddyGeek. He checks the fuse. Nope, that is fine.

We wait 20 for it to cool down and try again.

Nothing. It is completely dead.

So now my carpet is covered in a thick coating of deadly chemicals of death, and my vacuum is dead, and I have two small children bursting with the joy of Christmas coming.  We have to lock the kids in the bedroom and try and feed them snacks and entertain them with movies while my husband goes out in a fucking Nor’Easter to get a new vacuum less than a week before Christmas because the Universe hates me. (See above)

In the end, he gets the vacuum, he doesn’t die on the icy roads of death, my children don’t die on the deadly carpet of death, and I got to play about an hour of mindless Facebook games for an hour in my warm cozy house while the kids were ensconced in the bedroom because I’m a good mother, I’m keeping them away from the deadly carpet of DEATH.

The new vacuum is awesome and quickly cleans the mess without any trouble. That one section of my carpet looks great. Unfortunately that makes the rest of my carpeted apartment look like complete ass, so I must now go purchase stock in Resolve.

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Burnout

December 18, 2009 | about mommygeekology, featured | Tags: , , , , , , , ,
9 Spoke Up - Say Something

I am burning out. I need to find a balance between home, school, work, other work, kids, cleaning, laundry, relaxation. I can’t find it right now. I can’t find it right now, and I am burning out.

Three times in the past two weeks, I’ve just gone straight to bed as soon as the kids were asleep. Note: that’s unlike me. I like to stay up and do a little something. The problem is that it’s not that I didn’t have anything to do. I have plenty to do, too much to do, and I keep taking on projects.  I am hooking a fucking rug as a Christmas present for chrissakes. WHO THE FUCK HAS TIME FOR THAT?!

Part of it is the holidays. Part of it is just the regular ebb and flow of life.

Regardless, I still need to find balance. I need to stop jerking around to each part of my life, trying desperately to complete a task before I am pulled away again. I should be doing other things than blogging right now but I’m exploding. I need to get some of this out.

I need to breathe. I don’t feel like I have time to breathe. And when I find time, I don’t feel like I have the energy.

How do you do it? How do you balance? What do you have going on in your life? Write me a book in the comments, I don’t care. I want it. I need to know how you’re managing. Or not managing. I don’t want to be alone in this struggle.

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Embarrassing

November 30, 2009 | about mommygeekology, featured, making memories | Tags: , , , ,
15 Spoke Up - Say Something

Sarah and I stood around the piano in the chorus room. Blue lockers lined the room; we each had one of the coveted lockers, a status symbol in the music department. Our lockers stood next to each other, shoved up together. We were best friends, so why did I feel like gritting my teeth every time I stood next to her?  The worn black lacquer on the grand piano was familiar under our fingertips as we leaned against the edge and rehearsed for the upcoming performance. I’ve always found the curve of a baby grand sexy. I wanted to punch her in the face.

We had been practicing for weeks, readying ourselves for the big Spring Sing performance. It was one chance every year for everyone and anyone to shine.  Performing was nervewracking, but it was a chance to really show off your pipes, your stage presence, your talent. We were to perform a duet “Sing!” from A Chorus Line.  Two parts comedic monologue, one part sung, it was hilarious and surprisingly challenging.  The week prior we had finally begun to really get it together. It made sense for us to perform a duet. We were best friends. It made sense, but I hated singing with her.  I should have said no.

One afternoon, in her typical dramatic fashion, Sarah decided she wanted – nay, needed – to switch parts. She didn’t want to do the sung part anymore. She wanted the monologue. I doubted her ability to learn all the words – the performance was in less than a week! – but she insisted. Fine. One more nail in the coffin of our friendship. I sullenly agreed, and we reversed roles. I failed to be surprised. Sarah was not a great singer or performer, but she did manage to do one thing with ease – drama.

Fast forward.

Auditorium_Stage_CloseThe night of the performance, we were ready. Sarah and I stood side by side in the wings, waiting for our cue. I leaned against the curtain pulley and inhaled the scents of the backstage. A little musty, a little heavy with makeup and perfume and nervous sweat. Sarah wasn’t wearing enough deodorant; she always under-applied. I thought about our duet coming up, and nursed the little angry part of me that said we should have stopped being friends years ago. It was our Senior year. I only had to make it through a few more months, then I could be done with this sham. She always took more than she gave.

The piano struck our opening chord and we strutted out onto stage, blinded by the bright lights, blissfully unable to make out faces in the crowd. The stage always seems more expansive as you walk across it. From the wings, it seems manageable and from the audience, practically minuscule, when compared to the experience being front and center, traveling with your heart beating so heavily in your ears you can hardly hear the harmonies. I tried to swallow my anger as she prepared to perform the part that had originally been mine.

I could hear Sarah beginning the monologue, breathless and slightly nervous, but it worked well for this performance. At my cue I sang a note, then another, then one more – the vocal part of the song is challenging because you have to pluck the notes seemingly out of thin air and let them hang there with nothing else to support them. It’s perfectly right or glaringly wrong. I thrilled in it. Being on stage was invigorating – anything is possible.

We walked through our carefully choreographed stage movements, and then Sarah faltered. She forgot a word, then two, then a line, and I couldn’t hit my notes, the timing was off, the choir teacher couldn’t modify the chord progression fast enough to catch her mis-steps…. We stopped. We stood on the polished, shining wood of the stage and stared at each other, glancing down in the pit at our choir director as he marked time with basic chords, and we realized we couldn’t continue. We were too far gone. We’d have to start over, we couldn’t start over, we were on stage… hundreds of our peers, teachers, family, friends. We stared at each other.

I stared at this girl whom I’d known for most of my life, and all of my school years. Through grammar school, elementary school, middle school and now high school. We had been inseparable. I stared at her mousy brown hair and her too-small eyes, now reflecting the panic and fear in my own, and I burst out laughing. We laughed.

We laughed. We laughed, and laughed, and slapped our knees and gasped for breath and forgot that we even had an audience. We couldn’t stop, not for anything. We stood on that stage, and bent over and held our stomachs and laughed so hard our faces might shatter into pieces from the strain of it, and then we finally limped off stage.

We made it to the wings, still giggling, laughing, chortling, chuckling, as the reality of what had just happened dawned on us. We had just completely fucked it up. We failed. We failed, and then instead of finding a way to recover, or exiting gracefully, we laughed ourselves off the stage!

From the other side of the curtain, hastily closed by stunned stage hands, there was first silence. Then a small titter of laughter spread across the crowd. Then from the corner, a smatter of applause. It spread, and grew, and within moments the entire audience was cheering and whooping and laughing, not at our failure, but because they thought it was all part of the act.

We had fooled them.

We had fooled them even as we fooled ourselves into thinking that perhaps our friendship wasn’t dead, after all.

———————–

It seems I am destined to write about my embarrassing moments. Soon, I’ll be writing about the ways I’ve managed to get all red-faced on Girl Talk Thursday, too! Today, though, my post is prompted by a new little project – one that warms my heart and excites me all at the same time. A challenge to write.
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Asterisk (*)

November 9, 2009 | making memories, married life | Tags: , ,
16 Spoke Up - Say Something

Yesterday was my birthday, and you know what that means: birthday sex. Sex exactly the way I want it – all about me me me me me me me. Yes. Moi Me. MY sex.

I’ve been preparing. Thinking about exactly what I want, buying supplies, even getting the kids into bed early.  I found my sexy nightgown, my sexy toys, and put everything in one place in the closet so it would be ready as soon as both children were asleep.

My birthday has recently (in the last five years or so) been a very emotional day for me. I end up crying for no reason and sometimes with reason, and it doesn’t usually go as planned, but yesterday I knew that I’d have my birthday sex and it would be awesome. It would make this birthday, my 25th, memorable.

Fast forward to last night, 8:30pm. The kids are asleep, early, and DaddyGeek and I are looking at each other expectantly. We watch a half hour of TV and then the foreplay starts. He asks me to get a few supplies, and as I’m gathering things together, we hear Cupcake wake up, whimpering, over the baby monitor. Whimpering, then full blown screaming, shrieking, freaking out.

FUCK.

I ran into the bedroom to assure her that I was there, Mommy was there, she was safe, it was just a bad dream. She’s panicking, though, and I can tell what’s coming next. I cup my hand beneath her mouth just in time to catch the first round of vomit. DaddyGeek is quick to realize what’s happening and shows up with a towel to spread over the bed and baby wipes to help clean things up a little bit. I wipe what I’ve caught in my hands in time for the next round of vomit. Rinse, repeat. She threw up everything in her stomach.  She vomited 10-12 times and after some water, a few back rubs and her binkies back (she still sleeps with them) and she went back to sleep.

Needless to say, catching vomit in your hands is slightly less than sexy, even when you’re doing it in a slinky negligee without any underwear on.

We took a break to watch Desperate Housewives before we tried again. By that time, everything was quiet. The children were sleeping soundly, and it was just us. Oh sweet, sweet silence. We couldn’t find any music to put on, so we decided to forgo it (music had been on my list of “wants” for birthday sex) and get going.

I won’t detail everything that happened next for your sake, but suffice to say it was sexy. Another item on my list? A blindfold. And a lot of foreplay. DaddyGeek delivered – about half an hour later, we were just sampling the main course, so to speak, when we heard some noises over the baby monitor. We tried to ignore it at first and keep going. It was so. damn. good. We couldn’t. You just can’t ignore a toddler whimpering pathetically in her sleep when trying to boink your husband. Or anyone, for that matter.

And so it happened that my 25th Birthday Sexcapade was more like an Almost-Sexcapade with BONUS! Vomit, and very, very memorable.

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Why, Yes. Yes I will.

November 8, 2009 | about mommygeekology, making memories, married life | Tags: ,
14 Spoke Up - Say Something

I went to what we refer to as “the country store” the other day to get things for dinner. We call it the country store because it’s really more like an olde time General Store than a convenience store. They’ve got a butcher, a produce section, pet section, alcohol – the whole nine yards.

I wandered around and gathered what we needed: marinated chicken, milk, cream, french fried onion rings, Stovetop stuffing, rolls.

I walked by the “home improvement section.” I saw a bundle of rope. It was clothesline.

I couldn’t help it. I grabbed it. I put it in my little basket, thinking of all the delightfully kinky things that we could do with it once the kids went to bed*.

As I got up to the counter, one of the older women who works there gestured me to a free register (there are two) and started to ring me up. She did a bit of a double-take at the clothesline and chatted about how amazed she is that they sell it there- seems they have all kinds of odds and ends there!

I chuckled to myself; if only she knew!

As I took my receipt and gathered my bags, she called out, “Enjoy your clothesline!”

I turned back and gave a wry smile. “I definitely will!”

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#FAIL (alternatively titled: I am a Doofus sometimes)

October 19, 2009 | about mommygeekology, making memories | Tags: , , , ,
27 Spoke Up - Say Something

It came up on Twitter yesterday, thanks to my darling husband and dear friend, that I can sometimes be a teensy weensy bit foolish. A doofus. A total #fail whale. I promised I’d blog about it because, well, it’s funny, and if I can’t laugh at myself then what can I laugh at?

The Toe Incident

Let me preface this  story by saying that I have a horrible fear of all things creepy crawly. I can’t help it.  I jump, I scream, I freak. My husband believes he might die in a car crash with me one day if I see a spider in the car because I’ll jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic. Our headline will read “Two Killed in Tragic(ally Funny) Car Crash – Spider in Custody for Involuntary Manslaughter.”

Right.

I don’t remember what day it was, or even what year it was. Suffice to say it was at least 6-7 years ago. I believe I was still living at home. (My memory is terrible, in fact it really bothers me that I can’t remember squat, so the fact that I remember THIS much is a damn miracle) My family (mother, sister, brother) usually congregate in the kitchen; it was almost literally the center of our home growing up. It was a small eat-in kitchen but it had a table and enough chairs for all of us. We would sit, and sometimes we would talk and read magazines and gossip, my mother, my sister and I.  Those were some of my favorite times.

One such day, we sat ’round the table just as we normally do. My sister to my left, my mother to my right. The table was likely stacked with mail, magazines and discarded jackets and the like. We each probably had a Diet Coke to sip as we chatted. I sat on the chairs that my mother has recovered countless times (even adult children make big messes) with one foot crossed underneath me and one leg facing forward. I still sit this way often. My feet were bare – a trait inherited from my mother. We love bare feet in our family.

We sat and talked, and it may be that we discussed creepy crawly things and I was on edge. It may be that we were talking about recent TV episodes and I had no reason to be jumpy. However the conversation fell out, I was listening to the gossip when I spied something out of the corner of my left eye.

Me, in my head: OH SHIT. IT’S A BUG.
Me, out loud: [terrified screaming as I nearly leap out of my seat and bash my head on the ceiling cartoon-style]

My sister and my mother are also squeamish – my sister even moreso – and they asked with worried voices, panic creeping in at the edges: “What? What is it?”

Me:  Oh. It was just my toe.

At this point I realize that I should have just said it was a spider, because the guffaws, hoots and chuckles coming from either side of me were enough to make me realize I would never, ever live this down. I was almost right. I might have lived it down if it ended there.

Not even five minutes later, I see something out of the corner of my eye:

Me, in my head: OH SHIT. IT’S A BUG.
Me, out loud: [terrified screaming as I nearly leap out of my seat and bash my head on the ceiling cartoon-style]
Me: Oh. It was just my toe. Again.

I expect my urn to have some sort of witty verse – maybe a haiku? – about how I scared myself with my toe. Twice. My own damn toe. TWICE. In the span of five minutes. TWICE.

The Car Incident

Stop rubbing your hands in glee, I can see you. No, I did not crash the car as a result of a spider. This is something entirely different. And, no, this is not the story of the time that I hit a snowplow with my car hard enough to break the plow off of the truck. In May. In New England. (i.e. No Snow.)

A few weeks ago I realized I forgot something in the back of the car. We have a Mazda 5, which is like a Soccer Mom Minivan Lite or something.  It fits our family well. I loved this car until it attacked me completely unprovoked. Now, I have to say my feelings are mixed. If my little Mazda 5 could speak, she’d probably remind me that we hurt the ones we love. I’d probably tell her she’s a bitch. But that’s neither here nor there.

To the point.

I went to the back of the car and opened up the hatch-back trunk. It’s a pretty tall hatch back and the way it’s designed it swings way out, but I’m a smart gal, so I know that I need to step back in order for it to keep from clipping me. I successfully sidestep the Indiana-Jones style obstacle and grab whatever I need out of the back. I step back, reach up, and pull down the trunk using the nifty little handle, but I make a critical mistake; in my rush to get back inside (it’s a bit rainy out) I pull it down too quickly and fail to evade the deadly downward path of the door.

Scrrrraaaape.

The door makes contact with the bridge of my nose, scrapes my glasses off my face and continues further down to the tip of my nose until I stumble back in a muddle of pain and hurt feelings. I thought you loved me! I hiss, and bend to pick up my glasses. They’ve landed lens-down on the pavement. They are badly scratched. You whore! I’m angry. My nose is throbbing. I wipe off my glasses but I am too distracted by the huge scratch right in front of my right eye to see clearly.

And that, my friends, is why I need new glasses.  As promised, Holly – a diagram, complete with stick figures:

wounded by my car

As you see by the above picture, entered into Evidence on 10/19/2009, I was brutally attacked by my car. I’m pretty sure this means my insurance company needs to pay for my new glasses. And the eye exam. And maybe some contacts. And probably a pair of prescription sunglasses too. And emotional distress.

So. I dare you to beat that. That’s right bitches – gauntlet down.

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A Few Thoughts

October 7, 2009 | about mommygeekology, featured | Tags: , , , , , , , ,
15 Spoke Up - Say Something

This is one of those bullet-style random-ass posts that you probably hate. There are some interesting things going on in the blogosphere this week if you’d like something else to read – you can always see what Mommy Melee is doing (she’s posting every day, whether it’s about her new therapy habit or current events) or read a post by Backpacking Dad with his views on the changes by the FTC concerning bloggers. Or you could donate to baby Jaeli, whose family needs your help getting a few extra dollars (or $1,200) together to support her for the next week with screened breastmilk from a milk bank.  Can you skip coffee this afternoon and donate a few dollars? Hubby and I are skipping Starbucks on Friday and donated what we could. Please consider helping.

And now onto the random!

  • I had to stop receiving the Urban Dictionary’s word of the day email a few months back because they introduced me to a two-word phrase that I wish I’d never, ever heard. I can’t even type it here. I had to go take a snapshot of the definition, because if someone finds my blog by searching this phrase, I will cry and curl up into a corner. wordDo you see that disgusting phrase? Even worse is the example of it in a sentence. ::shudder:: And the worst part is that I totally used to do that, but for some reason calling it that makes me want to curl up and die a little, and I don’t know why. It just doesn’t sit well with me. So now I can’t blow my nose in the shower anymore.  Soon I bet they’ll ruin peeing in the shower and sex in the shower. (Oh you know you do it.)
  • Low carb diets can suck my butt. (But I totally admire @Messponential for sticking to hers)
  • I sort of regret undressing my website and revealing the geek beneath to everyone (i.e. designing on the live production site) but ah well. I’ll have to make time. It’s nicer to reveal a shiny new site, but I just don’t have the time damnit. Or something. OK that’s not a good excuse. I’m just a failure. {lol}
  • Someone on Twitter a few weeks ago ranted about how it’s spelled “dammit” and not “damnit” and now I’m self conscious about using either.  Note: Spell check agrees that “dammit” is the right spelling.  Food for thought, people. You’ll get nothing but quality here.
  • It has come to my attention in the last weeks that I am pretty oblivious to most of the drama that happens online. I’ve decided I like it that way

Kid Updates, because this is supposedly a “mommy blog” though you wouldn’t know it to read some of my more recent posts. Ahem. Can we spell “risqu é

” children?

  • Geeklet has started walking, crawling, etc. Yay! She’s walking! However, she has not stopped crying all fucking day every day. The pediatrician doesn’t see anything wrong, is defaulting to the “teething” diagnosis. I’m not even home with her and it makes the days hard – just hearing about it and knowing that my mother is going through the constant screaming, plus it’s causing issues with Cupcake – she wants more attention but it’s hard to accomodate that with a screaming baby in your ear. Except she’s not quite a baby anymore, she’s turning into a toddler, but still screaming.
  • It’s not all bad news, Geeklet also has started to say a few words (!!!). While she refuses to say Mama, we’ve definitely heard Dada, some variation on Thank You, “AGAH!” which means “Again!” and something that sounded like Cupcake’s name.  Thus it begins.
  • Cupcake is doing well overall but we are having some trouble with regressing (note: she has super annoying younger sister, did I mention that already?!) and some more trouble at bedtime. She vomited once because she was sick, maybe also because she was sick the second time (a few days later). Now she’s scared of it. My mother is convinced that she is scared of us – meaning myself and DaddyGeek – because she said something about throwing up, yelling and being scared. Right. So obviously we’re screaming at her before bed and she’s throwing up because she’s upset. She couldn’t be wrong or anything. She’s three. She can’t be confused, or not clear in her words. Right? RIGHT?! But my mother has a tendency to assume it’s us ruining Cupcake’s life by default. We’re obviously fucking her up beyond anything in the history of stuff that has ever been fucked up.  < /sarcasm>

Other Updates

  • DaddyGeek’s birthday was at the end of last week. He is awesome, and though I didn’t write a birthday post, or get him a card, or even manage to make him coffee in the morning, he knows that his gift is coming*.
  • There are a lot of geeky delicious things happening lately, including Google Wave, dipping my feet into complete website design, new Android stuff to dig through as well as Windows 7 – my new favorite Windows platform – and the up-and-coming Windows Mobile 7 which sounds freaking amazing. Definitely an iPhone / Android competitor, in my geeky opinion.

So. What are you doing this week? I want to hear allll about it.

* That’s a play on words. Did you catch it?

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Never Good Enough for You

September 11, 2009 | about mommygeekology | Tags: , , , , ,
22 Spoke Up - Say Something

TeardropNo matter what I do, it’s never good enough for you.
It makes me blue.
I try so hard to be sympathetic,
But no matter what you think I don’t get it.
Despite  emails, letters, calls, and hugs,
You accuse me of sweeping your problems under the rug.

Your pain is palpable, and it affects me,
Sometimes I feel like I’ve run out of sympathy,
I want to make it go away,
But comes back day after day.

This poem sucks, but no matter,
You’ll never read it.

I like to think that last bit was poetic,
But honestly? It’s probably pathetic.
My English teacher would be ashamed,
Bad Poetry: One more thing for which I’m blamed.

You’ve said I’m uncaring, callous and selfish,
I’m not sure why you can’t see through my defense(ish).
You analyze every single action,
You don’t see my attempted benefaction.

It matters not how hard I try,
For in the end – I’ll surely cry.
Whether by your own hand,
Or “Nautrally,”
When you’re gone I’ll feel empty.

You seem to think that I don’t care,
But I care too much – none left to spare.

Your every word, wince, tear and scream
Hurt me more than you’ve ever seen.

I love you, not sure how to go on
When it’s clear you think I’m so wrong.

“I’ll never fix you before I die” you say,
That is how you hurt me today.
Tomorrow, it’ll be another phrase,
While I wander, crying, through this maze.

I’m so sorry that you’re hurting, and I’m so sorry that you are so scared. I’m scared too.  I just wish that you didn’t hurt me in your attempts to feel better.

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