I filled up my car with gas this weekend. By car, I mean enormous soccer-mom-SUV. So, I was minding my own business, pumping gas, playing peek-a-boo with my daughter through the window, and I was suddenly attacked by Mrs. Green. If you have not come across Mrs. Green, she is a well-intentioned woman that drives a matchbox car, carries reusable grocery bags everywhere, and is a recycling nazi. Mrs. Green thought it would be helpful to point out what kind of mileage my car gets and how I am hurting my wallet and the environment by driving an SUV.
"Wow, you must pay a fortune in gas!" she exclaimed, looking horrified.
Actually, between my husband and I, we pay less than $200/month for gas, thank you very much. Our gas budget has gone up in recent months, but I'd say we're still doing okay.
"You'd be better off with a car or hybrid" she helpfully informed me.
I happen to like The Beast that I drive. It's comfortable, it fits in as many carseats as I need, the dogs can ride in the back, and I can run just about anyone off the road. I'd love it even more if it was a hybrid, but as of now, Nissan and I don't see eye-to-eye on that matter.
Mrs. Green did to me what I do to others in the grocery store: Judge. I guess I got my weekly dose of Karma.
Don't judge me by my SUV. Judge me by the cloth diapers in my diaper bag. Or by my compost bin. Or by my clothesline. As Dr. Evil once said, "I'm hip, I'm with it." He wasn't referring to living green, but I like quoting Dr. Evil whenever possible, so it will have to do. Just as a morning workout cancels out ALL calories throughout the day, my other green habits cancel out The Beast. Or at least that is what I tell myself.
Mrs. Green, wherever you are, I appreciate your motives, but until you want to hand me the keys to a hybrid SUV that can fit 3-4 carseats and my dogs, please keep your comments to yourself. Even I don't make comments about my grocery store victims.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Marriage
I think I just realized about 37 minutes ago that Chris and I are very different and that's an okay thing. I mean, two of me would be hell. No one could survive that. What brought this realization you ask? Golf. Yes, golf.
Chris likes to golf on the weekends. In my pregnant, over-reacting state, I take this as "I really can't stand to be around you all weekend long so I am going to go drink beer and golf instead." Now, I do realize that this is NOT true, I just tend to react before thinking. So, I put my guard up, pout, and become even more emotional than usual-something that yesterday I would have told you wasn't possible. We tip-toed around each other last night and this morning, but finally had The Discussion during C's lunch break.
I see him golfing as wanting to golf rather than spend time with Alexa and I (can you really blame the guy?). Really, he just likes to golf for a few hours. I would probably do the same thing if I liked golf. So, when we can some day afford to buy another horse, I will probably be the one escaping for a few hours. Until that day, Chris will golf and Alexa and I will feed the ducks and dream about horses.
I also feel guilty spending "extra" money, even if it's on something we need (sheets, for example). I think that guilt came along at about 12:35am on July 28. Somehow, becoming a mom changed my spending. Yes, I'm still the impulse shopper that salesmen prey upon, but my impulse buys tend to be splurges for Alexa or for the house, not for me. But, for the most part, the guilt keeps my spending in check. I'll keep my $50 hair cuts (which I obviously don't get every week, or even every other week) and Chris can keep his $40 golf games.
Will I ever stop taking things, such as golfing, personally? No. Well, maybe. I guess we'll find out when I'm not a bundle of pregnancy hormones. Will I make an effort? Yes. No maybes, yes. I will make an effort. I will realize that Chris and I are different. I will realize that just because he wants to do something he enjoys, it doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy his time with his family. Blowing the cotton out of the yard he might not enjoy, but watching Alex shriek in delight when he pretends to get blown away he does enjoy. And as long as we're both enjoying something, golf, horses, ducks, or haircuts, we'll be fine. After all, two of me really would be hell.
Chris likes to golf on the weekends. In my pregnant, over-reacting state, I take this as "I really can't stand to be around you all weekend long so I am going to go drink beer and golf instead." Now, I do realize that this is NOT true, I just tend to react before thinking. So, I put my guard up, pout, and become even more emotional than usual-something that yesterday I would have told you wasn't possible. We tip-toed around each other last night and this morning, but finally had The Discussion during C's lunch break.
I see him golfing as wanting to golf rather than spend time with Alexa and I (can you really blame the guy?). Really, he just likes to golf for a few hours. I would probably do the same thing if I liked golf. So, when we can some day afford to buy another horse, I will probably be the one escaping for a few hours. Until that day, Chris will golf and Alexa and I will feed the ducks and dream about horses.
I also feel guilty spending "extra" money, even if it's on something we need (sheets, for example). I think that guilt came along at about 12:35am on July 28. Somehow, becoming a mom changed my spending. Yes, I'm still the impulse shopper that salesmen prey upon, but my impulse buys tend to be splurges for Alexa or for the house, not for me. But, for the most part, the guilt keeps my spending in check. I'll keep my $50 hair cuts (which I obviously don't get every week, or even every other week) and Chris can keep his $40 golf games.
Will I ever stop taking things, such as golfing, personally? No. Well, maybe. I guess we'll find out when I'm not a bundle of pregnancy hormones. Will I make an effort? Yes. No maybes, yes. I will make an effort. I will realize that Chris and I are different. I will realize that just because he wants to do something he enjoys, it doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy his time with his family. Blowing the cotton out of the yard he might not enjoy, but watching Alex shriek in delight when he pretends to get blown away he does enjoy. And as long as we're both enjoying something, golf, horses, ducks, or haircuts, we'll be fine. After all, two of me really would be hell.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Re-negotiating my contract.
It has come to light that Chris has quite a good job. They've bought him a new phone and laptop and all of his "meetings" seem to happen at the golf course or the bar. His office is close to home (but not so close that he's within tantrum-range), his cubicle is air-conditioned, and there are people over the age of five to talk to during the day. Not a bad gig, in my opinion. Not to mention the regular I-Don't-Work-At-Home stuff: lunches that don't involve leftovers, lunch-hour gym trips, and a regular paycheck.
Meanwhile, I talk in mainly toddler-ese, change diapers, and regularly climb the mountain of laundry. My lunch hour consists of doing dishes and eating whatever leftovers (many times the crust of a PB&J) can be found. I think I'll stick with my job though. I get to throw parties over pee-peeing in the potty, meet my co-workers around the kiddie pool, and my paycheck might not be regular, but it gets delivered with a hug and sloppy kiss. Instead of a raise, I get to watch Alexa learn new things-such as how to most effectively throw a tantrum. I'd take a two-year-old tantrum over a relaxing margarita at the bar anyday. After all, my name is Mommy.
Meanwhile, I talk in mainly toddler-ese, change diapers, and regularly climb the mountain of laundry. My lunch hour consists of doing dishes and eating whatever leftovers (many times the crust of a PB&J) can be found. I think I'll stick with my job though. I get to throw parties over pee-peeing in the potty, meet my co-workers around the kiddie pool, and my paycheck might not be regular, but it gets delivered with a hug and sloppy kiss. Instead of a raise, I get to watch Alexa learn new things-such as how to most effectively throw a tantrum. I'd take a two-year-old tantrum over a relaxing margarita at the bar anyday. After all, my name is Mommy.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Appendicitis, Kidney Stones, and Gang Fights
This was supposed to be an Alex-and-Mommy week. We had all sorts of fun plans: Toddler Time at the library, picnic at the park, dog walks, etc. We made it through one morning of our Alex-and-Mommy week before things fell apart. At least it was a fun morning though, right?
Since our fun-filled Tuesday morning, Alexa has been left to wake up to someone that is most definitely not mommy or daddy, been to two hospitals, witnessed gang activity, and sat in many waiting rooms. And, although she might not agree, she got the good end of the deal.
Tuesday during nap time I was doing all those domestic-goddess-type-activities when I was hit with a huge wave of pain. I half-crawled back to bed before I realized that our phone is now across the room from our bed. So I was stuck laying in bed with no phone, trying not to throw up. I seriously considered yelling until Alex woke up from her nap so she could bring me the phone.
A few phone calls later and I was on the way to my OB's office, leaving Alexa with a friend. Another doctor in the office examined me and decided I needed an ultrasound to rule out appendicitis. To be seen in a timely matter, I was sent to the smaller hospital's ER. A quick stop at home to pick up Alexa and we were off once again. Our wait-time was approximately five minutes; it was a good start. Unfortunately, our luck ended there. The ONE ultrasound machine was broken.
Chris and Alexa headed home to pack a bag and have a snack and I was sent BACK to the other hospital. In an ambulance. Overkill? Yes. No more waiting rooms? Yes. ICU/Trauma Unit? Yes. Hospital on lockdown thanks to gang gunfights? Yes. Super fun? Yes.
So there I lay, in the Trauma Unit, listening to doctors shouting orders for emergency surgery for the shooting victims. Two hours later I finally got in to the ultrasound. Of course, seeing how awesome my day was going, the ultrasound would turn out to be totally inconclusive. I don't think the surly tech even found my appendix. The Trauma doctor and surgeon argued over whether or not to cut me open anyway while I begged for food. A quick call to the OB and everyone had finally agreed: Send me home with no diagnosis but still in one piece.
Yesterday I finally got to see my own OB, the fabulous Dr. Jacobs. He decided that since my appendix is apparently MIA, it must be my kidney. I attempted to jump off the table when he hammered on my back, which also probably pointed him in the direction of "kidney issues." This would make a bit more sense, seeing as how my older sisters both have had major kidney stone problems. He looked up the results of the urinary analysis. Oh, wait, he DIDN'T see any results, seeing as how the first hospital never ordered a UA and the second hospital assumed they had. You'd think that'd be a pretty easy test to run. I guess I'm not a doctor though.
Our last stop on the Disaster Journey was the lab for a UA. Still haven't heard the results. And, at this point, I can't say I really care. All I care is that I'm sitting on the couch, snuggling with Alexa. I have laundry piled up, a dishwasher to unload, and the living room resembles a disaster area, but here I sit, watching Handy Manny.
Since our fun-filled Tuesday morning, Alexa has been left to wake up to someone that is most definitely not mommy or daddy, been to two hospitals, witnessed gang activity, and sat in many waiting rooms. And, although she might not agree, she got the good end of the deal.
Tuesday during nap time I was doing all those domestic-goddess-type-activities when I was hit with a huge wave of pain. I half-crawled back to bed before I realized that our phone is now across the room from our bed. So I was stuck laying in bed with no phone, trying not to throw up. I seriously considered yelling until Alex woke up from her nap so she could bring me the phone.
A few phone calls later and I was on the way to my OB's office, leaving Alexa with a friend. Another doctor in the office examined me and decided I needed an ultrasound to rule out appendicitis. To be seen in a timely matter, I was sent to the smaller hospital's ER. A quick stop at home to pick up Alexa and we were off once again. Our wait-time was approximately five minutes; it was a good start. Unfortunately, our luck ended there. The ONE ultrasound machine was broken.
Chris and Alexa headed home to pack a bag and have a snack and I was sent BACK to the other hospital. In an ambulance. Overkill? Yes. No more waiting rooms? Yes. ICU/Trauma Unit? Yes. Hospital on lockdown thanks to gang gunfights? Yes. Super fun? Yes.
So there I lay, in the Trauma Unit, listening to doctors shouting orders for emergency surgery for the shooting victims. Two hours later I finally got in to the ultrasound. Of course, seeing how awesome my day was going, the ultrasound would turn out to be totally inconclusive. I don't think the surly tech even found my appendix. The Trauma doctor and surgeon argued over whether or not to cut me open anyway while I begged for food. A quick call to the OB and everyone had finally agreed: Send me home with no diagnosis but still in one piece.
Yesterday I finally got to see my own OB, the fabulous Dr. Jacobs. He decided that since my appendix is apparently MIA, it must be my kidney. I attempted to jump off the table when he hammered on my back, which also probably pointed him in the direction of "kidney issues." This would make a bit more sense, seeing as how my older sisters both have had major kidney stone problems. He looked up the results of the urinary analysis. Oh, wait, he DIDN'T see any results, seeing as how the first hospital never ordered a UA and the second hospital assumed they had. You'd think that'd be a pretty easy test to run. I guess I'm not a doctor though.
Our last stop on the Disaster Journey was the lab for a UA. Still haven't heard the results. And, at this point, I can't say I really care. All I care is that I'm sitting on the couch, snuggling with Alexa. I have laundry piled up, a dishwasher to unload, and the living room resembles a disaster area, but here I sit, watching Handy Manny.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
The Mommy 'Do
Somehow, most moms end up with the same hairstyle. Medium-shortish. Usually brown or another boring natural shade. Quick to dry. Still can be put up when needed. Easy. BORING.
What does my hair look like? Medium-shortish. Brown.
I attempted to get the "in style" bangs to at least mask the mommy 'do. It worked for a while, but, like trees, hair grows. I haven't seen my stylist since...possibly February? Sad. Very sad. Needless to say, I'm overdue. Luckily, Karen will be put to work tomorrow at 12:45pm. Little does she know that, as of now, I plan on marching in and saying "do what you want" and letting her go to work. She hates me for it, and I love her for it.
Do I let it grow and just get a trim? Or do I get a few inches taken off and be brave? This is a momentous decision. The pressure is unbearable. Do I go with the theory that you have more options with longer hair? Or accept the fact that short hair dries quickly and is lighter for summer.
Chris is no help. "I like it all ways" is his stock hair-question answer. Smart man. Do I believe him? No. Will that effect (affect?) my decision? No.
I guess Karen is my only hope. I'm guessing I'll have two more chances to get my hair done before BBP shows up. She has two chances to make me happy. Her success rate is 100% so I suppose I'm in good hands. Now, what will she choose? I guess, with BP as an accessory (yes, I just called my child an accessory, I carry her more than a purse), I'm doomed to have a mommy 'do forever. I might as well just accept my fate.
What does my hair look like? Medium-shortish. Brown.
I attempted to get the "in style" bangs to at least mask the mommy 'do. It worked for a while, but, like trees, hair grows. I haven't seen my stylist since...possibly February? Sad. Very sad. Needless to say, I'm overdue. Luckily, Karen will be put to work tomorrow at 12:45pm. Little does she know that, as of now, I plan on marching in and saying "do what you want" and letting her go to work. She hates me for it, and I love her for it.
Do I let it grow and just get a trim? Or do I get a few inches taken off and be brave? This is a momentous decision. The pressure is unbearable. Do I go with the theory that you have more options with longer hair? Or accept the fact that short hair dries quickly and is lighter for summer.
Chris is no help. "I like it all ways" is his stock hair-question answer. Smart man. Do I believe him? No. Will that effect (affect?) my decision? No.
I guess Karen is my only hope. I'm guessing I'll have two more chances to get my hair done before BBP shows up. She has two chances to make me happy. Her success rate is 100% so I suppose I'm in good hands. Now, what will she choose? I guess, with BP as an accessory (yes, I just called my child an accessory, I carry her more than a purse), I'm doomed to have a mommy 'do forever. I might as well just accept my fate.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Are people really this stupid?
I thought this only happened to Britney Spears.
The crappy neighbor backed into the nice neighbor's son's friend's car. He got out, looked at the (obvious) damage, and got back in and drove away. Did he really think they wouldn't notice a huge dent in the hood of the car? Did he really think that, in the middle of the morning in the middle of our neighborhood, no one saw?
Now, if it was MY car he backed into, I would have called the police. I tend to be a bit bitchier than most, especially in my present knocked-up state, but seriously. Come on. At least leave a note with your name and number. I understand about being in a hurry, hence backing into a BRIGHT RED car, but it takes about 13 seconds to jot down your number and leave it on the windshield. Trust me, I know. I left my number on my husband's car after I met him at the gym.
To add to the drama, when the owner of the car, his dad, and our neighbor's son knocked on the door, the people refused to come outside or give them the guy's phone number. Now, at this point, if I hadn't already called the police, I would have right then, on their porch. And I would have called the home-owners, seeing as how the house is rented by about 15 people.
I guess some people, possibly even most people, are nicer than me. Now I'll just sit back, relax, and wait for the drama to unfold when the driver of the Jeep gets home.
The crappy neighbor backed into the nice neighbor's son's friend's car. He got out, looked at the (obvious) damage, and got back in and drove away. Did he really think they wouldn't notice a huge dent in the hood of the car? Did he really think that, in the middle of the morning in the middle of our neighborhood, no one saw?
Now, if it was MY car he backed into, I would have called the police. I tend to be a bit bitchier than most, especially in my present knocked-up state, but seriously. Come on. At least leave a note with your name and number. I understand about being in a hurry, hence backing into a BRIGHT RED car, but it takes about 13 seconds to jot down your number and leave it on the windshield. Trust me, I know. I left my number on my husband's car after I met him at the gym.
To add to the drama, when the owner of the car, his dad, and our neighbor's son knocked on the door, the people refused to come outside or give them the guy's phone number. Now, at this point, if I hadn't already called the police, I would have right then, on their porch. And I would have called the home-owners, seeing as how the house is rented by about 15 people.
I guess some people, possibly even most people, are nicer than me. Now I'll just sit back, relax, and wait for the drama to unfold when the driver of the Jeep gets home.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Someone hand me the chainsaw.
As I type, the tree guys are busy chopping down trees in my yard. Yes, I am a tree killer. And I'm having a really hard time not going out there to ask if they can kill off a few others for me. Our yard is in total recovery mode.
FYI: Trees grow.
This is a fact that the old owner's never knew. They planned the landscaping around the cute little baby trees that they brought home from the nursery. Now we have trees planted 3 feet apart, shrubs about 6 inches apart, and flowers fighting for space. Not the best design in the world.
To attempt to regain control over the backyard, we are having two mid-size trees removed, one little tree removed, and the neighbor's two trees trimmed before they completely take out our fence. Next up is sod over the little tree's grave, removing the shrubs in the corner to make room for our (I really do mean Alex's) new playhouse, and attempting to figure out what to do with the patio. The patio is a story for another day. It's also an expense for another day.
Someone please come remove my checkbook from my hand and remind me that it's one project at a time. And right now it's ice cream cone project time.
FYI: Trees grow.
This is a fact that the old owner's never knew. They planned the landscaping around the cute little baby trees that they brought home from the nursery. Now we have trees planted 3 feet apart, shrubs about 6 inches apart, and flowers fighting for space. Not the best design in the world.
To attempt to regain control over the backyard, we are having two mid-size trees removed, one little tree removed, and the neighbor's two trees trimmed before they completely take out our fence. Next up is sod over the little tree's grave, removing the shrubs in the corner to make room for our (I really do mean Alex's) new playhouse, and attempting to figure out what to do with the patio. The patio is a story for another day. It's also an expense for another day.
Someone please come remove my checkbook from my hand and remind me that it's one project at a time. And right now it's ice cream cone project time.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Proud Grandma
I am now a proud grandma. How, you ask, is this possible at the ripe old age of 24? It is possible due to the fact that my husband had weekend coverage at work.
Chris went to the office around 7am on Saturday to get it out of the way. Babypants and I went grocery shopping at about 8am on Saturday to get it out of the way. We were wandering through the pet aisles looking for a pinch collar in a desperate attempt to get Linus to behave on walks when we found ourselves in a sea of blue. The Fish Aisle. Alexa, of course, went nuts. Figuring that I should at least "ask" Chris before purchasing a fish, I whipped out my cell phone. When he agreed to the fish, I don't think he pictured quite what I did. Instead of one boring beta fish and a little tank, we walked out with TEN fish, a ten gallon tank, rocks, coral, food, filter, net, and one deliriously happy one year old.
At one point we were up to eleven fish (apparently getting an algae-eater-fish-guy is a good thing). Now we have eight. I think. Maybe only seven. And now that daycare boy stuck his entire arm in there and tried to catch one, I'm thinking our number might be even lower. I feel like Darla, The Fish Killer, from Finding Nemo. The fish that have survived the first few days are already plotting their escape. Unfortunately, all they will find out the window is the dirty fronch porch and most likely the neighbor's cat. As for the arm-dunker, you will be happy to know that I am already planning a trip to PetCo tonight to get a lid for the tank. I am sure the fish will be grateful.
Chris went to the office around 7am on Saturday to get it out of the way. Babypants and I went grocery shopping at about 8am on Saturday to get it out of the way. We were wandering through the pet aisles looking for a pinch collar in a desperate attempt to get Linus to behave on walks when we found ourselves in a sea of blue. The Fish Aisle. Alexa, of course, went nuts. Figuring that I should at least "ask" Chris before purchasing a fish, I whipped out my cell phone. When he agreed to the fish, I don't think he pictured quite what I did. Instead of one boring beta fish and a little tank, we walked out with TEN fish, a ten gallon tank, rocks, coral, food, filter, net, and one deliriously happy one year old.
At one point we were up to eleven fish (apparently getting an algae-eater-fish-guy is a good thing). Now we have eight. I think. Maybe only seven. And now that daycare boy stuck his entire arm in there and tried to catch one, I'm thinking our number might be even lower. I feel like Darla, The Fish Killer, from Finding Nemo. The fish that have survived the first few days are already plotting their escape. Unfortunately, all they will find out the window is the dirty fronch porch and most likely the neighbor's cat. As for the arm-dunker, you will be happy to know that I am already planning a trip to PetCo tonight to get a lid for the tank. I am sure the fish will be grateful.
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