Irritable Vowels

I love this t-shirt. It says it all. And my black pearls? Found for a steal at Macy's? Say it all, too.

And together, they pretty much shout, Not your average Southern gal. Nope. So go f*** yourself. Love y'all! I particularly enjoy wearing this while grocery shopping at the local Kroger. All the little old ladies do double-takes.

Yep. Love me some pretty bling and some incendiary clothing.

Fourteen Years Ago Today

It was 14 years ago today that we:

• Walked down the aisle in our dress and tux.

• Nervously said I do.

• Cut the cake.

• Threw the bouquet and garter.

• Posed for pictures.

• Pledged our lives to one another, forever.

Happy anniversary, my darling Ty-man. It's been an amazing 14 years of marriage (not to mention 21 years of friendship and love) and I wouldn't trade one single second of it for anything.

Vous et nul autre.

Dialog, Part 24

Pregnant Twin Mom on Bed Rest at the Hospital: I just love Matt Damon. I brought all his movies with me so I wouldn't get bored.

Me: That's awesome. Watch what you love and makes you happy!

PTMoBRatH: So what are your twins' names?

Me: Bubba and Miss-Miss. But, I did offer to name them Luke and Leia in honor of my George Lucas-obsessed husband.

PTMoBRatH: I wanted to name my son Matthew Damon Fudgesicle*, but my husband said there was no way his son was going to be named after his wife's celebrity fetish.

Me: Yeah, but if you had named your little boy Matt Damon Fiddlesticks, then you could have named his sister Sarah Silverman Fiddlesticks! Bonus! But then, there would have been that whole, Wait. They're brother and sister. But I thought Sarah was f**king Matt Damon?!

PTMoBRatH: Laughing so hard that, yes, her belly was jiggling. Oh, I can't wait to suggest that name combo to my husband!

And just for all of you, here it is again. Enjoy!


*Name has been changed to protect the fan girl in question.

Relativity

A recent post reminded me of my favorite quote (from The Man himself) about the relative nature of time:

Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT'S relativity.

I think about time a lot. I'm a clock-watcher. I need to know what time it is, all the time. Every room has a clock, my watch is constantly on my wrist, and I'll check my watch against the atomic clock weekly to make sure I'm on time. And each day, upon its completion, I will collapse into bed declaring Whew! This day flew by! or Geez, could today have been any slower?. And as I get older, I notice the days moving by faster and faster and I understand that as I march closer to my end days, my time moves more and more quickly. But is it because I'm getting older or because my existence, in the grand scheme of the universe's, can be equated to the blink of a cosmic eye?

When I think about how long the sun has fused hydrogen into helium, when I think about how many times the Earth's core has spun, and when I think about how long ago the Big Bang occurred, my thus-far-all-too-brief-37-years-with-a-potential-for-80-plus-years-total is nothing. I wonder if we all lived as long as the stars, would we experience a slower, more peaceful time? Would we live more slowly and therefore savor every moment? Is it because we have such short lives that we do everything now, NOW, NOW! But then again,when I think about my life span relative to the existence of the planet Jupiter, or the Andromeda galaxy, or the universe as a whole, I'm frankly shocked that time isn't going by much, much faster.

When I think about cosmic time versus my time, I'm surprised my time isn't a bullet train, traveling from point A to point B, dragging me alongside, whisking me at breakneck speeds to my final destination while I simply try to hold on for dear life. Literally. As it is, I feel like I'm on an Amtrak, going pretty quickly with short delays (i.e. waiting in line at the grocery store) and fast stretches of track (i.e. watching my children play in the sun).

I'm sure the bullet train is soon to come.

This Blows

I hate being an adult, a responsible, grown-up who makes sensible, well-thought decisions.

It sucks donkey balls.

A while back, I lamented the fact that I asked for a washer and dryer for Christmas when, at the beginning of my marriage I distinctly remember stating that the giving of any appliance to any woman as a gift is a no-no tantamount to selling government secrets to the Evil Empire. But I asked for the washer and dryer, and I creamed the old set, and I smiled and jumped up and down, and was ecstatic. Happy.

Back in 2004 B.K. (Before Kids) I haughtily stated I have to scuba dive in Bonaire once a year or I'm just not right. Well, yeah, I know I'm not right in a general sense, but I lived for those six days each year when I could get on the reefs of Bonaire and float.

Not only have I not seen Bonaire in five years? I just voluntarily, without provocation, and of my own free will e-mailed the Ty-man the following:

I’m wondering if you and I can have a “stay”cation this year. As much as I want to go diving or go to the beach, we really can’t afford it. Plus? There is a lot of stuff that needs to be done around the house. For example, these wood floors really need to be waxed/buffed/whatever it is you do to hardwoods to make them look not so crappy. We need all the carpets cleaned, the garage cleaned out, yadda, yadda. Stuff like that. And if we could get the kids out of here for seven days, we could get it done. What do you think? Do you think your parents would go for it?

Seriously. That came out of me. The OMFGBBQ get me to the beach before someone gets skewered has been replaced with Sure. Whatever. We'll stay at home and clean the frakking house.

I don't understand it. I used to rail against people who got excited about cleaning the house. I would mumble under my breath about losers who asked for dishwashers for their birthday and then turned around and spent money on a couch instead of a trip to the beach. And now? I'm one of them. I'm one of those people. I shudder to consider that I've finally arrived. That I'm adult. That I'm looking forward to getting my house in order with nary a grain of sand or a drop of seawater in sight.

Somebody get over here and deprogram me. Quick. Because I'm obviously getting worse.

The Lamest Post In The History Of Blogging

OR

Where The Hell Did My Afternoon Go?

Me: Well, that one's done. Toss the book I was reading onto the floor next to the bed.

Ty-man: Watching you read books is like watching a biker guzzle a beer and crush the can on his forehead.

Me: Yup. Just without the belching.

How Not To Spend Your Wednesday

First? Don't go to bed at 9PM the night before. You just might miss an all-important e-mail reminding you to be on the high-risk perinatal ward at 10AM the next day for your second and final volunteer orientation. Because when you wake up at 7AM the next morning, and saunter downstairs 30 minutes later to feed kids and check your e-mail? You're going to be cussing. A lot. Because you have no babysitter and you haven't showered and you haven't eaten and you have no babysitter and you have to fight Atlanta traffic.

Did I mention that there's no babysitter?

So, your mom will graciously come over and take care of kid duty so that you can haul ass to the hospital. The next four hours will pass quietly with lots of uncomfortable, tired, bored pregnant women.

When you finally get into your car to go home? Your phone will ring and your mom will tell you that your youngest has green gunk pouring (yes, she will say pouring) out of his right eye. So, as you cruise out of the parking garage, you'll be on the phone with the pediatrician making an appointment for the afternoon giving you just enough time to drive home at 90 mph, stop off at Kroger for the all-important milk and peanut butter, throw the groceries into the fridge, grab the goopy-eyed kid, and toss him into the soccer-mom-mobile for a 10-minute drive to the doc.

And it's there you discover that he has pinkeye. Oh yeah, you heard me. Pinkeye, a.k.a. rampant eye crud that's going to travel through the five members of the family like a California wildfire.

Finally, it's off to the pharmacy for eye-drops when immediately afterward you will discover that a two-year-old can be really strong when presented with the possibility of having drops of liquid forcibly squeezed into his eyeballs. Yes, you'll be sporting bruises for two weeks.

And that, ladies and gents, is how you do not want to spend your Wednesday.

What? The Hell.

Last Wednesday, the HOA bully didn't attend our monthly meeting and the remaining four of us decided I would take him on. E-mail, face-to-face, phone, whatever. Anytime he became confrontational or overly emotional? I was on it. And I'm fine with that whole "sergeant-at-arms" thing because I'm absolutely tired of being treated like a second-class citizen when I've done nothing to deserve it. I even volunteered for the job.

We celebrated J-man's birthday on Saturday and as I was sweeping up the kitchen post-toddlers-with-lampshades-on-heads, I see this in my Inbox:

I understand each Director got a packet with information from DPM Wed night at the meeting which I could not attend. I would like to know why I wasn't told about this and why I have not received mine or someone who has it didn't tell me about it and make arrangements to get it to me. I want it.

I don't know. To me? That's confrontational. In my face. A smidge douchebaggy. And so I called him on it:

If you want an answer regarding your packet from me or anyone else on the Board, please change the tone of this e-mail as it is very confrontational and uncalled for.

And for the next 48 hours, I endured a never-ending diatribe of which the following is just a glimpse:

• You don't tell me to do anything at any time do you understand me.

• You are doing no more than trying to bait me into another confrontational e-mail and I will not play to YOUR CHILDISH antics.

• Your outlandish, derogatory, slanderous, cut throat and down right nasty and sarcastic e-mails towards me, and the cursing towards me, and me alone, have been sent to the other members of the Board.

• I feel that your demeanor, your constant harassment and baiting towards me, your sarcastic e-mails to start a constant e-mail flaming war towards me, is in no way a good thing for the other two Board members and I think you should resign and let someone who really cares about our community take your place.

• You need to resign from this HOA Board for your outlandish, child like antics.

• This constant harassment towards me has got to stop.

I. Swear. To. God.

Was I cussing at him? Showing up at his doorstep, taunting him with cruel words and lewd gestures? Was I running around the neighborhood, shouting The HOA VP is a total wanker!? Was I leaving flaming dog poo in the front seat of his car? Was I standing on a balcony, shouting Rise, my fellow bloggers, and fill his Inbox with Viagra spam! Mwhahahahahah!?

(Hrm. That last one isn't a bad idea.)

No, actually. For every e-mail I received from him over a 48 hour period (10 in all), every single response from me read as follows:

I will be glad to answer your question regarding your DPM packet if you will please rephrase the question in an non-confrontational and unemotional manner.

Cut throat? Slanderous? Childish? Harassment? Baiting? I should resign?

Seriously, people. I'm not making this up.

And on top of all of this, the HOA Treasurer (who just five days ago was completely behind me calling out the VP on his bullish antics) called the President and informed the President that I'm the one being childish and that the President needs to tell me to stop. Isn't that request right there rather, um, dare I say it...

Childish? (Not to mention passive-aggressive?)

I'm surrounded by infantile bullshit and I'm not even talking about the three well-behaved toddlers currently sleeping 10 feet away from me.

Please, all of you reading this, give me your thoughts. I'd appreciate it.

On Turning 2

It's a pretty big step, going from babyhood to toddlerhood. You've had to learn how to crawl, walk, run, smile, laugh, and eat Cheerios and strawberries and chocolate chip cookies. You've had to navigate siblings, car seats, colds, and pediatricians. And J-man? You've done it with style!



Happy 2nd birthday, little man! I love you!

Oh My God. I'm A Geek.

Sitting in the theater last night before the Star Trek movie (ZOMG!!!! GO SEE IT!!! NOW!!!)...

Ty: Do you think Star Trek fans are as excited about this movie as Star Wars fans were before Phantom Menace came out?

Me: But you're a Star Trek and Star Wars fan. Aren't you as excited?

Ty: Yeah, but Star Wars fans are so much more avid in their love of their movies. More so, I think, than Star Trek fans.

Me: But, what you're saying is that Star Wars fans are better than Star Trek fans. And that's just elitist.

Ty: No. But Star Wars fans are on a different plane than Star Trek fans.

Me: What about LOTR fans?

Ty: Well, that's a completely different subject. They're on a completely different plateau than sci-fi people. Kind of like you Dune geeks.

Me: HEY! HEY! Don't go there! Don't mesh me and my kind in with that LOTR ilk!

Ty: Well, you know what I mean. You guys are just different.

Me: You know, Dave turned his Little Dave graphic into Paul Muad'Dib and I had a total geek out on his blog the other day. I want a Little Heather Fremen!

Ty: Would you be that chick...

Me: NO! I so wouldn't be Chani. I'd be a Bene Gesserit. Reverend Mother. Definitely.

Ty: Would you have to be a concubine?

Me: Probably. Almost all Bene Gesserits were part of the Kwisatz Haderach breeding program. So, I most likely would have to go off to some remote planet and shag some obscure member of the Landsraad.

Ty: Yeah.

Me: But I am infertile, so I would probably not be a breeding Bene Gesserit. But then again, Reverend Mothers could control their bodies with a thought, so I could cure my own PCOS! Bonus!

Ty: Blink

Me: Oh my God. I'm such a geek.

Ty: Yes. Yes you are.

How To Make My Life Easier

I've thought about it. Long and hard. And I've figured out those things that will make my life easier. More livable, if you will.

Just down-right-happy-go-frakking-lucky.

A stainless steel kitchen!
And I don't just mean stainless steel appliances. Nay. I mean appliances, walls, counter tops, cabinets, floors, tables and chairs, everything, with a drain in the middle. Because at the end of the day I just want to hose it all down and go to bed.

Self-cleaning toilets!
Four of these. Throughout the house. The toilets, doof, not the coke-snorting ho:


Kids' clothes made of paper!
That way, at the end of the day, they just go in the incinerator.

The clothes, not the kids. But, of course, we could just not worry about clothes at all if we...

Live in a nudist colony!
To make it through this life, I have to do one load of laundry every day (wash, dry, put away), even when I'm sick. Because if I miss a day, the frakking clothes pile up and I find myself buried underneath undies, jeans, shirts, yadda, yadda. So I want to live in a nudist colony. No clothes? No laundry? No problem!

To get promoted from HOA Empress to HOA Goddess!
That way, all the other residents have to leave me food offerings. And I'll never again have to cook.

The invention of the politician incinerator!
Every time some idiot in Washington utters the word "bipartisan," he or she gets pitched to their death in an incinerator. Special elections will abound! Mwha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

And those piddling requests? Would make life just dandylicious. Care to add to the list? Go for it!

Open Letter 9

Dear Grocery Bagging Boy Who Is Supposed to Also Help Load My Groceries Into My Car:
Yeah, you. It's pouring rain outside, I have five huge cloth bags full to the brim with food (FULL, I tell you), and a fussy almost-two-year old who is screaming because I wouldn't let him sign his name on the credit card receipt.

Of course I want your assistance in the transferring of groceries from the cart to the car. And? When I unlock the car? And grab my kid to toss him into the car seat? And proceed to wrangle him into the five-point-NASCAR-certified-restraint-system? That's your cue to load it up. Not to stand there with your thumb up your ass and wait for me to come around to see if you're finished only to find that you're doing nothing except waiting for me to open the trunk. Oh, and? You're supposed to do the heavy-lifting while I watch from the driver's seat. Not you watch me, patiently waiting for the cart to be empty so that you can take as long as possible to mosey said empty cart back to the store thereby missing out on bagging the groceries of two other hapless customers.

Next time? Don't bother.

Love,
Frazzled, Damp Mom

Dear Purse Designers of the Universe and Greater 8th Dimension:
Not all of us SAHMs want purses that are:

- so large as to fit a wallet, iPhone, diaper kit, 9mm Glock, kitchen sink, and spare boyfriend.
- so shiny that the purse in effect becomes its own solar panel able to power a small one-bedroom apartment.
- so covered in buckles that you can loan out spares to most of the 9th battalion.
- so heavy that our shoulders instantly separate from our bodies in utter hopeless abandon.

Please, for the love of Kate Spade, just come up with a simple leather purse to hold a wallet, cell phone, sunglasses, Chapstick, and several Old Navy coupons.

That doesn't cost $500 or is covered in someone else's initials.

Much happiness,
Vera Bradley is Looking Better and Better Every Day

Dear HOA Vice President:
Yeah. That's right. I totally smacked your ass down yesterday. And when you drove by me and my kids while we were out for a walk? You wouldn't even look me in the eyes.

Who's da man?

Not. You.

Kisses and hugs,
Shit Ass Ho Motherfucker

Leap

I just stepped outside my shell. I absolutely hate, despise, loathe, conflict and I will hide away rather than face it.

And just now? I entered the fray. I knocked on Conflict's door and walked in without an invitation.

I told someone he's a bully. And told him he's an asshole. And I stepped outside my comfort zone and stood up for myself and others.

And I'm now waiting, edge of my seat, knees jiggling, nails bitten, for the shit to hit the fan.

And for the bully to come out swinging.

The Uterus is a Social Butterfly

I've decided to volunteer at Northside Hospital. I know, as if I don't already have tons of stuff to do and kids to wrangle love. For those of you who don't know, I was on home bed rest one month before the twins' birth. One word to describe that month?

Borgonizing.

Yep. Made that up. It's a combination of the words boring and agonizing because while you're bored out of your skull (I've cross-stitched every flat surface in the house and there's nothing else to do!!! And if I watch one more History channel special on the sinking of the Titanic I'm going to stab the TV with my scrapbook scissors!!!) you're also agonizing over the condition of you and your baby(ies) (Is my blood pressure going up?!? Has my cervix dilated any further?!? Did I just have a contraction?!?) The most exciting thing to happen during my month-long bed rest? Hurricane Katrina.

But, I was lucky. I got to chill at home, with my TV, my computer and wireless internet, my craft supplies, and my cats curled around my legs and feet. The women stuck in the High-Risk Perinatal Ward at Northside Hospital? Their lives suck. Luckily, there is a small group of volunteers called the Boredom Busters who just talk, listen, hang out, and get crafty with the ladies stuck on bed rest and I will now be part of this awesome group. Because who knew it? The uterus is a social organ.

You heard me. I found this out during my orientation. The uterus, like the heart and brain, is a social organ that responds to external emotional stimuli. If you're stressed out about being in the hospital for weeks and months on end? The pregnant uterus will begin contracting. If you're calm and chilling out with someone who gets what you're going through and has just offered to paint your toenails slut red? The pregnant uterus will remain still.

And if the husband/father-to-be forgets to bring your favorite rocky road ice cream to the hospital while you're lying in some damned-uncomfortable hospital bed with access to shitty cable television and every-two-hour blood pressure checks and the bitch nurse down the hall refuses to give you a catheter so you still have to waddle out of bed to take a leak trying like hell to beat peeing out all over your feet and floor and to top it all off the chick next door has wheelchair privileges and keeps coming over to brag about the roses her baby-daddy brought her last night? Well, then, your uterus just might reach out and choke him.

I'm just saying.