Jan 27, 2011

the one in which I whine and then ask you for a favor

Husband has this new thing where he WANTS me to hit the garbage cans when I back out the van in the morning. He's been taking the garbage and recycle cans and spacing them a good 3 feet apart from each other in the street near the end of our driveway, leaving me a tiny crack to back through.

Two absolute truths Husband should know, seeing as we've been married for about 5 billion years, is:

#1- I have no depth perception.  It wasn't that great before the Glaucoma, and now, non-existant.  (This I have proven by the numerous times I've hit our wall when pulling the van into the garage.  Dents totally count as proof.)

#2- A chimpanzee could drive a car backwards better than I could.  I just don't posses that particular driving skill.  (That and parallel parking.  Which requires backing AND depth perception, so that's probably why.  Also I was too lazy to ever actually learn how.)

I think it's totally rude that Husband is setting me up like this.  I mean, what - does he think I want to hit the garbage can and send our trash flying all over the road?  DOES HE?  It sure seems like that.

I'm running off of 2.6 hours of sleep this morning.  It's been a "strap yourself to your computer" week.  Which isn't really that unlike most other weeks, except that on most other weeks I actually get more than 2.6 hours of sleep at night.  (I usually get more like 5.6 hours.)

Also, Number Four is sick.  Breathing problems, fever AND puke.  Because why not throw in puke?  It sounds like a perfectly great symptom to just randomly toss in with a cold.  She's been whining and screaming non-stop for days.  So I guess I should have seen the actual sickness coming.  But still.  Not cool.

The puking started about 75 minutes into my 2.6 hours of sleep.  She was screaming, "MOMMEEEE MOMMEEEE!!!!"  through the baby monitor.  So I rolled over, elbowed Husband and said, "She's calling for you."

Then I guess she threw up again a little bit after that.  But I kind of wonder if it's because Husband's first reaction was, "Hey, she still has a fever, let's give her more Ibuprofen, but this time on a completely empty stomach!"

Actually, his first reaction was, "Hey Melissa, wake up, Number Four puked and her bed's a mess."  But yeah, 75 minutes of sleep.  There was no way I was getting out of bed to clean up puke.  Now, if he had said, "Number Four is dying and needs CPR!"  I might have thought about getting up.

After I dropped the kids off at school I had to stop at the grocery store and grab some Sprite and crackers.  Number Four had no shoes.  And also, I found that people are whole lot less friendly when you look like a greasy-haired psychopath - which is usually the look I'm sporting when I've only gotten a couple hours of sleep.  And did you know it took every ounce of will power in existence to not empty the store's shelves of all chocolate products to take home with me?  Because it did.

So yeah, back to the "strapping myself to my computer" thing.

I have a magazine to wrap up this weekend, but (along with about 50 other things) I'm lacking a good "Potty Talk" story.  So, if you really love me (which you really REALLY should)  find me a good potty themed blog post and email me the link:

melissabastow @ hotmail . com

And I don't even care if you're the one that wrote it, so it's not like you had to even look that hard.

Really.

Anything potty themed.

Just imagine me, a picture of sleep-deprived parenthood washing puke filled sheets and holding my whiny 2 year old while we watch Strawberry Shortcake.  Or, if that doesn't properly motivate you; imagine me, a picture of greasy-haired emotional instability bordering on raging psychopathic tendencies.  Yeah, that should scare you into doing it.

Oh, and thanks.  (I mean it.) 

Jan 25, 2011

bangs and girth

Sometimes I have to let out a loud, "buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh," and then shoot puffs of breath up at my forehead to blow my bangs around for awhile.

I mean, what else is there to do?  Really?  Life is so dull these days, I have absolutely nothing on my to-do list and I've already managed to scratch my butt in sufficient amounts.  I wish there was a toilet to clean or something.

Ok, no. 

Trust me - I have PLENTY to do.  I hardly even ever have time to scratch my butt.  In fact, if I had more to do I would probably just lapse into a catatonic state do to overwhelmedness.

Maybe the bang puffing is like mini-catatonic-ness.

Probably.

Makes sense.

And in other news...

Last Christmas (you know, like a month ago) I got one of those pedaling things that you put under your desk so that you can be a dork and work out while actually working.  Except that my knees hit the slidey keyboard  ledge each time I pedal.  So I have to slump really low in my chair, which isn't really conducive to major work getting done.  And I mostly end up puffing my bangs while I pedal instead.

Also for this past Christmas my kids gave me the best gift they could think of: ankle weights.  Nothing says love like a pair of ankle weights. 

Actually I think it more says, "Hey mom, we think you're fat, why don't you do something about it already?!"

So I've been wearing ankle weights a lot these days.  Like all day.  Because I figure if running up and down the stairs 50 times a day wasn't enough to control my girth, then ankle weights SURELY will make the difference.

Opie's bus was like 5 minutes earlier than usual yesterday.  And I was still two blocks away.  Fine, a block and 3/4 away.  And if you're not at the bus stop they take your kid back to school.  So I had to run.  Pushing a stroller, with still-damp-shower-hair in the freezing cold, wearing ankle weights.

A few more days like that and my girth is going to be pulling a serious vanishing act.

Maybe those ankle weights were a good idea after all.

Also, I should probably cut my bangs.  Maybe I'd get more done....

Jan 21, 2011

knock, knock - it's your friendly neighborhood door-to-door salesman!

The other evening we had a Kirby vacuum salesman knock on our door.  He offered to shampoo an entire room of carpet for FREE.  So, of course, I let him in.  RIGHT AWAY.  (Have you seen my carpet lately? ick.)

But Husband got all worried.  He started making rogue phonecalls to  the neighbors and put his baseball bat in the hall closet.  You know, just in case the Kirby vacuum salesman turned out to be a raging psychotic killer or something.

And you thought I was the paranoid one.

After he decided that the guy was a real salesman and not a raging murderer, Husband started feeling bad about having him clean our carpet when we knew we'd never buy the vacuum.  But I'll give it to the sales guy - he was persistent.  We had to say no about 50 times during the course of that cleaning.  Even when he discounted the $3,000 vacuum down to $1,000 with no payments until April, we still said no.

Husband kept saying, "I feel guilty making you clean - we're really not going to buy anything."

And I kept jabbing him in the ribs and muttering under my breath, "Shhhhh, maybe if we keep him talking he'll do the hall too."

He didn't do the hall. 

We didn't get the vacuum. 

But hey, now I don't even have to rent a rug dr from Albertsons.  And I feel only half as grossed out making my kids crawl around on our not-as-grungy-as-it-used-to-be living room carpet.

Speaking of salesmen...

Once this one guy tried to sell me some all purpose cleaner.  He was making the point that it was non-toxic, with an opening of "Watch this!" and then he pulled out the tube that goes inside the spray bottle and licked it.  (A big slobbery lick.)

It wasn't the best first impression.

I thought he was a little nuts.

And also it was gross.

But it got grosser.  Because then he smeared his forehead sweat all over our window and showed me how he could clean it off.

And then when I wouldn't buy it, he tried to pull the "I think I'm attractive so I can surely woo you into buying it by feeding you cheesy lines" routine.

Yeah.  I'm a married, 30 year old, overweight mother of 4.  Cheesy lines?  Right, that'll totally work.

So finally I told him he had to get off our doorstep because I had to get ready to go out that night.

And he said, "Oh cool- to a club or something?"

And I said, "My cousin and I are going to go see the new Harry Potter IN 3D!!"

I think that must have been some kind of magic phrase.  Because he was no longer licking anything, feeding me cheesy lines or wiping sweat on my house.  He just left.  Thank goodness.

Nerdiness saved the day.  Again.

I'm thinking of getting a "No Soliciting" sign for our front door.  Except it would need to have an additional clause, so it would look more like this:

NO SOLICITING
(unless you're cleaning carpets - because I have a hall that needs done)
(and please don't lick anything while you're here)

Jan 10, 2011

sheila is smarter than me

The aid on Monkey's bus is convinced that my name is Sheila.  This confuses me because it's the same aid that was on Opie's bus for 2 years.  And just suddenly my name is Sheila? 

Not that we're all big on knowing each other's names and stuff (I think her name is Kory) but every day since Monkey's started school she says, "See you tomorrow, Sheila!" 

I'm not really notorious for paying attention, especially when I'm also welcoming home the Monkey and shuttling him into the house, and the first few times I was called Sheila I wasn't sure if that's what she had really said.  Then, after that, I thought, "Maybe if I don't respond she'll just stop the whole Sheila thing and move onto not remembering my name."  But she still says it.  Every day.  And now it's just WAY TOO LATE to correct her.  I mean, what would I even say?  "See ya, oh and by the way, you've been calling me Sheila for a couple of month and my name is Melissa, you big doofus."

I'm just going to keep on pretending that I haven't noticed and/or my name is really Sheila.  It's way less complicated this way.

I woke up with a cold last tuesday that went straight to my throat.  And hasn't left yet.  I haven't had a sore throat this bad since I was a kid.  Plus, I also feel like crap.  And seriously, it's lasting much MUCH too long.

I pretty much loathe doctors (except our pediatrician - I like her), but finally caved and saw one over the weekend.  I just went to the Instant Care place that has to take you when you don't have an appointment plus it's saturday anyway so most doctors aren't in.  Apparently the Instant Care place only hires jerks that treat people like 4 year olds.

I basically just wanted to be tested for Strep, because that's what it feels like.  But when that came back negative, the doctor had to explain to me that things like post-nasal drip can cause sore throats too and also there is more than one virus that could cause all my symptoms.  And then I said, "Oh my gosh!!  Really?!!"  And then shook his hand for giving me such highly educated information that I would have never understood if he hadn't used his demeaning "fount-of-all-knowledge" voice.

Honestly, I hate doctors.  They just assume that everyone is stupid.  Or at least they assume that I'm stupid.  Either way, they've earned my hatred.

Maybe if I changed my name to Sheila, no one would ever assume stupidity?   Are people named Sheila smarter than people named Melissa?  I just asked a Magic 8 Ball, and it said:


So does that mean the aid on Monkey's bus thinks that I'm smart?  Because now I'm really not going to tell her what my real name is.

Jan 3, 2011

today's my birthday

I'm 30.

(Sorry, I couldn't finish that paragraph because I was too busy cringing.)

THIRTY!!!!! 

GAH, how did that happen?!!

So I've officially realized that life just gets worse from here.  You know all those tv shows and movies and stuff who show women living glamorous lives and being all hip and awesome well into their 50's?  IT'S ALL LIES.

How depressing.

You know, I totally squandered my youth.  I took it all for granted.  Like in high school when I was like, "Oh my gosh, I'm SO FAT, ugh, and look at my nose!" (read that in "valley-girl" teenage style for maximum effect.)

SOMEONE GET ME A TIME MACHINE NOW.  I have a previous self that I need to go punch and call stupid.  And then maybe I'll mention how my boobs drag on the floor like caveman knuckles if I don't wear a granny bra.  So then maybe I'll actually enjoy being young (and skinny, and big-nosed, with perky ladies).

So yeah, if anyone wants to send me anything for my birthday I'm taking donations in the form of black roses, adult diapers and cash.  (I don't care how old I am, I will always except cash.)

Or you can just do me a huge favor and go read the latest issue of The Barrel:


There's some cool stuff in there this month.  But mostly it's just proof that I'm not above putting my own child on the cover of a magazine.

Happy birthday to me......I need to go find some comfort food.