Anger-shopper

It's not often that I actually want to shop. For anything. I was never one of those women who relished the thought of a new wardrobe or had to freeze her credit cards in a block of ice to keep from overspending.

Don't get me wrong - I love shoes and purses, but I only buy them if I can't live without them AND they're on clearance. As for other stuff? I can almost always live without it.

Some women shop when they need a pick-me-up. It's like an anti-depressant for them. Me? I'm good with food. No need to get out of my pajamas when I can simply spoon-feed myself an entire jar of nutella or consume the occasional stick of butter dipped in sugar.

But lately... lately, I feel this pull towards the store. Any store, anywhere, that sells anything. It's weird and different and altogether exciting. I find myself surfing Amazon, e-bags, Overstock and countless other online shops (because again, I can stay in my pajamas). It doesn't stop there, though. IRL places like the Coach store call my name - I just want to go in and hug all those beautiful purses!

Another strange thing is happening with me lately, too, and I think the two may be connected. See, I'm usually a pretty laid back (or at least as laid back as a high maintenance girl can be) person. I've learned to breathe through my frustrations, vent in writing, call my friends to get things off my chest, and physically run to keep stress at bay.

Ever since Dorothy moved in, though, I've been on edge. It's mostly the gross-factor. I can handle gross in small doses, like at the park when some kid picks their nose and then wants to hold hands with my son, or if Monsoon crawls around on the floor and forgets to sanitize his hands before eating his chicken fingers, or even when the dog occasionally poops in the house.

The thing about Dorothy is, she's gross all the time, and I'm always here. I'm always thinking about where her crusty fingers have been before she rifled through that bag of pretzels (and then I end up throwing out the bag of pretzels). I'm constantly saying, "No thank you, I don't want to feel how cold your hands are" because you've just spent 40 minutes in the bathroom and not washed your hands before you came out (and then she goes ahead and swipes her nasty paws against my FACE so I can feel how cold she is in our 70 degree house).

I'm not depressed. I'm angry. And I want to shop. I think I'm an anger-shopper.

It's a good thing I like kids

I should hate my job. Any sane person would.

I get puked on, peed on, pooped on... regularly. In fact, I've had to come home and immediately take a shower 3 of the last 10 work-days because there was vomit on me. Today, someone coughed up my nose. Although I'm almost thankful for that, because if I get sick and can't breathe out of my nose, I can't smell the diaper stink when I change them.

So I say again: I should hate my job.

I miss Monsoon all day long. When I first went back to work, he told the husband that he wished he didn't even have a mommy. That's right. If I couldn't be here all the time, why bother being here at all? Oh, the guilt. He told me recently that he loves me "this much" (hands spread about 6 inches apart), but if I quit my job, he'd love me "this much" (arms open wide). I think part of it stems from knowing that I'm spending my days with other children instead of him. He's the jealous type.

I should hate my job more than I hate doing dishes.

Oddly, I don't hate my job. Don't get me wrong - I'd be "at-home" again if presented with the opportunity, but when I'm there, I feel like there's a definitive purpose for me. Also, as challenging as they are, I love the kids. Every single one of them. Even when I want to run screaming from the building (and it happens often) I know I'll still be smiling the next time I walk in and see their faces. I didn't realize how much I missed teaching until I got back into the swing of it again.

Not Me! Monday: lagging swine butt and pick-up-chicks

To participate in Not Me! Monday, hosted by Mckmama, click on the link because my computer won't allow me to copy the code for her button today for some weird reason.

I did NOT run an entire 5k on Saturday without walking, only to be 5 minutes slower than my mom who had swine flew earlier in the week. Nope! I'm also NOT still completely happy with my time of less than 37 minutes. I did NOT actually say it was fun, and am NOT looking forward to the next one in October.

I also did NOT get rope-burn in my groin area later that day. NOT at all! It was NOT from sneaking into an elementary playground with Monsoon, where I would NEVER act like a child on the equipment, totally NOT showing off my mad clumsy skillz on the rope climber.

I would also NEVER in a million years go to two pig roasts in one weekend and gain back every bit of the 2.5 pounds I lost earlier in the week. I am NOT into sabotaging myself. NOT me!

I did NOT Take Monsoon to a farm festival yesterday where he did NOT shock me by running around the chicken pen picking up chickens. I was NOT worried he would get flogged. Or chicken rabies. A piglet did NOT try to eat me. Another piglet did NOT sniff Monsoon's butt and Monsoon most certainly did NOT proclaim loudly, "The pigwet yikes my butt!!" I did NOT snort like a pigwet myself.

About the men's room

You may remember this post from a couple weeks ago when my sister and I took a little trip back in time. I might have mentioned the nice, airy outdoor venue in Cincy where it took place, but I'm dedicating an entire post to the... erm... facilities.

Despite our sneaky photag skills, we neglected to take any pictures of the lines to get into the women's restroom. Ugh, the lines! They wouldn't have even fit into one entire picture. The beer lines were at least 3 songs long, but still didn't compare to the wait to enter the ladies room.

Before I go any further, I'll tell you that my grandma (keep in mind I'm her favorite - suck it, others) once complained that, "Honey, you pee at the drop of a hat!" after being tortured by the demands of my mini-bladder on a road trip. That was even before old age and birthing a child. When I have to go, I. Have. To. Go. Period.


You can see where this is going, right? The men's line was shorter than the beer line, so we hopped in. Let me tell ya, it was almost worth standing in a puddle of urine that was the floor just to overhear the "conversations" going on in there. Lots of cursing and yelling and I kept waiting on a brawl to bust through the stall door as I hovered mere inches from certain doom (ie: a stopped-up, filled-to-brim toilet). Apparently though, that's just how men talk to each other! No "excuse me" or polite smiling, no stopping in front of the mirror to reapply make-up or check hair. Hell, I didn't see one of them even look at the sink or soap dispenser before shoving their way back out the door. Best conversation of the men's room, though?

Random guy, to my sister: "Here ya go!" as he cupped his hands near her knees.

My sister, in response: "A real gentleman would use his mouth."


Yep, that's my sister, folks. She can hang with the best of them. I was the one cowering behind her, strangling her shirt like a puppy trying to escape it's leash.


There was one other lady who followed our lead, but I'm pretty sure she didn't know what she was doing. I nearly fell into the nasty toilet when she started hollering, "I see penis!! I see penis!! *cackle cackle cackle*"

I'm going to miss THIS!?

So I wake up around 2 a.m. this morning with a sad sappy country song in my head. You know, the one that goes, "You're gonna miss this..." talking about missing the trials and tribulations of young kids once they're grown.

I don't know why I've got that song (the one bit of line that I know) running through my head and can't get back to sleep.

Then I get a good kick in the eye and realize Monsoon has crept in bed with us and is sleeping with his feet on my pillow. I turn him around, eye throbbing, all the while hearing, "You're gonna miss this...."

Ten minutes later, still trying to get that song out of my head and go back to sleep, Monsoon sits up and whines and I'm all, "Can you breath?!" because it sounds like he's having trouble and he has asthma so I'm freaking out until finally he gets out, "v-v-v-omiiiit."

"You're gonna miss this..."

Whew! He can breath. OH! We have to get out of bed! Quick, grab him, run (or stumble dazedly), don't knock his head- crap, sorry about that - into the hallway - "BLAGH" all over the carpet.

"You're gonna miss this..."

Scrubbing out smelly orange puke at 2:30 in the morning.

"You're gonna miss this...."

Monsoon telling me, "You're such a good Mommy." when I finally make it back to bed, and him patting my face in the dark, where I can just make out the tiny smile on his sweet little face.

I am gonna miss this. Is that weird?

(He was fine after that. I think it was a touch of food poisoning. Not from my cooking.)

Really? At a Garage Sale?

I haven't been "garage saling" in so long, I had forgotten how much fun it can be, especially with my sister. We had a wonderful morning hanging out, found many like-new child-entertainment-contraptions (a.k.a. toys) for cheap, and even came up with our very own list of "When is it ever okay?" inspired by the one and only DiPaola Momma of Chicken Nuggets of Wisdom and THIS particular post, which is humorous in a mind-boggling/cackle-and-snort kind of way.

When is it ever okay to display these items for sale in your garage? (and yes, we saw ALL of these things):

1. Underwear. No, not in the package.
2. A butcher knife. I might be concerned about children... and psychos.
3. Mouse traps. Rusty ones, at that, and a whole big box full of them.
4. Mostly-cloth baby-teether, used. So obviously used.
5. Deodorant. Trial size, not sealed.

It's not a long list, and I'm not sure if I'm more relieved or disappointed about that, but I'm looking forward to the next afternoon with my sistah.

What's the weirdest thing you've ever seen at a garage sale?

Who's afraid of the Big Bad....

....Piggy?

Monsoon was feeling cruddy yesterday after school, complaining of a headache and chills. By the time we got home, he had a slight fever and told me he needed a nap. A nap?! That's when I knew he was sick.

While he was napping, I sat down to check e-mails. My grandma (Nano) had sent an e-mail asking about Monsoon, so of course I, without thinking, e-mailed back about him sleeping and not feeling well. It took less than 5 minutes for a reply....

"Keep a close watch on *Monsoon* cause of this new flu going around, H1N1(swine) I heard in New York where a 15 month old died this morning, and 11 schools are closed there, and a Principal age 55 died this wk, you run a high fever with it, I'm sure you & your Mom know all the symptoms, Ky has 11 confirmed case's, where we go to church Day Care had one Swine case & the day care center was close for a wk, and we didn't have church couple service's. trust He gets to feeling better soon, I will sat a Pray for *Monsoon* right now. love, Nano."

Nano, I love you (and I'm not just saying that because I know you'll be reading this). I appreciate your prayers. I'll be e-mailing you in a few hours to assure you it's a simple ear infection (after we see Dr. Taco).

For those of you who have read my profile description and are asking, "Is this the one?" Yes, this is the grandmother I'm turning into. HFW seems to be having an equally traumatizing sensible issue with her equally hysterical sensible grandmother, so at least I know I'm not alone. Anyone else out there combating the crazy-worrisome-downer gene?

The real reason I haven't read Twilight

I am a book freak. Obsessions come easily to me. Harry Potter, for instance, was an addiction, the first 6 books being released before Monsoon came along (you are free to poke fun, but I still love those books). When the last book came out, I had to re-read all 6 books to refresh my memory and enjoy the 7th and last book to the fullest extent. Poor Monsoon... he was neglected for an entire week before the release and an entire weekend afterward. I mean neglected like I might have forgotten to take him home with me when I left my parents house one day. I just can't pick up another side-tracking habit right now... can't do that to the boy.

Flashback Fridays: Sitting In Pee

Scary Mommy is kicking off a new meme today: Flashback Fridays! Bring out those early-day posts or an old photo, and head over to Scary Mommy to participate and catch more flashbacks (plus, there's a giveaway for today's kickoff).

Random gross toilet pic I found... not actual assailant (I do not take pictures of toilets)

I sat in pee today.

Wish I could say it was Monsoon's, that he sprayed more than the toilet by accident. Or even that it was our pet who maybe made a mess on the couch. We don't have a pet. I would even rather it have been a Hubby's "revenge pee." Does that exist? I'm sure there is all kinds of revenge.. and pee.

And no, I didn't pee in my pants, although even THAT would have been better...

...than sitting down on what I thought was an old-yellow-from-age-spots-and-being-hammered-to-dimple-death-public-toilet seat. Instead, I sat (it was urgent, I was looking down under my glasses instead of through them) in pee. Someone else's pee. Someone else that I don't know's pee. There was stranger pee on my butt and thighs. It wasn't even cold yet. When I stood up, I couldn't even catch it all with toilet paper before it ran down my legs and got on my pants.

This. Was. Gross.

I used to squat, my grandmother's shrill voice ringing in my head from when I was four and couldn't even reach the seat without touching it, "Ssshhhhheeewwwwwwww, honey! Never sit. That's Nassssty!" as she held me up (no doubt straining herself) by the thighs, my arms wrapped around her neck.

Then I got pregnant, unable to squat and pee at the same time, and, for lack of my grandmother's strength, just gave up. It KILLED me to do it, but I had no choice. Then when Monsoon started going to the potty, he had to sit on it and I figured, what the hell. If he's sitting on it, I can, too.

I don't care what a pain those stupid disposable toilet seat covers are (or waste of trees). I will use them. I will carry them in my purse. I will keep them in my pockets. I will pack them with my luggage. I will USE them.

Stranger Pee, No More. And for heaven's sake, ladies: Wipe Your Own Pee!

(originally published 1-06-09

Recovering Germ-a-phobe, Interrupted

Hello, my name is Ryan Ashley, and I am a germ-a-phobe. It's true, a few years ago there weren't ten minutes in the day that went by without me washing or sanitizing my hands, or bleaching a counter top... wiping my face, arms and neck with antibacterial wipes...

Then Monsoon began to move around, showing signs of boyish grossness. He seemed to enjoy the feel of a public toilet seat and the taste of restaurant windows or yes, even the smooth metal of a drinking fountain basin on his tongue.

Clearly, one of us was headed for a severely damaged sense of sanity. It wasn't him. Some changes had to be made, and I decided to try being normal for a change. His disgusting endeavors were no less... well, disgusting, but fighting the urge to put him in a bubble and wash him down after every outing - however pressing those urges were - fighting them did bring a wisp of calm into our lives.

Granted, my version of normal cleanliness is somewhat skewed, and my husband did give me the "eye" when I brought out the scrubby brush for hand-washing purposes. Some of you on twitter might remember the bleach incident from a few weeks back, and despite my own warning to you all that it was a bad idea, I once again found myself spritzing the carpet this evening. In my defense, Monsoon had tracked soggy doggy poo inside.

The point here is, I am a reasonably intelligent woman. I understand - in my head - that the media is making a bigger deal about this flu virus (as they do in many many many cases, including every other week when our local news asks, "Is someone in your town infected with...?" right before a commercial) and I usually pay no attention. Or at least, I try really hard to not pay attention, because I KNOW it's over-sensationalism. Alas, for all my efforts at not freaking out, I'm afraid the beast is rearing it's antimicrobial head once again.

For the scoop on how to be a rational human being ('cause you sure won't get that here) see this very important and informative post from HFW. I highly recommend it.

TAT: The Sniffer

Tova Darling's Totally Awkward Tuesday is here again, which means you all can laugh at my ever-expanding moments of awkwardness. Yeah, I know - every day around here is Tuesday. Be sure to look up some of the other awkwardness on the blogosphere, linked up to TOVA.

***

My dear husband had some books to return to his college bookstore last week, and so decided to take Monsoon along for some boys only QT (quality time). As they were standing in line, Hubby was zoning out a bit, as he tends to do in boring long lines, but he knew our boy was right there within arms length and not making a huge racket, so all was well.

Then the line moved forward a step and he happened to look down just as Monsoon approached the lady in front of them. She was "large. Very large. With a large, large behind," according to my husband. Monsoon stuck his head forward, creeped up to her very large behind... and proceeded to sniff.

I don't know if anyone else noticed (although I would think someone would had to have gotten quite a kick out of it), but Hubby snatched him up before he could do anything else to the woman (like what? I don't know - tell her how she smells, maybe) and did the ole ground-stare thing until his turn at the counter came around.

*Keep in mind that 1. sniffing runs in his blood - a childhood story for another post; and 2. we recently added a puppy to our family. *

Red Eye

Visit Tova Darling for more Totally Awkward Tuesdays!

Two Scenarios Make for an Unfortunate Meeting:

Scenario 1. I have allergies. Back in the Fall, I thought I had pink eye (and all sorts of other things, stemming from two whole other scenarios, such as my son going to preschool and me being a hypochondriac). I didn't, turns out, after using up two bottles of eye drops which I am apparently allergic to. But anywho, I've been walking around looking like I have pink eye ever since - sometimes it's not so bad, sometimes (because it's allergy related) I look like I should be hospitalized.

Scenario 2. I'm taking a class at a local college, mostly for fun, but my professor seems to think I am an idiot. He's always making eye contact with me, which I'm used to from any speaker since I'm a suck-up good listener, but this is different. It's like he's making sure I've got it. Then he always comes over and touches my shoulder until I look up at him, then he reexplains everything, nodding and giving me "question eyes." And it's not one of those creepy-old-guy-wants-to-touch-me-because-I'm-oh-so-hot deals at all. It's just like he thinks I'm stupid.

Last week, it hits me. Like a cartoon piano from a brownstone, it hits me. He thinks I'm high.

The Lost Cookie

It's time for another review of Monday night's group therapy work-out with the grandmas.

This session went better than last week's, by which I mean there was no passing out/ throwing up feeling. Yay! I'll admit, I ate healthy stuff (mostly) all week, and it seemed to pay off. But the agony of going without sugar (okay, not totally without, but cutting back is hard!) was catching up to my mental health by the time I got in the car to go home.

That's when it happened. I remembered the cookie. The cookie I bought for Monsoon when we went to the mall last week. The one he only ate half of before giving it back to me. The one I put back in the wrapper and shoved in my purse, thinking he'd want it back later. The same cookie that fell out of my purse later that day in the car and I was too lazy/ cold to take two seconds and pick it up off the floorboard. The very cookie that smelled soooo good and looked sooo yummy with all the m&m's baked into it. Yes. That cookie.

Fast forward back to the end of "therapy": everyone else left, and I found myself knee-deep in paper wrappers, scrounging for the lost cookie. There were french fries, some ketchup, even a pickle on that floor. And an apple - no idea how that got there. But I found the cookie. It was still covered by it's wrapper, still coated with colorful candy, and hard as a rock from the freezing temperature. It nearly broke my tooth...

Yeah, I tried to eat it. Bluchk! Totally not worth it. I spit it back out and took a moment to evaluate my actions. I think I'm sick. I need baked goods. It must be a disease, the inability to go without.

What A Louse!

Spent all day yesterday being thankful we didn't get lice. Our friend's kid wasn't so lucky - found the buggers yesterday and immediately sent us a heads-up message. They don't know where she got them; no one gave them a shout or a warning or a "hey my kid has lice and was playing with your kid yesterday" call. I say, how unbelievably indecent!

You know, there are gift baskets for nearly everything nowadays; birthdays, showers, new jobs, graduations, celebrations of any kind. Where is the basket that says, "I'm sorry my child gave your child lice."? There should be one of those!

The Louse Basket:

• 2 water spray bottles, one each for diluting essential oils
• a vile of tea tree oil, the smell of which tends to deter lice
• vile of lavender oil, less effective deterrent, but relaxing to smell and spray on bed/pillow
• tea tree shampoo, again, keeping those pesky bugs away
• a box or two of rid with those little nit combs (ick!), heaven forbid you have to use it twice
• extra vacuum bags, because you'll have to sweep EVERYTHING over and over again
• a jug each of laundry detergent and softener, maybe in a nice lavender scent
• gourmet coffee, you might be up for a looooong while cleaning this mess up
• pedometer, so you can at least get some comfort out of all the extra work you have to do
• 2 CD's, pump-it-up version to keep you going; soothing music to help you relax later
• box of tissues, for the tears your child will shed while you rip the suckers out of his head
• plastic bags and duct tape, you'll have to smother poor Teddy for a few days.
• Ear plugs, in case your child needs Teddy to sleep.

and finally, the most important item in this basket, topped only by your sanity, which you may never recover:

• Mint Milano Cookies. One box for each person in your household.

Aaahhhh, all is right with the world once more.

I understand that it's embarrassing. Lice. Eewww... the word sends chills down my spine. But if you're too cowardly to make the call and find out later that your child's best friend got lice, too... Well, then you need to send The Louse Basket. Or maybe you could call it the "I'm A Louse Basket."