Whoever Said Half the Fun Was in Getting There...Has Never Been Here

I finally did it. And now I have no excuse not to keep doing it. It took me hours and those hours are ones I will never get back. And now I will need to spend equal time doing it to friends.

I traveled with the baby.

I took my first trip with the baby. I drove nearly six hours to visit The Boy's mother and family at her B&B. I had no idea how it was going to go. Poor baby has never had to ride in a car that long. I mean, sure, I've had her out for a long time shopping and running around. A friend lives about an hour and a half away and we've visited her a couple of times. That is the limit on her long-distance travel experience. I usually put the iPod on and let her listen to audiobooks every time we're in the car. As soon as the woman starts saying These audiobooks are brought to you by audible dot com. Audible. Audiobooks wherever you are or something like that...baby stops screaming and is mesmerized for the next however many minutes I have her held hostage. She has never been a fan of the car and I wasn't sure how it was going to work having her strapped in for what I thought would be five hours.

I had to stop for us to have lunch and I swear...this is KILLING me to admit this...I split a three piece chicken something or other from McDonald's with the baby. I'm so ashamed. She really enjoyed it, which is the most shameful part. The woman who waited on us was the biggest bitch I've ever encountered at a McDonald's and I've been served by some really surly teenagers. This woman is saving her McDonald's a million dollars a year. They need to make her a franchise owner. I asked for a three-piece McNugget and she informed me there was no such thing. I read through the menu and finally found the chicken whatever it was that I ordered. People at McDonald's hate me because it takes me forever to place my order. I'm sure they're all like...come on, lady...it's freaking McDonald's...our menu hasn't changed in like...ever, but I can never decide what I want, mostly because I do not want to be there. I was waiting for my food and went over to the fountain drinks to get my rootbeer and overheard a woman telling the cashier that she didn't get a sauce for her McNuggets Happy Meal for her daughter and something else about getting one too many cups and not getting a milk and the woman gave her a five minute lecture about how many dipping sauces you get with a happy meal and how she wouldn't be able to have another blah blah blah. That woman was pissed. She really gave an eye roll. She was ma-ad.

I grabbed my bag and left and ate in the car with baby. Which brings me to another thing...OMG. I'm going to live here and never return my rental car. Holy shit! I'm IN LOVE. I am driving a Chevrolet Equinox or some crap. It has totally spoiled me in under seven hours and I am hoping to return my Jeep in its place with the hopes of convincing Budget that they gave me a piece of crap car and somehow I'll be able to keep this car for my very own. It is the most luxurious thing I've ever ridden in, mostly because it's silent. The roads on the way here were out of contrizzle and I was the only person who was able to go anywhere. Winter drive. Ahhh. I forgot about the joy it brings to one's soul when you have that special little button near the gear shift. The security you're possessed with as you push it. It's not unlike starting a fight with someone twice your size when you're with someone four times your size. "Plow through" is my new motto.

Baby slept as soon as we got in the car and then again after lunch. Just when I thought I was a mere six miles from my destination, I was informed by The Boy that I was about an hour and fifteen minutes away. WUT? I was pissed. Baby had been screaming and I thought for sure I could make it just a few more miles. So I had to hang up on him and pull into a Sunoco. I stupidly parked in a spot by the fire department next door just so I could get the poor child out of the car. I changed her diaper in the back like I always do in my Jeep because we're a couple of dirty hippies. She was shivering, poor little thing. I had to move the car because I was horribly paranoid that we would be towed like the signs threatened so back in the car seat she went. I drove the thirty feet to the space in front of the front door of the Sunoco station. I had to go to the bathroom for about the last 50 miles, but she had been asleep and I didn't want to wake her. I went inside and found that the door was locked. Ten minutes later...still waiting. I tried again. Locked. A woman came up behind me and baby said 'hi' to her about twenty times. I tried the door again and as I was walking back to where I'd been standing, a man came up on his cell phone and said, "My wife is in there. She slipped and fell in the parking lot and she's changing her pants." He was easily in his seventies. I asked, "Is she alright?" He said, "Yes. Thanks. She's fine." A few seconds later, a man went into the men's restroom. He came out and motioned to the woman behind me and she went into the bathroom. I have never been so pissed. I wanted to yell, "I am holding an adorable baby and I've been waiting in line longer than you've even been in the damn store OBVIOUSLY and you're just going to cut me!!!" Whore. Hate her. I made sure to roll my eyes at her like that chick at McDonald's did to the rude cashier lady. I think it made quite an impression.

I got baby back into the car and we made it to the B&B. I want to live here. We've had the best time. She has been an angel. There is a No Children Allowed policy but I am guessing she's acting as the resident grandchild this weekend. She has said 'nigh-night' and 'bye-bye' to all the guests she's encountered. She hasn't made much of a fuss and has gone to sleep in this strange place without even a peep. Last night she was in a room all her own and the alarm clock radio went off at 6 a.m. loudly blaring some horrible 80's music and it didn't even wake her.

I got to go to lunch with The Boy and his aunt, uncle and cousin today and baby stayed with The Boy's mother and finished her nap and ate lunch and played until we got home. His cousin must've gone up and down the stairs with her a hundred times this weekend. My child is so independent. I'm amazed at her bravery everyday.

We're all leaving tomorrow. Hopefully the ride home goes as smoothly. I wish we could transport ourselves back into the 1970s so she could ride in the front seat with me and stretch out and relax and move around without being so constrained. I'm sure her poor little butt hurt after all that time in the car.

I'm having a great time. She had an absolute blast.

We're very lucky.

And The Results Are In

Six B's. Well, technically five B's and one Pass, but that doesn't do anything to the GPA so let's just say six B's. These B's feel like A's. It also feels wrong to put an apostrophe after the A and B but I Googled it and I reckon it's correct.

I really wondered if I was making the right decision going back to school. I know that Michael Phelps's mother worked fourteen jobs to take care of him and turn him into the phenom that he is. Hopefully one day baby will appreciate me and what I did to make a better life for us.

It was hard. Very hard. And it was no secret I wanted to bail. A dear friend told me she would do whatever I needed because she didn't want me to quit. And I honestly don't know what I would have done without her. All the free babysitting. Just being there to listen to me bitch. Coming over for dinner and breakfast and lunch. Being a surrogate mother when I needed her to be. And giving me advice that is truly appreciated. She practically raised her sisters and niece and nephews. I have no experience whatsoever with children. I have babysat a few times in my life but I don't remember it. I would also like to apologize to the parents because I have no recollection of ever having changed a diaper. Hmm....

Another friend has also been a big help to me. She left work one day when I was stuck in traffic and wasn't going to make it to baby's school before they closed. I sat in traffic near tears imagining another huge fear of mine that I'm not even going to type here. I called her and she didn't even question what I needed. She just picked her up and, God love her, walked her halfway to my place carrying her in her arms before I found them and picked them up.

To know that my daughter sees the faces of these two friends and trusts them implicitly makes me happier than I can even explain. A lot of friends have cheered me on these past few months and I am so lucky to have them all. From Atlanta to Paducah to NYC. Austin to Israel to down the street...to strangers who have found me online...I just want to thank you all. For everything.

So It Happened

I did it. I fell down the stairs while carrying the baby. I knew it. I have a wild imagination. And I promise you that every horrible thing I can imagine will eventually happen to me. I'm not saying I force it to happen, but I do think that perhaps it happens to teach me that I can handle anything. And that I am a tad bit psychic, something many close friends and relatives will affirm.

So I was walking down the stairs and I slipped and fell with baby on my right hip. I am pretty sure that it must have really hurt her somehow. She cried. A lot. And I cried. Almost as much. I was in shock, I think. And she was probably more afraid because I was so frightened for her safety. It was only six stairs but it didn't feel like it was going to end. I kept trying to catch myself but there was nothing to grab onto. I just couldn't gather my thoughts to make it all stop.

A couple of weeks ago, I went out to lunch with a friend of mine. I've known him for nearly ten years. I should have known him for fifteen years. He was an employee of an arena football team for which I was a cheerleader. Small world. We didn't meet until 1999. We lived in the same building twice. I didn't think he liked me "like that," not that every guy must like me but he's adorable and I'm not a psychopath so...why didn't we date?

A week later, he invited me to a play. OMG I actually was picked up and taken on a bona fide date. I was pretty nervous. Really nervous. I have been a real basketcase these past few months. Living alone causes you to lose some serious conversational skills. Living with a child under sixteen months old causes you to talk too much when you're around other grown-ups.

I guess he didn't mind too much that I blabbered on and on all night long. It was at his house where I fell. In more ways than one.

BRB

Finals week.

Santa Baby

Campus Frye Boots

SimpleTech Re-drive

Marc Jacobs Jackie Watch

Lucky Brand Flap Back Pocket Zoe Jeans


Linea Pelle Dylan Zip Tote

Dunderdon Persona dress

P.S. Your Drawing Sucks

I was sitting in the Starbucks on campus studying yesterday. I do patronize Starbucks. I do not patronize Walmart. Am I a hypocrite? Who cares? The inside of Starbucks is the ideal environment for studying. Unless, two idiots come and sit down within earshot of you. Two people, guy and girl, who are somehow pissing off their respective significant others. I was trying not to listen but it was damned impossible.

Seems the girl had to have a discussion with her boyfriend. He had evidently "jumped to conclusions" and thought for sure she was going to "dump" him. I tried to get the whole conversation's details--they sucked me in, what can I say?--but I got lost amid all the "like...you know" and "I was all like..." and "he was like..." fillers. Her guy "friend" said, "You don't need to edit on my account." She said, "I'm not. It's just really hard to explain." Yeah. We gathered.

So, I hear the guy say, "I talked to Meghan and I'll explain it to you the way I explained it to her." He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his book bag and she said, "Are you going to draw me a picture?" He said, "Yes. I'm going to draw you a picture." And he grabbed a pen and HE FUCKING DREW HER A PICTURE. Oh my God. I wanted to throw my tall soy chai latte and my Madeleines Petite French Cakes on them but I wouldn't do that to my favorite drink and French Cakes.

He proceeds to draw a circle on a piece of paper. It looks more like a kidney bean with a slice hacked out of it which he claimed was a "very narrow margin in his relationships where certain people fall that cross over into intimate areas and familial ones." Holy shit. What the hell is he doing? Is he enrolled in psychology of personal adjustment? Clearly this is an interpersonal relationship and obviously he's dealing with some serious moral dilemmas. Unfortunately, his female friend has no idea that these are not his original thoughts.

I'm trying really hard to picture him somewhere with his girlfriend trying to explain to her the dynamics of his relationship with his "friend." Did he take her to a bar? Applebee's? Perkin's? Where do you have a discussion like this with someone you supposedly love? Her house? Your house? From what I gather, the female friend told her guy over the phone. That's how I would have done it. Surrounded by girlfriends while we secretly made faces and gagging motions and drew our own pictures as he blubbered on about this and that.

The dude's girlfriend had asked, "How do you know this friendship won't turn into something more?" He said, "I just know." Wow. He is either secretly gay or his girlfriend must be Heidi Klum because the friend was gorgeous. Not a genius but really hot in a "your basic nightmare" kind of way.

Just when I couldn't take it anymore, it was time for me to leave for class. I so desperately wanted to go over to them and say, "Get a room."

I give it six months. Her boyfriend will cheat on her with a waitress from Hooter's. He will dump his girlfriend for being so completely naive and spineless for not kicking his ass. The two friends will end up together and they'll be married in a year and pregnant on their honeymoon.

Dr. Evil

Baby is finished with shots until her 2 year appointment. This is a good thing. This means, sans any sickness (fingers crossed), I won't have to see those people for some time coming at my child with a needle.

Every time she got a shot, she cried for about five seconds and I cried for about twenty minutes. And each of those times when she cried tiny little baby baby tears, the nurse (a different nurse each time) would say, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to do it. Your mommy made me."

What would have been your response?

Things That Make Me Go WUT?

Solid perfume. I have never understood the appeal. (It's like the white corduroy miniskirt I used to have. When in the hell are you supposed to wear a corduroy miniskirt? Summer? No. Winter? Um...effing cold. Where'd the damn skirt come from? Who purchased this damn thing?) What in the world are you supposed to use to apply a solid perfume? Your finger? Uh...let me paint you a purty picture.

1995 (I don't really know what year it was, but just go with it.) You may have previously read about my desperate search for the perfect deodorant. It's been a life-long quest. Well, I was trying to fall in love with a roll-on deodorant. It drove me crazy the same way the Maybelline Kissing Potion did when I was in elementary school. The one thing to top that annoyance was a girl in my grade, who I took dance with, whose mother would fill her empty Kissing Potion bottles with vegetable oil claiming, "It's the same thing!" Yeah. The oil dripping down your daughter's mouth yes! certainly does smell like rootbeer! No wait...bubble gum! This was the same woman who, once we all fell asleep at her daughter's birthday slumber party, put all of our hands in a glass of water and froze our training bras. Of course, mine wasn't a training bra; sadly, it was a real bra and I've been wearing one since I was in the third grade. But I digress.... So I'm trying to apply my stupid roll-on deodorant and it's clogged or something. I can't get the ball to spin. So I rub it vigorously across the palm of my hand. It spins but isn't leaving a white residue. (When I was in the seventh grade, I had spent the night at another friends house. We were getting ready to go somewhere and I was trying to do my hair in her bathroom. Having a mother who is a hair dresser teaches you how to use whatever is available to achieve the look you're going for. I grabbed the aerosol can and started spraying. I touched it with my hand and it didn't feel sticky. So I sprayed again. Same result. Sprayed again. Not stiff. Finally I yelled and asked if she had any other hair spray, that this can was empty or something. She said, "I don't have hair spray." I looked in the mirror and that was when I noticed a white layer of gunk in my hair. I picked up the can and it was deodorant. A giant can of deodorant. Who puts deodorant in a giant aerosol can? Deodorant and I do not get along.) I try again to apply it to the proper areas and finally just assume it has either worked or hadn't worked which would just mean I'd been let down again. Well, later that day I was hanging out with some friends. Someone had brought a chocolate cake. I ate a piece, because I can't turn down chocolate; it doesn't even have to be good chocolate. I got some on my hand and licked the icing off. This is where it all went down hill. I remembered not washing my hands after the deodorant test and my mouth was filled with the sweet splendor of chocolate and Powder Fresh. I wanted to cry.

(This all reminds me of the time I was in second grade and was stapling my papers together at the teacher's desk. I can still see the look on her face. I picked up the stapler, looked at it and put it back on her desk. I said, "I think there is something wrong with this stapler," and just as she was reaching for it, I stuck my middle finger under the handle and stapled the stapler to my finger. I picked up my hand and the stapler was just hanging from it. My teacher and I were a bit alarmed. Luckily it was easily remedied. That part I don't remember, but I assume it went well since I am not typing with a stapler growing out of my hand.)

So solid perfume. I don't think just washing it will get rid of the taste. Later if you have Milk Duds stuck in your teeth and you need to dig them out that taste will probably still be there. And then what if you're without a drink? Or gum? Or it was your last Milk Dud and you're left with that taste in your mouth? Ick.

Maybe you could carry around some sort of applicator for the perfume. Ooh! Maybe I could invent one!! You know, I'm going to Google it. I bet there already is such a thing. I thought I'd invented the AM/FM transmitter for the iPod, but I went there the other day with my friend just to get the smell of the Apple Store all over me and voila! there it was. I asked the man who worked there if you could use it in your car since my car stereo picks up 1.5 stations. After taking a good look at the package I said, "Oh, I guess not. It seems as though it has to plug into the iPod so there's really no way to have it play through the stereo." He said, "Well, you could just plug in the transmitter and listen with your headset." I said, "Um...but that's illegal."

I don't think boys have these problems.

Thanks for the Visual

A friend of mine just lost a case in federal court. His client: a 5o-something-year-old Korean woman accused of running a brothel/massage therapy business with Korean employees in their 60s.

Good goddess.

When I entered massage therapy school, I had just moved to a new building down the street from where I live now. My roommate came in one evening and said, "The news is outside with a van and a reporter." Really? Let's take out the garbage. So we grabbed a couple of bags and ran down the stairs nearly falling over each other and almost breaking our necks (This is a huge fear of mine; that I will fall down the stairs and somehow get my head stuck between the rungs on the railing and snap my head off). We usually just opened the balcony door and tossed the garbage bags into the dumpster from our second floor balcony, so we were inexperienced in carrying the bags down the stairs. We also didn't realize that the news girl would have moved right in front of our main door so imagine her surprise when we busted through like two crazed bag ladies.

"Would you mind answering a few questions for us about your building? Have you seen a lot of men coming and going?"

Uh...no. We just moved in.

And we took off running around the corner and then even faster past her and back up the stairs. What the hell was she talking about? Damn! We have to wait until 11 p.m. to find out!! (This is something else that pisses me off --it's a long list: "Is what you're eating for dinner killing you? Story at eleven." Um...how about story now? I'm about to sit down to dinner, bitches. This is why I majored in print journalism. I couldn't see myself going up to someone and saying, "Hi. I see that a tornado just origamied your trailer into a box of toothpicks, your family is somewhere over Oz, you lost your dog and your neighbors and from what I gather...most of your teeth. I'm sure you've got a lot going on, but if it's no trouble...I'd love to get your comment for tonight's news and if you don't mind...this guy is going to film the whole thing." Yeah...not my style.)

So...eleven o'clock rolled around and evidently there was a brothel in our building. It's a very nice building...right across the street from the jail. (I live among a city of dumbasses.) I immediately called my mother and said, "You're going to see my building on the news and they will be talking about massage therapist hookers. I'm not one of them."

And so, my state which didn't require a license when I got mine, started requiring one six years later. Wow. Way to really make a change. Those kinds of stories would show up on the news more often than not. When I got my license, I worked at a spa. Men would come in and say things like "Wow. This place is a lot nicer than where I usually go," to which I wanted to say, "Yes. I'm not wearing a bikini and my name isn't on a kiosk out front on the sidewalk." One guy sat down on the edge of the table, in his robe, and said, "It really hurts right here," and proceeded to lift his leg up incredibly high for a hamstring that supposedly really hurt and of course, he wasn't wearing any underwear. I said, "Well, I could massage that area, but the technique I would have to use is four times more painful than what I'm sure you're experiencing. I just want to warn you." He said, "That's okay. Maybe I'll just take some Tylenol." Good idea. Of course there were the men who would throw all the covers on the floor so they would be laying on the table stark naked when I walked in or the ones who would ask me out four minutes into the massage. All freaks, I assumed. And all of them ready for whatever oral pleasure I was handing out that day. But for crap sake, why on Earth are you going to come into a place like this, make an ass out of yourself and then pay sixty-five dollars. For the love! Really!! Not to mention that we will all be talking about you even before you're dressed and back out into the lobby.

I remember one week in particular. A coworker of mine quit and I had to work pretty much a double five days that week massaging his clients as well as mine. One day, I did eight one hour massages. That, if you don't know, is a lot. At the end of the week, I sat in the spa lobby and cried. I stopped at the Korean restaurant down the street on my way home, which was my normal routine about three nights a week. Korean food is my favorite! I couldn't even hold the chop sticks. I couldn't get my hands to open up. My fingers were all curled and cramped. It was awful. So, what I'm wondering is...how do these women eat? I couldn't even hold a fork, there's no way I could give a hand job.

Well, I asked my friend, who claims he isn't having much luck in federal court lately, "Did you try the argument that those women were dating all those men? I mean...seriously. What's the difference? They pay for dinner and get sex. They pay for a massage and get sex. Sounds like a date to me. Of course, I never massage my boyfriends, and if I was dating a valet, I wouldn't make him come out and park my car every time I went to his house. Just sayin'."

And honestly, when you're a 35-year-old man is a blow job from a woman who demands the senior citizen's discount really a happy ending?

Super Powers

Baby Talk

Took baby to the doctor today for her fifteen month check-up/stabbing. I swear, nurses these days lack any semblance of a respectable bedside manner. In and out. It is so ridiculous. I know it is overwhelming having to see so many patients in one day. The XH (whose name shall forever remain unspoken) was a doc who thought seeing twelve patients in one day was tiring. At the time of separation, he was seeing forty-two patients in one day. That is beyond ridiculous.

Well, I don't have a doctor. I never get sick. So when it came time to pick a doctor's office for my pregnancy I picked a family practice thinking it would be smart for the two of us to be able to go to the same doctor's office. Well, I didn't realize until halfway through my pregnancy that it is a practice made up mostly of residents and the majority of the patients are on medicaid or medicare. Our doctor was a resident. We have only seen him twice since she was born so I assume he's like a real doctor now or something. I've seen a different resident every time baby has had a check-up and each of those residents are complete dillweeds.

The residents and the attending physicians who come in to supervise now and again think that every parent is one moment away from tying up their child and leaving them in the closet while they run off to Disneyland.

Today, I saw a resident who followed, word for word, the script of questions he was supposed to ask. These questions seem more suited for someone with a bright light shining in their face while they're surrounded by federal agents. "Is she walking?" Yes. "She's holding on to furniture?" She's walking. "By holding on to furniture?" N. O. "Does she respond to commands?" Yes. "Does she talk?" Yes. "What does she say?" Oh, about fifty words or so. She'll repeat pretty much anything if she's interested. (Baby is over by the chair and starts tugging at her diaper. Me: Do you need a new diaper? Baby: Nooooo. Resident: blank stare at Baby.)

After he left, I ended up changing baby's diaper anyway because as of last weekend, no means yes. Actually, as of last Saturday evening. Not Saturday day, but Saturday night. Around 7 p.m., Baby started saying 'Nooooo' whenever I asked her if she wanted something which I knew would garner a 'Yes.' "Do you want a bottle?" Noooo. "Do you love mama?" Noooo. "Do you love Gramma?" Noooo. That's when I was certain this was a new phase. A cute one.

Just as I was about to fasten the diaper, the resident came back in and the attending with him said, "Wait. Leave that. I want to see." He came over and looked at her and lifted her legs and then turned to me and said, "I am just checking for diaper rash." Noooo. Really? I thought maybe you were some predator who just wanted to stare at my child's vajayjay. Where's Chris Hansen and the Dateline crew? Are you freaking serious? Do you think I'm an idiot?

Honestly, I think they do think all of their patients are idiots. They just have to assume we know nothing and then when we tell them that yes, in fact, dairy does give her eczema and diarrhea they can't help themselves and still have to say, "I don't think that's it."

Dude. Don't screw with me. I'm the mommy. Didn't you just hear her say that?

Woman of Few Words

I haven't had a thing to talk about lately. I've been too overwhelmed with school. Tests, papers, quizzes, pretending like I still care after ten weeks of something I swore I'd never do again. Like the time I said I'd never work at a restaurant where I had to sweep up peanuts and then went to work at a place where people thought the floor was the garbage can.

My skin has been so dry. The heels of my feet are so dry and cracked (disgusting, I know) that I could barely walk. I finally had a minute to get a pedicure on Monday. Of course, I had that minute--sixty of them to be exact--because Saturday night, I woke to the smell of cigarette smoke. It permeated through my sheets. I thought maybe I was dreaming. Then I realized that I knew where the smell was coming from; a man was sleeping in the vestibule of my building. He has been doing this for months (Nearly every weekend since the soup kitchen opened across the street in an old church we've had this guy as our guest. In nine years, I have never seen anyone going to Sunday service there. I did see a wedding party leaving one night about five years ago. They were a rowdy bunch.)

Well, this man is not homeless. He lives about ten blocks up the street. I am guessing he's not wanted there. Probably because he likes to get his drink on and piss in the doorways of random buildings and then sleep there. He never really seems drunk but he is rather hostile, so for all I know...he could be hammered. Or perhaps he reacts to dark liquor the way several of my ex-boyfriends used to, if you know what I mean. And honestly, if one of those exes was the type of guy who would be willing to sleep in the doorway of a building he didn't live in, or had been out doing something that would make him think sleeping in some doorway was more appealing than going to his own home a few blocks up the street...I wouldn't want him to come home either.

I called the girl upstairs to see if she would look over the railing and out the front door to see if the guy was in the vestibule. I didn't want to open my door because it squeaks and I didn't want him to hear me. I co-sleep still and would have had to carry baby with me. I called the police and my neighbor called our landlords. Turned out they are in Florida, but said that yes, we should have him arrested. There are signs posted saying "No Trespassing" and "You will be prosecuted." Obviously people are very afraid of signs.

I said 'goodbye' to the dispatcher and as I was hanging up little baby said, "Bye-bye" and then proceeded to vomit like she had just drank four six-packs. It was awful. It lasted for about a minute. Just coming out of her like a can of springy snakes. She cried for all of five seconds and then proceeded to laugh hysterically and run around like a crazy person. She kept kissing her reflection in my full-length mirror which gave me a few seconds to take all the blankets off the bed...and my pajamas...and socks...and her pajamas. Such a mess. I piled it all in the hallway and had to leave it on Sunday because I didn't have any quarters for the washer and dryer downstairs.

I had a huge test to study on Monday and a paper due on Tuesday that was extra credit, yet I let them both stress me out to the point of utter avoidance. I couldn't even wrap my mind around how much work I had to do. So Sunday afternoon, I got my mom to watch baby for a couple of hours so that I could go to the library and work for a bit.

On Monday, I dropped baby off at school and went to the laundromat to clean the blankets and figured I might as well do my dark clothes while I was there. I studied as best I could while I was there and then after, decided to go to the nail salon a couple of doors down for a pedicure, no polish. I told the girl about my cracked heels and how the right heel was very sore. She was on the phone the entire time I was there, but didn't seem bothered by having to file and hold the phone with her cheek. I abhor the phone and would hate to have to work like that and talk at the same time. After she filed my toenails, which drives me absolutely bonkers to the point of total discomfort, she applied moisturizer to my feet and get this...superglue to the cracked open area on my heel. Nice. It worked, but dang. I could've done that at home for a buck seventy. At the end, during the massage portion, she used what I believe was a car buffer to massage my legs and my feet. It was a little much. Yet I let her continue doing it while I reviewed chapter three, sections one through five.

Now the skin on my face is so dry that it is flaking into my hair and it looks like I have giant dandruff.

Argh.

Wake Up, Will Ya?!?

Okay...I have been telling people for about oh...a month that Huddy will be fourteen months on the fourteenth. Um...not until about 2 p.m. today did it hit me that she will, in fact, be fifteen months on the fourteenth of November. Where have I been?

I'll tell you where I've been. Trying to decide if I should stay in school or quit and get fourteen or fifteen jobs to make ends meet. I think my journalism degree/license in massage therapy/freelance writer background scares the buhjeesus out of potential employers, when it should honestly tell them that I am willing (that's for you, Leeburd) to do anything as long as I stay busy. I normally get myself into trouble if I'm left to my own devices. This also explains why I am usually fourteen to fifteen minutes late wherever I go. I could walk out the door fifteen minutes early, but with all that extra time on my hands...why don't I reorganize the pantry? Or write a letter? Or clean out all the drawers in my dresser? You see how it goes.

I sold my old engagement ring today. I will post a picture later. I didn't cry (though I know one certain friend is bawling right now in the fetal position). I didn't get what it was worth or rather, what I could've gotten had I sold it myself (not on eBay to some shyster from some fourth world country...don't even get me started....), but I feel that the price I was paid far outweighed listing the ring on craigslist, meeting the buyer in a gas station parking lot, being kidnapped at knife point and left naked in a field two hundred miles from home. The jeweler was very kind and threw in a sterling silver chain and disk pendant. I am having it engraved with an H for baby. I've been looking for something like it to wear with the peridot my dear dear friend got me on the day Huddy was born.

I went to Huddy's pediatrician today to have a form signed for her daycare claiming that I do not want her eating "milk or any dairy product or food that has been prepared with dairy (i.e., mashed potatoes, mac 'n cheese, etc.), fruit juice with artificial coloring that leaves a red mustache on her upper lip for the whole of the weekend, or hot dogs or processed meat (i.e., "lunch meat" on bread which I assume can only mean bologna). Sure, call me a freak; a psycho mommy even. Hopefully they're not spitting in her organic applesauce and squash before they serve it to her just because I'm annoying and ask for too much. I've busted my ass to feed her well her entire life and now I'm going to send her to school so she can, with her nearly four teeth, eat a thing referred to as "cheese stick," carrots and ranch dressing, cheese pizza pockets with a side of pizza crust and a fucking spinach salad! Hello?? She's quasi-fifteen months old.

After the doctor signed the form, the nurse returned it to me and said, "If she's 18 months old and only has four teeth, the doctor wants you to make an appointment. She may need x-rays." I said, "She's fourteen months old." She said, "Oh, I thought you said 'eighteen months'." I said, "Well, you wrote down her birthdate." She said, "Oh, yeah. My grandson didn't get his teeth until he was fourteen months old." Okay. So I can see how you'd be alarmed. Thanks for sharing.

I left and grabbed a quick lunch and ran to school to be a little early for class. It was then I realized I still haven't changed the time in my Jeep. Or on my watch. So I really must've realized Huddy is nearly fifteen months old at 1 p.m. and not 2 p.m.

I'm keeping us both young without even trying.

Congratulations, America. You Did Good.

Ass Ending Person Tiles

I wish I'd kept a journal over the years of all the things I've misheard. There have been a lot, often followed by me repeating what I thought I heard and the sayer saying, "What on earth does that mean?" And I would say, "I don't know that's why I asked."

Perhaps it's because I'm hard of hearing. I already told you that I got the lyrics to songs wrong. Some of them have been pretty hysterical, especially if the speaker was British or Irish or Australian. I have trouble sometimes following what is being said which is more upsetting to me than anyone else, trust me. I would just figure it was a foreign idiom I wasn't picking up on when, in fact, they were probably just asking me for the correct time or if they could borrow the empty chair at my table.

Nevertheless, baby talk is really helping me to understand what seems to be a foreign language. Baby says, "Bless you" every time I sneeze, and she says, "Hush!" when we get to that page in Goodnight Moon. Yes, she's a genius. Her mother, on the other hand, still needs a little work when the professor is discussing the ascending order of numbers and percentiles.

Oh...It's Youuuuuu.

Ho. Lee. Shit.

I am in shock right now. Absolute shock!

I came to campus to do a little studying before my class. I had to pick up my critique on my school observations. I actually didn't have to pick them up. I wrote to the teacher asking her for her input on them and she said she'd reread them and leave comments and I could pick them up today in her office. That makes me sound like a big nontraditional student brown-nosing loser, but she did tell us on the last day of that class we could write to her and ask for additional input. So I did. I really just wanted what I had written. I wanted to keep it and reread the forms.

Which brings me to what just happened to me. I stopped in the bookstore and wandered around aimlessly for a while. Then I went to buy a bottle of water in Starbuck's. On the way in to the Student Union, I saw a table outside with Obama paraphernalia. I told y'all I wanted to buy a bumper sticker. So, on the way out I stopped at the table and checked out the shirts and stickers and buttons and such. The man said, "It's a two dollar donation for the stickers and a ten dollar donation for the tee shirts." I said, "I'll take a sticker." I got two dollars out of my wallet and handed the money to him. He said, "Thank you." And then the craziest thing happened. He said, "Take off your sunglasses." I had just started to look up at him, because I actually hadn't looked at him once during our entire interaction, when he said, "Are you Jennifer?" We made eye contact and I said, "Yes. (jaw drops) Hi." He said, "I think I had you in class." I said that yes, he had...ELEVEN YEARS AGO. I said, "Wow. You're good." He said, "Even with the sunglasses on." I asked if he was still teaching here, even though I know he isn't. He said, "No. I have my own business," and gave me one of his cards. It is currently burning a giant hole in my pocket.

Holy shit.

Holy double shit.

I had this man for Creative Writing II my junior year and Poetry Writing my senior year. I kept the same journal for both of his classes. I consider the writings in that journal to be some of the best writing I've ever done in my life. It may be, in fact, some of the best writing that has ever been done in the history of the free world.

He told the class on the last day that we could come up over the summer and pick up our journals if we wanted them. A few weeks after graduation, I called him to ask when would be a good time to come and pick up my journal. He said, "Oh. You're too late. I threw them all away last week."

WUT???

I could've killed him. I ran in to a girl from my class a few weeks after that at the grocery. She commented how she needed to pick up her journal. She was in all my writing classes and nearly all my journalism classes. I think she was a journalism major and an English minor. I did a writing minor. I had to break the news to her there in frozen foods. She actually let out the most blood curdling scream. Scared the living bejeesus out of me and everyone in a four aisle radius.

I have cursed that man's name numerous times in the last eleven years. I have wished horrible things would happen to his computer. Then I heard he got fired. He should've been fired when I had him the first time; handing out his own poems for us to critique. Green beans and their greenessity do not a good poem make!

And here he is. His office is down the street from my apartment. And after all these years he can recognize me even with my sunglasses on. Either I look just as good as I did when I graduated years ago, or this man has taken all my writings, passed them off as his own and is now pretending to be me.

Where'd They Get a Camel and Four Joeys?

I'm not...I mean...She's Not Ready.

So the past two nights, Huddy has asked to go to bed. The first night she said, "Nigh-night baby," and patted her leg over and over again while I was changing her diaper. Then she said, "Bobble," which means 'bottle,' of course...which I never give to her at home. We still nurse here and bottles are for school, grandma and the sitter. Then the clincher...she started singing her lullaby to herself. "Daisy daisy...." I cried.

Last night, grandma watched her. Huddy walked into her room, grabbed the railing on the crib, put her forehead against it and closed her eyes. "Nigh-night," she said. Dear Lord. I cannot believe how big she has gotten.

Well, I just took her to school and her teacher said, "Starting next week, she needs to just have her sippy cup of milk. No more bottles." What? Is this normal? She moved over to the next section at school. She loves it with the big kids. Today, they're going to try to get her to sleep on the cot for the first time instead of her normal crib.

Oh my GAWD. Someone please hold me.

Happy Fall!

Better Late Than Never

I'm a bad person. I have never really cared about politics or given it much thought. I'm pretty much one of those "I don't care who's in charge, as long as I know what the rules are and I don't break them" kind of people. I am just like my little friend Kara Loo. Prison scares the everliving shit out of me. I would most certainly die that first night of claustrophobia. Or I'd be murderated because I would be able to hear other people breathing/snoring/talking and I wouldn't be able to sleep and I'd yell at them to PIPE DOWN and then one of them would be confused and instead put the pipe down on me. No prison. Please, baby Jesus, no prison.

I remember my political science professor rambling on the first day of class about something or such. He finally got this look on his face and asked, "Does anyone know what it means to be a Democrat?" *crickets* "Republican?" *double crickets* "Okay. Let's start at the very beginning. Once upon a time...." I was so embarrassed for all of us. Sadly, I forgot my book in class that day and instead of paying over $100 for a new one...I dropped the class. Hence, my future as a freshman senator from Kentucky was brought to an abrupt halt. Oh, who am I kidding? I ruined that for myself in high school.

I am so very scared of this election. I thought, many years ago, that John McCain would make a great President. I always had the feeling that if you were going to be President and "Commander in Chief" that you should have served in a war. He did that, of course, and wears that badge of honor everyday. There are many people now who could fit this profile if you count Desert Storm, Vietnam, Korea, Afghanistan, Iraq, Bosnia. Of course, I thought this when John McCain wasn't four hundred and eleven years old. Oh mah gawd! Please! He's too old. And not well. And if he died...we'd get...her. How is learning on the job a good thing now? I mean, if you've never been a server before then that's is a great opportunity to learn on the job. You're boss can mold you into the perfect little worker bee. Every skill you pick up there you will most certainly take with you to your next 10 serving jobs (no one ever stays at one restaurant forever). You'll annoy the people at your next serving job by telling them stories of how you did things at your old job. People love those stories. NOT. Where would Palin go after she was VP? Would she run for President? If McCain dies, would she be reelected? She scares me. Who is Joe Six Pack? Does he drink a lot of beer or does he work out a lot? Who is Todd Palin? The name alone is a red flag to me, but that is a story for another day.

I want an Obama sticker for my car. I want an Obama life size cardboard cut-out that I can hug everyday and wish him well. He has the potential to be one of the greatest Presidents our nation, the world!, has ever known if it wasn't for the ginormous pile of horse turds he'll be left to clean up. It's so sad.

I almost want McCain/Palin to win so I can say "I told you so!" to anyone who will listen.

I almost want Obama to lose because Al Gore's not winning was the greatest thing that ever happened to him.

Please...let the best man win.

Brains. Not Just for Mommies.

Why do I always forget I'm cooking something? Damned burnt biscuits. Stupidstupidstupid.

Don't MAKE Me Get All Caps on You!

Dear people of my town,

Stop stealing my stuff, yo! Jaysus. Now Huddy can't listen to Skippyjon Jones and the Big Bone. Now she will cry.

But thanks for not taking my $175 parking pass or Huddy's car seat.

Love,
Jennifer

P.S. Thanks for finding my sunglasses case. Thought I'd lost that.

Calgon, Take Me Away

Okay. Let's recap.

My purse was stolen from work. And the shirt I wore to work. (I walk there and don't like to advertise that I might possibly have a pocket full of sunshine, i.e., hundred dollars or so...mostly "or so," so I would wear a different shirt and change at work.) Ever since, and if we're being completely honest...before as well, the place has been shaded by a black cloud.

Yesterday, I get to work and one of the servers looks like he has been crying. His face is blotchy and he doesn't seem...human. (Warning: I will probably be using a lot of ellipses in this post.) One of the bartenders was telling Him to "sit down" and that she would deliver his drinks to his table. He sat there for a minute and then got up and wandered off into the dining room...and then into the kitchen...and the pantry.

I went to set up the patio. I took the place mats, napkins and forks with me because it was all I could carry. Halfway through, the dude came out and put place mats and silverware on one table. I said, "What? Are you just going to do your own tables?" He said, "I saw you out here and thought I would help you." ...with one table. I said, "Well, all the tables need knives if you want to do that." Guess he didn't; he never came back out.

The other bartender came up and told me, "He just walked up to me and said 'I have a roll of quarters for laundry if you want to do 'em'. He repeated it and I told him I still don't know what you're talking about."

Well, the manager was oblivious to all of this. So I told her something seemed a little off with Him. She wanted to know what was wrong and I said, "He's on something. I don't know what, but he's a mess." She said, "I'm so tired of these people and their issues. Why can't we all just be adults?"

She finally went up to discuss what was going on with Him. In the meantime, the food runner came up to me to ask where a table of his was. I said it was the one with the drinks. She said, "I think those people are gone." One of his tables had ordered and left before their food came. I saw him wobbling around at the table. He probably scared the crapola out of them.

(The same thing happened the day my bag was stolen. A server was admittedly on pills and she so offended her table that they left without paying or tipping. She was going to run after them to ask what the problem was. That never goes well.)

I saw the manager following Him around asking him what was going on and where his tables are and if he feels okay and does he want to leave. Later I saw them at the computers and he yelled, "Get OFF my BACK!" She was hardly giving Him any breathing room. This was not the time to discuss the problem. Take his money, tell him he could have his tips later, send him home.

(In the meantime, the busser called and said he was hungover, had overslept, and was on his way.)

I see Him sitting and talking to the manager trying to sort out his money. A few minutes later, I see Him leaving. He evidently called the manager a "fat bitch" and walked out. Ooh. I am thinking that was a bad move.

About 20 minutes later we get a call from the front desk of a condo down the street. They found Him trying to get on the elevator. No, he doesn't live there. He still had on his work shirt so that's how they knew to call us. No one had seen him since. Police were notified. Obviously not good for a man with a prison record. : (

(I ask the bartender where the busser was. He had texted her "I quit.")

I have found a new job that I can do from home, pretty much. This will allow me more Huddy time, since I don't have one whole day with her by myself. And I won't have to worry about taking up granma and my friend's weekends sitting for her.

Now...how do I tell them I need to quit? Ugh. Maybe I should just load up on Benadryl and Red Bull, go to work and let that take care of itself.

Foreshadowing

I'm going to cut my hair. Myself. Right now.

Don't Mind Her. She's a Dumbass.

I got to go out with a friend on Sunday night. The same friend who watched my child all day whilst I worked. Miraculously, she wasn't too tired. My upstairs neighbor has been borrowing my parking pass on Thursday nights and offered to sit with baby some time so that I could go out. So I did. For the...let's all keep track...sixth time since she's been born.

Friend and I went to a total dive that has the best burritos and the greatest juke box in all of the Midwest, if not THE WORLD. Friend doubted me. "Vampyros Lesbos?" But underneath it is Charlie Parker. And across from it is Chet Baker! Come on!

We had barely made it in the door when a guy came up behind us and started breathing down our necks. "Get the jerk tofu." Uh...dude. I've been here a million times. Shut it.

...so we got the jerk tofu. It was damned good.

When the burrito arrived, he came over and said, "How is it that you all have your burrito and I don't have mine yet?" Remembering he was behind us at the bar, Friend asked when he placed his order. "An hour before you did." And then he didn't leave. He kept standing there, as we were sitting; talking to us, drinking his beer. He's 24 years old. Lives with his parents. Had been traveling the U.S. Was there with his dad (who looked like he was my age) and his brother. Small talk. Small talk. Blah. Blah. Blah.

His friend came over about 20 minutes later. "Do I know you?" he asked me. Um...I don't know. Do you go to NKU? "No." Where did you grow up? "Iowa." Iowa. I don't know a lot of people from Iowa. Turned out he was at a party I had attended over the summer and is best friends with the husband of a friend of mine. Small world.

I got up and went to the bathroom hoping that he would be gone by the time I got back, but...no.

Finally, we were left alone (except for the strangers we were sitting with so that we wouldn't have to stand and eat) to chat and bond over our beers. My measly little half pint of Guinness.

As he was leaving, he came over and said goodbye. (My friend said the other dude would have totally asked me out if the first guy hadn't pissed all over me the minute I walked in the door.) He leaned down and asked, "Would you like to hang out sometime?" I'm very busy.

Oh...if I could rewind and delete that? What a horrible answer, even if I was biologically able to be his mother. Dude. I seriously could have been his mother.

Message in a Bottle

Dear Dad,

Boy...do I ever miss you?

Six years today and the world has gone to complete shit. It knows you're not here.

Huddy talks to your picture at mom's. Thanks for sending her to us.

Love, your daughter,
Jenni

Where Am I Going? And Why Am I in This Basket?

So, I went to the grocery store yesterday and forgot my debit card. I didn't have enough money on me (lucky I had any at all, actually) and had to put some things back. Oh mah gawd. So ridiculous. I was grabbing things that I thought would be the quickest way to lose forty dollars. Licorice. I certainly didn't need it anyway. I've eaten three huge bags in under two weeks. Almondina. I love them and like to snack on them when I'm feeding baby her brekky. All the baby books say you should eat your meals with your child so that they understand it is meal time and not play time, etc. Well, the authors of those books are drug addicts who only hallucinated those things happening under a rainbow. Two Amy's frozen vegan pizzas. I left one for the sitter. One frozen organic squash. Still got two. For some reason, it's only taking off mere pennies. I KNOW those pizzas were nearly five dollars on their own.

Now...here's where it starts to look like a scene from Terms of Endearment. I had to put back the formula. I needed to get rid of twenty dollars fast and that was the quickest way to do it. I was at the self-checkout lane. It's a whole lane, not one of those little tiny cubby thingos with no belt and every time you put something down the computer yells ALERT! ALERT! UNIDENTIFIED OBJECT IN BAG! STEP BACK AND READY YOURSELF FOR DEATH BY FIRING SQUAD! I thought I could just delete one item at a time. Luckily there was no one behind me. It was taking forever. Finally, the girl who works the self-checkout lanes (which is a whole different ridiculousness that they clearly haven't figured out how to not have to use a cashier at the self-checkout) came over to help me. She went through the menu items, sometimes clicking the wrong button so we would have to wait for the comptuer to think its thinking stuff. I kept trying to make small talk and let her know how much I appreciated her help. She seemed frustrated, maybe for me, maybe for the person who was going to have to put back all of my groceries. Thank GOD I put back the licorice and the cookies and didn't keep them and still toss the formula. That would've been a black mark on the whole experience, I am sure.

I just want to say that of the three people who are ever working the self-checkout register when I am at the grocery two of them have only one arm. Not one arm between them but one arm each. One man is missing his right arm. Well, he has something there, but it's not a functioning arm (if you haven't read David Sedaris' Who's the Chef, you must). And the lovely girl who was helping yesterday is missing her entire left arm. I had to wonder, why stick them on self-checkout? I mean, they're still alive, right? They must dress themselves, button their shirts, go to the bathroom, cook, drive, shower...all the things one must do in an average day. Why does only having one arm mean they can't work the regular lanes? Customers bag their own groceries. I am sure they could do that job just as they can do this one. Then it hit me. It is the one place where someone said, "Man! I could do this self-checkout and hold my baby and bag my groceries and put shit back because I don't have enough money with me if I just had three hands..." and God answered.

Ode to Ellipses

I bet you thought...hey...there's a typo in her heading. But...no. There isn't. Ellipses is not spelled with an 'I'. You, my friend...are wrong.

Ellipses are/is my favorite of the punctuation(s). Egads. Get me out of this sentence.

I love the ellipses so much. I write it all the time. You may have noticed from previous posts. It makes me happy. It puts me in a punctuary comma...I mean...coma.

I have a great love affair with the ellipses. Sadly, so does my statistics professor. Only...she has no clue how to use them. She speaks in ellipses...incorrectly. Example: "You find the commonality and then the...answer."

I'm sorry...what? You don't need ellipses there! It's...not right! Are you really waiting for us to fill in the...blank? See? Doesn't work.

Another example: "We will have the quiz on Wednesday now and the test on...Monday."

Stop doing that!!!! You're driving me crazy!!!

What He Said

I held today...in my tiny little hands...a black American Express card.

Man...ventriloquists make bank. Or at least...spend it.

This Week Sucks Blah Blah Blah Whatever

• College girls loooove their cleavage. They also have the most rockin'/perfectly worn/hole-ridden jeans. I am trying to figure out how to ask one of them where she got her jeans without sounding like a total skeeve.
• Everything I like is discontinued. Target brand extra tall kitchen garbage bags. Archer Farms coffee pods. Apricot Sands lipstick from L'Oreal. (Of course that was 20 years ago.) The Aussie shampoo I used to use. The Maybelline eyeshadow. Blueprint magazine. Organic Living magazine. The genmachia tea I loved so much. Freaking Baskin Robbins Daqueri Ice.
  
• Or the package is changed and even though they assure you it's new and improved or that it has the same great taste...it never does.
• Stupid wind storm abducted my sunglasses. Thieving bitch at work stole the other pair. Final pair lost a screw today and fell off my face.
  
• Speaking of face...mine is under the impression I'm in the throes of puberty.
  
• Made a veggie chicken patty today for breakfast. Topped it with a veggie slice of American cheese, mayo, and mustard. Enveloped it inside a whole wheat bun. And then left it sitting on the coffee table and didn't think of it until I was pulling into the parking lot at school.
• I cannot find a sufficiently roomy bag to carry every damn thing I need to carry to school without it weighing seven hundred and eleven pounds.
• Haven't had time to go back and renew my license.
  
• Have to go to work tomorrow and be nice to the person who stole from me.
  
• Having a love affair with Kasil jeans.
  
• Wondering what in the hell I was thinking going back to school. I can't be 100% mommy, 100% student, 100% friend, 100% daughter and 100% employee.
  

It's the Hard Knock Life

I am going to kill a girl in my biology class. We're having our first test on Thursday. Today, in the first 20 minutes of class she asked, "Can you please give us a study guide?" "Can you please tell us what to study?" "I have so many notes, more than 45 questions worth." "Can you just give us an example of a question you will ask?" "I am so confused. I don't know what to study." "There is just so much information." "Can you just give us an outline with all the stuff that will be covered on the test?" "Do we need to know this? Is this important."

YES EVERY SYLLABLE THE PROFESSOR UTTERS IS FUCKING IMPORTANT FRESHMAN HOW ABOUT STUDYING YOUR DAMNED NOTES NOW SHUT. UP.

Wasting Away

WHERE IN THE EFF ARE THE EXTRA TALL KITCHEN GARBAGE BAGS SOLD????

I Was Sitting at Starbucks with the J Crew....

Permission to Abort Mission, Sir?

There is a hair convention in town. You know, a hair show? A show for hair dressers. I mean...stylists. They call themselves that so they can charge $70 for a haircut instead of $10. That's also why they call them 'clients' now and not 'customers.' Well, my work has been out-of-control. Saturday night I worked and I was so out of it. But the sections that the servers get are so ridiculous. There is no rhyme or reason. Three tables outside, four table inside but no where near each other. So you are running around like a complete fool trying not to fall down or lose your mind. I didn't work yesterday lunch, luckily. They were so busy the kitchen couldn't keep up and people were waiting two hours for their food. Last night was worse than Saturday night, except this time I wasn't a maniac and was actually picking up tables for other people who couldn't handle their section. It really just depends with me. You never really know what you're going to get.

Well something kept telling me to get my phone. I had a weird feeling like I needed to have it on me. Like maybe my friend who was watching the baby would need to get a hold of me. I wish I would've listened to that little inner voice. Then I would have a time line. Someone stole my purse at work last night. It is a black leather Coach zip pouch that I put my whole life in and move from bag to bag whenever I change purses. Gone. It had to have been someone I work with because no customers would know purses were there and we would definitely notice some random person going through the cabinet nosing around. Thank the gods I cleaned it out the other night. I can't remember what all was in it. Makeup. Receipts. My sunglasses. Whoever it was left me my phone and my keys. They even took the tee shirt I wore to work.

I filed a police report when I got home. He was all official and shit. Came up the porch with his finger on his holster. Skeered me. He wrote down all the answers to his very important questions. "What kind of bag, miss?" Coach. *wimper* "What kind of makeup, miss?" *whisper* cover girl *yell* AND Burt's Bees! I am pretty sure I saw him scribble something like Bird's B's and 'she's crazy insane' and 'run background check/have surveillanced.'

I just went to get a new license and took two pieces of mail with my name on it. "I need something with your social security number on it." WTF!! Argh! This is why people don't use social security numbers as identification anymore. What if I had been crazy enough to keep it in my purse? Whoever stole my bag could just go with it and get a license made in my name. 

Oh well. I'll have to go back later this week. Which is probably a good thing. My hair is dirty and I have on a skull tee shirt.

I'm Your Huckleberry

There are two guys, one in Biology and the other in Geography, who bug the living bejeesus out of me. The dude in Biology (Cody is his name. Actually his name is something else, but he goes by Cody. That's another story.) I think might be drunk when he comes to class. At first, his questions were very helpful. Now, he is bothering everyone. Some people laugh, some people like me huff and puff hoping he'll shuttup or pass out. The teacher mentioned diarrhea was a disease and then he proceeded to ask 40 questions about it, including "The next time I have diarrhea, I can tell everyone I have a disease?" The teacher said, "If you want to." How about diarrhea of the mouth?

The other dude is THE MOST ANNOYING BOY EVER IN THE HISTORY OF ANNOYING BOYS. He would, in fact, annoy the most annoying person you've ever met. The Pope would surely have him locked away in a dungeon never to be seen again. He cannot remain quiet. "My friend's truck was stolen in Mexico. It WAS! I'm not joking." "They called me a gringo, so I left." "Weren't we always focused on Columbia?" "It's plain capitalism." "Farmers. Oh, I meant cowboys." "The Panama Canal." "If McCain wins, my brother and I are going to move to Canada." The last comment very nearly swayed my vote.

Well, yesterday during an experiment in biology lab, the first kid nearly spilled a whole jar of tuna fish water on me. And the second dude...called me m'am.

I'm going to have to hurt them.

I'm Not Ready

I came home from school today and someone took three steps unassisted. And just a few moments ago, that someone woke up as soon as her head hit the mattress, per normal. After a futile attempt to put her to sleep by playing with her hair (she'll learn how wonderful this is in a few years, I'm guessing) I finally just left the room so I could take out my contacts, wash my face, um...pee (which I rarely ever get to do alone and I'm sure that only gets worse, not better), and put on my pajamas. This was all accomplished while someone wailed at the top of her lungs. I was speeding through my nightly routine hoping to get back to her in record time. Then, just as the last leg went into the pajama bottoms...the crying stopped. For the first time in her life, she cried herself to sleep while in my presence. Sure, she's cried in the car and then gone to sleep. She pretty much hates the car. Thank goodness for iTunes audiobooks for children. The Grinch Who Stole Christmas is a guaranteed winner; as soon as Walter Matthau's voice comes out of the speakers the screaming comes to an abrupt halt.

Sure, some people say babies need to cry themselves to sleep. I cannot do it; make her cry on purpose, that is. Especially after I read this:

He awakes in a mindless terror of the silence, the motionlessness. He screams. He is afire from head to foot with want, with desire, with intolerable impatience. He gasps for breath and screams until his head is filled and throbbing with the sound. He screams until his chest aches, until his throat is sore. He can bear the pain no more and his sobs weaken and subside. He listens. He opens and closes his fists. He rolls his head from side to side. Nothing helps. It is unbearable. He begins to cry again, but it is too much for his strained throat; he soon stops. He waves his hands and kicks his feet. He stops, able to suffer, unable to think, unable to hope. He listens. Then he falls asleep again.

I now feel so guilty I want to wake her up and take her to bed with me. But I won't. I'll just hug and kiss her extra in the morning.

What Happened Was Just This

Crikey! Huge wind storm yesterday while I was walking to work. It blew my sunglasses off my face (Oscar de la Renta $7 TJMaxx...bye bye) CRASH! shattering them in the street, blowing them a block away at 60 mph, and it ripped the rubber band out of my ponytail. I was pinned to a giant planter. I couldn't move. Some guy walked past me and just stared at me. Uh...hello? Thanks for helping me. I just wanted to cross the street! I didn't weigh enough.

My work was the only restaurant open in the area. Power lines down everywhere. We were slammed. There had been a Bengals' game. Boy, do they ever suck. People were drunk coming in to eat and find refuge. I love how people are not nice when clearly you're doing the best you can to accommodate all the other people ahead of them. I was so busy, and we only had one bartender. I went behind the bar to finish pouring a Guinness while dreaming of shoving my head under the tap for a swig. A man at the bar barked some order to me. I turned and said, "I'm sorry?" He asked for some silverware. I couldn't find any behind the bar. So I ran and got him a place setting. He said, "May I just say you are the first person in this place who has done anything for me with a smile?" I said, "Oh...well that's because I've lost my mind." He reached out to shake my hand and introduced himself. He said, "Your first child's college tuition is on me." I said, "That works out great! She's 13 months old today!" I doubt he'll really come back with a check.

Another table of guys came in late and gave me all kinds of hell. It was obvious they didn't know each other from the conversations they were having. One guy was talking about Penelope Cruz and all the famous people he has met and didn't sleep with. One guy paid and as I was closing out his tab the math wasn't coming out correctly. I went over to the table and said, "So, why are you guys in town?" I had asked to see his I.D. because he hadn't signed his credit card. He was from Nebraska. "Why?" he asked. Uh...yes. "Pet food convention." So I said, "Not a math conference?" He said, "Um, no." Then he gave me a funny look and said, "Why? What'd I do?" I said, "Well, according to your math my tip should be $26, not $18." I asked, "Do you want to give me an $18 tip or do you want me to do the total?" He said, "Well...I uh...guess the tip that I wrote down." I said, "That's fine. But for future reference, people will enter the total because that's what you'll remember. If you added incorrectly shorting the tip, then the server will still only get the total even if it's short." He said okay. I said, "So, we're going with the $18 tip then?" He said, "Yeah. I guess." I said, "It's okay. We're not dating. I'm not going to be pissed at you or anything."

Trees crushed cars. Power out for miles, possibly not back on for days in some places. I just called the grocery to see if they were open before I drove there. The manager answered and said they are without cold or frozen food and are only allowing people to buy 2 bags of ice at a time. Wow. I'll take boxed processed food for $1000, Alex.

Of course I have power at my place. I live by my work. There is a jail, a transit center and two huge hotels. Can't imagine we're not on some generator or something. The power lines are down in the street right across from me blocking off the road.

I'm trying to watch the school closings list on the television, but inevitably look away before the Ns show up. Every. Time. Dammit.

Week in Review

• I work with a 37-year-old grandmother. Crazy, huh? Well, I also work with a 35-year-old grandmother.

• This is not Dom DeLuise.
  

• The hours between 8.30 p.m. and 11.30 p.m. are really twenty minutes in disguise.

• My Thai crystal deodorant is determined to make me smell like a Thai restaurant. So I've switched to Liquid Rock from Kiss My Face. Today was test day. I like it.

• How is it that my hair goes from clean, to perfectly dirty to crap grease slick in a matter of seconds?
  

• Have a paper due on Tuesday. Have to pretend like I care about stem cell research. Maybe I will care about it by Monday night. Will definitely know whether I care about it by Tuesday at noon.
  

• Have fingernails for the first time since I was pregnant. I forgot how to use them. I iz dangerous.

• Working tomorrow. Pray I make lots of monies. Going out tomorrow night. Not coming home 'til I kiss a boy. Or 11.30 p.m. Whichever comes first.
  

Those Damn Little Lenten Bitches

My friend's daughter has just joined the Daisies. I have no clue what this is, really. From what I gathered during the conversation with my friend, it's much like (or not much like) the Brownies. You know the Brownies. The prequel if you will to the Girl Scouts. Friend wasn't too keen on her daughter joining the Daisies but "all the other first graders were doing it" and you know how that ends up when you're the only person not involved in something. Like when all of your friends go on vacation without you and then proceed to talk about nothing else when in your presence. Friend said, "It's fine now, just hoping she is over it before it's time to join the Girl Scouts. Because we all know Girl Scouts are only good for one thing. Thin Mints." Isn't that the damned truth. I remember being in the Girl Scouts. It sucked. Now I'm wondering...is one in the Girl Scouts or just in Girl Scouts? Kind of like how one used to shop at The Gap but now we're only allowed to shop at Gap. Kind of like that. Kind of.

Rollin' with the Homies

What's My Muthaeffin' Name?

Baby Fish Mouth. One of my favorite scenes from a movie ever.

Hmm.... I am thinking I may have to change my heading. I know. I know. I already changed it from absurditiesofsomepeople to whowhatwhenwhereandsometimeswhy. I've already thoroughly explained that I cannot make a decision to save my life. You're just going to have to deal with it.

When I picked Baby Fish Mouth, I didn't realize tons of other people were using it as well. It's a clothing company for babies and tons of people have blogged about that damn scene. But it's so me! I swear my brain works just like Jess's. And Win Lose or Draw is my favorite game ever. For those of you who have yet to meet "Board Game Jennifer" just know...she's not pretty. I found a way to play board games by myself growing up. I'd play both players. Only child, you know. I have issues. Lots of them.

I'm sure my inability to make a decision is somehow my mom's fault. Or Oprah's. I'll have to get a therapist. Or not.

So, what could my new heading be? What is the most accurate way to describe me?

• When I was pregnant and willing to go on dates--just one date ONE! would have sufficed--I thought about making a tee shirt that read If you ask I'll say 'yes' on the front and ...obviously on the back. My mother was appalled.

• Then there is my stock motto: I'm an only child. I don't share. It's not technically true, but I am a bit freaky with my stuff. Sure, you can look at the magazine I just got and haven't looked through yet, just don't wrinkle the corners or curl the cover.

So, I'm a mom/only child/daughter/massage therapist/writer/server/full-time student who is completely single for the first time in many many years. Maybe my heading should be Lease with an Option to Buy. Or to complement the journalistic site name...And how's that make you feel? With my hands, yo. With my hands.

It's Not Me. It's You.

This place is a mess.
*evil eye*
Well, it is.
Do something about it.
Who me?
Yeah you.
It's not my fault. I'm never here.
So, you could still help out once in a while.
Look at the dust!
There you go. You can dust.
So, what? I have to do everything you hate doing?
What's the big deal? I vacuum.
That's because you like to vacuum.
And...?
Just because you don't like to do something doesn't mean I have to like doing it.
Well then, what do you like doing?
I'll straighten up the book shelves and papers.
Oh brother. *rolls eyes*
Now what?
Nothing.
What? Just say it.
You won't get anything done. Ten minutes into straightening you'll be going through drawers.
So?
So, you'll sit there for an hour looking at pictures and old cards and old planners.
I beg your pardon.
You don't ever clean when you clean. You just make piles and more messes for me.
You need a nap.
Yes, I do. I haven't slept the whole night through in two years.
So take one.
How can I? What do I do with the baby? Stick her in her crib and let her cry for forty minutes?
Yes.
You have no idea what you're even talking about.
Whatever.
Don't say that. You know I hate it when you say that.
You shouldn't say 'hate'.
Shuttup.
Or shuttup.
Ten minutes of silence passes.
Are you not talking to me now?
I don't know what you want me to say. I can only do so much, you know.
All I'm asking you to do is dust.
Well, all I'm asking you to do is get off my back.
*jaw drops*
Yeah. Off. My. Back. I go to school full-time and work. I don't have a single day to myself.
You don't have to work so much.
Ha! Yeah, right. Who else is going to buy diapers and food and gas for my car?
Me.
Who will pay my bills?
Me.
You don't make enough.
Sure I do.
Well, we need my money. Besides, I got a hug and a 100 percent tip from my table last night.
Well, you're going to need that to pay for the coffee you have every morning.
I make my coffee here, thank you very much.
Yeah. With two pods and soy creamer.
No. I'm using half and half now. And you have to use two pods. One pod is pointless. That's not coffee. It's brown water.
I thought you were lactose intolerant?
I AM! I AM SICK OF SOY. I WANT SOMETHING THAT TASTES GOOD.
Dairy gives your daughter a rash.
Look. I'm trying to introduce it to her slowly. I don't need you to make me feel like shit about it.
I'm not trying to make you feel badly.
Bad.
What?
You're not trying to make me feel bad.
Are you correcting me?
*silence*
Look, I think you need a break. A night with the girls or something.
And who will watch the baby?
I'll find someone.
Yeah, right.
I will.
Look, I'm away from her all day, the last thing I want is to be away from her all night too.
You need to get out of the house. Relax. You're never going to meet anyone sitting at home.
I don't have time to meet someone. I don't have time for a relationship.
You don't need a relationship. Just have...fun.
Fun?
Yes. Fun. You remember fun. I mean, you bought those heels. Where are you planning on wearing them? I know it's not to take out the garbage. You don't take out the garbage.
Yes, I do.
No you don't. You put it on the balcony and I end up taking it out after it's been rained on.
*shakes head* I'll wear the shoes somewhere. *trails off* One day.
Go out with that guy from work.
Guy from work?
Yeah. That guy at your work. The one who said he'd have sex with you.
What? Jesus. I never should have told you that.
You didn't. I was there, remember. Besides, he's cute.
He has a girlfriend. And I don't need pity sex, thank you very much.
You're getting bitter.
What?! I am not!
Yes, yes you are. Find a cute boy and make out with him. I am giving you permission.
Permission? You're not the boss of me.
Oh, yes I am.

And I Live Here Again Because....

Did some stuff at work this week that got me into a bit of hot water. I...excelled. I don't know what got into me. Then I totally effed up. Got reprimanded for slicing too large a hunk of bread for my customer's salad. And then someone unplugged the salad dressing cooler to use the blender and didn't plug it back in and I got blamed for never having plugged it in to begin with, which I know I totally did. See? This is why I always like to give a steady 76 % with anything I do. Once you start giving 100% people tend to expect it.

Went to Oktoberfest with a friend tonight for about 45 minutes. Oh mah gawd. What a nightmare. There are two places around here where you can see the real gems of the gene pool. Maifest and Oktoberfest. People walking around with a beer in one hand and a baby on the other hip. A nice cute little baby who is sweet enough to hold mommy or daddy's cigarette while they stuff their faces with a cob of corn and some barbeque.

About 17 years ago, I was at the Oktoberfest with some friends. I saw a booth full of tiny clothes. So cute. Dresses. Hundreds of them in every fabric you could imagine. I had a friend who was about to have a baby so I decided to actually look through the racks. I finally came across a cap and gown. I thought to myself, "What the hell would a baby need with a cap and gown?" Jaysus. They weren't children's clothes. They were clothes for geese! Porch geese! What in God's name!! I am so glad I didn't actually buy something.

That brings me to another point. I walked down one aisle of booths and was in shock. How can someone take a step back, look at the products they're trying to sell and actually think, "Yeah. These redneck windchimes will make me a millionaire"? I don't even have to go near the booth where you can make your own potpourri and lavender eye packs to know that it sucks.

Try to Remember the Kind of September

Okay. Decision needs to be made. Do I look for another job? I went back into the kitchen to get drinks for my table and a giant roach FLEW right at me. My table was right outside the kitchen. I cannot imagine them not noticing. The screams from the other waitresses alone would've certainly gave them alarm. It's wingspan was the size of my hand with my fingers splayed out. Gross.

One of the cooks asked me what I wanted to eat during the lull while the fireworks were going on and the restaurant emptied out. I said, "Nothing." He said, "Come on. Just name it. I'll make it." I said, "I don't want any food from here." I don't think I can continue to serve people knowing that a roach may fly out of the kitchen and land on their plate.

I did make decent money Sunday night, but the crowd was exceptional. Without the fireworks we would have all been standing around staring at each other. I didn't get out of there until almost 1 a.m. One of the other servers was pissed that a few of us got to leave. I didn't even say anything. They cut me so I left. But honestly, I cannot stay that late and be a good mommy. Baby wakes up before 7 a.m. Potentially I could've been there until 3 a.m. A couple of people were there super late the night before waiting on a bachelorette party. I didn't catch up on my sleep until last night.

I might have to see if my friends are hiring at their restaurant. I've worked there before and they have no bugs. Of course, it's such a lovely place I probably wouldn't notice if they did. Just like my mom said to me once when I was complaining about pet hair every where from someone's dog. I said, "I don't remember Ozzie shedding like this when I was growing up. Unless you just cleaned every single day." She said, "Well, you loved Ozzie." That was the difference. And she did clean practically everyday.

Hey, Whorebag. SHUT IT.

My mom used to tell people I was going to open a home for old men and babies and to hell with everyone else. It's not secret: old women are bitches. I can say this because I will, one day...hopefully, be an old woman; just not a bitchy old woman.

Yesterday at work, one of my tables told me, "I have a complaint about my salad." Greaaat. Of course you do. "We come here three times a year after our long walk and I always get this salad." Wow. Three times, you say? They should make you a silent partner. "I always look forward to it but the quality has gone way down. Look at this lettuce. I don't want it taken off the bill or anything, but we probably won't be back. And I can imagine someone else wouldn't come back after being served this either." Of course I felt badly about it. It was a tad wilted. But to be fair, the lettuce was buried under a pile of cheese, olives and tomatoes. Had I noticed I probably would've said something. Maybe. It is only my second week. I'm trying to make friends with the kitchen people, not enemies.Well, my other table overheard the conversation. I had just dropped off their food when the woman stopped me to tell me about her salad. When I came back out to check on the other table and refill their drinks I asked how everything was. "EVERYTHING IS AS WONDERFUL AS USUAL. MY COMPLIMENTS TO THE CHEF. PLEASE TELL HIM HOW MUCH WE ENJOYED IT." Uh...what the hell lady? Simmer down. Have you ever seen two women in their 60s throw down? I wasn't about to stick around to witness it.

Today, I took baby out right after breakfast to run my errands. I haven't been able to do a thing since school started. Again...what was I thinking? First, we went to Mecca and she fell asleep in the 24 seconds it took to get across the street to Le Bigg's. I tried not to wake her but it never works out that way. She stayed awake the entire time in the grocery screaming and yelling the whole time, waving to everyone. Finally in the check out line she started to fade. There are two conveyors at Bigg's so they can ring up more people, though they require them to bag their own groceries which still holds up the line, I think. The woman on the other side was bagging her things and said, "Oh, mommy. I'm so tired. This shopping thing is hard work. I need a nap." ...Yo. Stranger? You wanna ixnay the commentary? You think I don't know she's over the limit? Do I need to remind you that I have only been out at night FOUR TIMES since she's been born? When in the HELL do you suggest I get this grocery shopping done? Now take your Twinkies and Diet Coke and get out of my face.

Of course, baby woke up when I tried to carry her into the house. She refused to let me lay her in the bed. Frozen bananas, anyone? So I fed her her lunch an hour later and still after a bottle (because I'm having a little milk supply problem I don't want to talk about it so don't mention it to me or I'll cry) she still wouldn't sleep. Read her new favorite book to her five times. No go. Put her in her crib with said book and showered. Still awake when I got out. Put her in her exersaucer to watch Lawrence Welk, her new favorite show, so I could clean the living room. Not tired.
Or at least I thought.

Did I mention how much I love babies?

Far Far Away

I may have mentioned I do not like birds. Actually, I am not a fan of anything that flies. Except for butterflies. I do actually have an affinity for penguins, though I'm pretty sure if I was sitting outside at my favorite restaurant and a penguin came up to me and threw its shit in my face I would despise penguins as well. Luckily for me, this will more than likely never happen.

I have been pooped on five times. I have had birds fly into my hair. I was witness to not one but two baby bird murders. Or suicides. Hard to know for sure. I woke one morning to the sound of banging only to discover a crazed Canadian bird ramming itself into my bedroom window (I know it was Canadian because I looked it up and it's always the Canadians), even though there were visible panes on it and a big ass banner that read "This is a glass window, bird. Here's your sign." Alas, this bird was not bright and it flew into the window for more than 35 minutes leaving blood smears from top to bottom. I do not lie. I finally went outside and yelled STOP! but that bird did not care. I think maybe he was having a bad day. Like I was.

I had a cat bring a live bird into my house only to let it loose in the kitchen where I was calmly eating pancakes at the table. The bird flew right toward me and into the blinds and said cat leapt onto the table to retrieve it. Once, at my old job, I went to walk in the back door and looked down in time to just miss stepping on a bird. It was laying on its side, one eye looking straight up at me. I told my boss that it needed help. "I think it's hurt or something." He said, "It's napping." I said I didn't know a lot about birds, by choice, but I was pretty sure they don't actually lay down in the fetal position to catch some shuteye in the middle of a business restaurant patio. He walked over and stomped near the bird, not on it, and it jumped right up and flew away. What the eff was that bird doing?!? Laying there just to freak me out? Ooh. I was mad.

Then there was the bird that stalked me on that same patio. Followed me around, hopping and opening and closing its beak. It was a huge bird. Not like bald eagle huge. It was a tiny little thing, just as big around as it was tall. It looked...pissed. I told a friend that I thought something was wrong with it. (You might ask why someone who hates birds so much would try so hard to help them. I have no answer.) He followed the bird around until it stopped long enough for him to pick it up. The bird had mass bread trapped in its beak. My friend got a little stick and pried it out of the bird's mouth and then set it free. That is probably the happiest bird I have ever encountered. Of course, if I had a life where I could just fly around and shit all over people's stuff I'd probably be happy too, or at least a little hysterical.

And then there was the pigeon whose nest I knocked out of my window sill two seconds before I saw the eggs in it. I had a window air conditioning unit and pulled the accordion shade to the side and knocked the nest out with a plastic spoon. Once it started to fall I saw three eggs inside it. I felt awful. But that bird had been there for days cooing and fluttering around. I needed sleep. I opened the blinds a smidge to see where the bird had flown off to and was met by two little beady eyes. It was sitting on top of the air conditioner staring into my window. No joke! Right out of a Hitchcock movie.

And lastly, the house I owned that was infested with a century's old nursery colony of bats. I went outside and watched bricks turn into bats like an Escher drawing. I quit counting at 74.

Well, when I was pregnant, I went a little overboard with the Save the Animals movement. I was forever carrying spiders upstairs that had gotten lost in the bathtub. Catching moths and inevitably crushing them as I tried to set them free. Well, one night there was this gigantic fly in the house. I tried forever to get it. My mother even tried to knock it off her incredibly high ceiling with a towel. It was pointless. Well, the next morning my mother told me the fly had died. I was sad. Turns out it had fallen into the water I'd forgotten to drain out of the sink after doing the dishes. Rats. (Since I had baby though, I have decided that anything that can potentially land on her and piss her off must die.)

Well, its ghost is haunting me now. I just spent the last 20 minutes trying to get a damn fly out of my refrigerator. It flew in as I was filling my glass with water. I was beating everything in there with a near empty roll of papertowels. I managed to hit one of the refrigerator light bulbs, first making it super bright, which made me very happy, and then blowing it out, which made me very sad. I would've killed it in there with a magazine and thrown away all the food and smeared the little fly remains on my front door just to prove a point, but I didn't. It is now making the rounds in my apartment. I'll probably eat it in my sleep. I do kind of feel sorry for the little fella. Like I was telling a friend who told me she saw maggots in her garbage can feasting on some raw chicken "It must suck to be a fly. First you start off as a disgusting maggot and then BAM! A second chance at life only to become a huge asshole. And you eat poop. And every time you land to take a little rest...you vomit. Nobody likes you. Ever. "

Eh. Not my problem.