I'm sitting here watching Independence Day, and even horribly chopped up to be suitable for TV, it's still the best movie ever. If you like sci-fi, or action flicks, it has to make your top 10, at least. Alien is probably the only sci-fi movie I can think that might match it, but I have to admit, I'm a child of my generation. I like me the advanced visual and special effects of ID better. Tasty, tasy explosions. Scale model explosions of entire major cities. *shiver* It makes a girl all tingly inside.
I didn't mean it that way, perverts.
One of the best scenes of said movie? When Will Smith brings down the alien craft, opens it up, punches the squirmy wormy inside in the face or at least what looks like the face, and says, "Welcome to Earth." Bwuahahahahaha. I'd like to think I'd have something similarly witty to say were I ever in such a situation. Being honest, it'd probably be right after I messed my pants. Because holy shit.
What's your favorite movie?
Monday, September 28, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
I need a better oven!
So I made oatmeal bread, and while it wasn't a bad recipe -- actually, it was really tasty for peanut butter sandwiches -- it was a bit on the wet side, and it took a while to cook. And the longer something takes to bake, the more likely my oven is to not like it. You see, my oven is a raving bitch with multiple personalities. No, I'm not being dramatic, but describing my oven this way is quite entertaining. And I need something to grin about with that blasted thing.
It has hot spots, cold spots, possessed spots; it goes from 25 degrees too cold to 50 degrees too hot in less than twenty minutes; it has randomly turned itself off a few times in my years with it, which number just under three. I affectionately call it The Beast in my head, because honestly, what else do you call a machine that works when it wants to and flips you off when it doesn't? That burns your cookies and leaves your bread prettily browned on the outside and raw in the middle.
Ideally, I'd call it "gone." But I live in an apartment complex that doesn't believe in replacing appliances unless they plain just don't turn on. They keep "fixing" our crap, and we keep calling when it breaks again. Incidentally, I've gotten to know most of the maintenance guys pretty well. Nice guys. But anyway. I was a doof and didn't take the bread's temp until I'd already turned the oven off and done a couple other little things in the kitchen, so I had to wait to put the loaf back in, and I'm not sure that's good for it. It ended up still having patches of undercooked -- though thankfully not raw -- dough. It was mostly tasty, though.
And hey, I baked! Go me! *happy dance*
It has hot spots, cold spots, possessed spots; it goes from 25 degrees too cold to 50 degrees too hot in less than twenty minutes; it has randomly turned itself off a few times in my years with it, which number just under three. I affectionately call it The Beast in my head, because honestly, what else do you call a machine that works when it wants to and flips you off when it doesn't? That burns your cookies and leaves your bread prettily browned on the outside and raw in the middle.
Ideally, I'd call it "gone." But I live in an apartment complex that doesn't believe in replacing appliances unless they plain just don't turn on. They keep "fixing" our crap, and we keep calling when it breaks again. Incidentally, I've gotten to know most of the maintenance guys pretty well. Nice guys. But anyway. I was a doof and didn't take the bread's temp until I'd already turned the oven off and done a couple other little things in the kitchen, so I had to wait to put the loaf back in, and I'm not sure that's good for it. It ended up still having patches of undercooked -- though thankfully not raw -- dough. It was mostly tasty, though.
And hey, I baked! Go me! *happy dance*
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
My brain's on vacation!
I loaded up the dishwasher earlier, all proud of myself for cleaning out the dishes in the sink, and I totally forgot to turn it on. I'm not kidding. Almost an hour and a half after I loaded the damn thing, and I finally remembered. *falls over laughing* I rule!
I also forgot to put away dinner last night, which totally sucks, because those mashed taters were freakin' tasty, man. I couldn't remember how far along I was when my grandmother asked me -- I actually had to look at the calendar on my laptop, where I have my week-by-week. No, I'm not kidding. I'm that retarded. I did this with each of my kids; with the first, it was on a paper calendar, because our old computer sucked ass. With my second, it was on the desktop AND on a paper calendar, because I couldn't always access the computer... my man's a computer-holic. *sigh* Tragic.
I can't even remember how much Carnation Instant Breakfast powder to put in my milk, and I just made some this morning. That shit is GOOD, by the way. Rich Milk Chocolate ftw! Seriously, my brain is like swiss cheese. Enough holes to build a small city in. Calling it a sieve is being kind! ROFL
But that's okay... this is what The Powers That Be created Post-It notes for.
I also forgot to put away dinner last night, which totally sucks, because those mashed taters were freakin' tasty, man. I couldn't remember how far along I was when my grandmother asked me -- I actually had to look at the calendar on my laptop, where I have my week-by-week. No, I'm not kidding. I'm that retarded. I did this with each of my kids; with the first, it was on a paper calendar, because our old computer sucked ass. With my second, it was on the desktop AND on a paper calendar, because I couldn't always access the computer... my man's a computer-holic. *sigh* Tragic.
I can't even remember how much Carnation Instant Breakfast powder to put in my milk, and I just made some this morning. That shit is GOOD, by the way. Rich Milk Chocolate ftw! Seriously, my brain is like swiss cheese. Enough holes to build a small city in. Calling it a sieve is being kind! ROFL
But that's okay... this is what The Powers That Be created Post-It notes for.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Chocolate and insanity...
I had this grand plan to bake tomorrow. I know! Finally, right? But, dear Readers, I said "had." I just found out I have to do like, three million things tomorrow. I have a doctor's appt. at the asscrack of dawn okay, so it's at 10am... but I hate being awake before noon lately I have to make a gazillion phone calls, stop by the post office, and we have to cart everyone over to Kohls to return a baby swing and booster seat we ordered online. Which wouldn't suck as badly, but we have to reorder the swing because the warehouse sent us a scuffed and dented return item instead of a new item. For the record, I have no issue with return products as long as they're structurally sound, because god knows they won't be pretty after a month in my house, but I don't want to pay the "new" price. You wanna knock 10-20% off the price, and honey, come on over!
I'm finishing up the last of the baking utensils tonight and holy piling plates, Batman, there were a freakin' ton of them! because I still hope against hope that I have enough energy after all this crap to make some muffins. I want me some chocolate chocolate chip nut muffins. I've posted the recipe here before, and *drool* are they good. I've been craving chocolate like crazy lately. And coffee. And sour gummy worms. The last two of which I've often wanted mixed, which proves that indeed I am preggers. You know, just in case the rapidly expanding waistline left me with any doubts. Ha!
Hey, anybody wanna come over for Insanely Chocolate Muffins I think this is my new name for them, LOL and hot cocoa? Yeah, buddy!
I'm finishing up the last of the baking utensils tonight and holy piling plates, Batman, there were a freakin' ton of them! because I still hope against hope that I have enough energy after all this crap to make some muffins. I want me some chocolate chocolate chip nut muffins. I've posted the recipe here before, and *drool* are they good. I've been craving chocolate like crazy lately. And coffee. And sour gummy worms. The last two of which I've often wanted mixed, which proves that indeed I am preggers. You know, just in case the rapidly expanding waistline left me with any doubts. Ha!
Hey, anybody wanna come over for Insanely Chocolate Muffins I think this is my new name for them, LOL and hot cocoa? Yeah, buddy!
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Updates and such...
I haven't posted in a while bad me so I'll catch you up on all the wonderful, exciting... yeah, I can't even finish that sentence without laughing so hard I can't type. I'm feeling well enough to finally clean my house more than half-assed, except now it's piled up and I have three days of work ahead of me instead of one. Blech.
And do you know what toddlers do when you try to clean? If you're a parent, you do; if you've babysat a toddler, you do; if you've ever observed someone cleaning around a toddler, you do. If you are none of the above, thank your lucky stars you did not have to witness the beat-head-against-brick-wall exercise that is cleaning when toddlers are around and conscious. Seriously. They come in behind you and undo every blessed thing you've just done, and they make two other messes to go with it. Your only real recourse is shove the little monsters at your significant other and order them out of the house, or distract their destructive little selves with something even more fascinating than making Mommy scream and blubber like a madman.
For my children, this is not easy. They've learned that when Mommy gives them full cups of juice, a big bowl of food, and a movie, there must be something awesome going on. They don't stay in their room. They come out and demand to know what you're doing, and can they do it too? "No," makes them cry, but there comes a point when you'd prefer murderous screams to redoing everything three million times. I reached this point when Andrea turned two. She's now three and a half. You do the math.
But if I don't do all of these three things, they inevitably read: every five minutes come toddling out and ask for one of the three. And because they can never synchronize these things, I get interrupted by each child each and every time they think they need something. Oh, and don't forget diaper changes/potty time! Throw a few of those in there, too. At the worst times. Like when I'm elbow-deep in cleaner. Example:
Raven: "Poop! Poop!" as she comes running out to me, pulling at the back of her diaper like she's got the worst wedgie of all time.
Me: Rolling my eyes, sighing, and washing my hands clean again of the bleach water I've been using to sanitize things. "Lovely. Okay, monkey, go lay down." I call my youngest monkey because she climbs everything and screeches and hoots like one. She's weird. I'm so proud!
Raven: "'Kay!" She proceeds to run to the couch, pull down the blanket, hide under it, and make a two-minute butt change take ten because we must play "where's the baby?"
If I'm lucky, I get ten minutes of peace between interruptions. If I'm unlucky as I was that day I just manage to get back to my cleaning when the other one comes out for something, or the same one remembers something else they needed. In this case, it was the other one...
Andrea: "Mommy?"
Me: "What, Andrea?" as I try, valiantly really, I should get medals for not strangling these kids to hold back the snarl of frustration.
Andrea: "I'm hungry and thirsty."
Me: Sigh. I've just given her food and juice, so I know she's neither. Or if she is anything, it's probably thirsty because she wolfed down her juice and then her food, in that order, and it dried out her mouth and/or throat. Oy. "Bring me your cup, and I'll give you a little more juice."
Andrea: "And something to eat!"
Me: "No, Andrea, you just ate. You need to wait a little while."
Andrea: With the most indignant tone ever heard by man, "But I'm hungry!"
Me: "I doubt that, honey," and seeing the immediate protest forming in her little brain, I added, "You're not getting any more food." End of story, right? *falls over laughing*
Andrea: "You hate me!" as she goes into full pout mode. It is at this point that I start praying for patience and have the overwhelming urge to slam my head into the nearest solid object. Repeatedly. My lovely child has entered the "you hate me, nobody loves me, wah" stage. God help me.
Me: "I don't hate you Andrea. I love you very much. I just don't want your stomach to explode." Humor is lost on three year olds...
Andrea: "My tummy's not gonna splode! It's hungry!"
Me: I'm laughing now, and this so doesn't help. I stifle it long enough to ask her, "Are you going to bring me your cup?" She stomps off ranting about something unintelligible, and comes back a minute or two later with her cup... and her plate. Sigh. I take them both, put the plate in the kitchen, and splash a little juice in her cup. "Here."
Andrea: "What about my foooooooooood?" Oh god, the whining. It's worse than the defiance. At least that was just loud talking, something my poor eardrums are used to by now. They will never get used to the whining.
Me: "No."
Andrea: "But whyyyyyyy?"
Me: "Andrea, don't whine. Talk like a big girl."
Andrea: "No! I'm not a big girl! I'm a baby!"
Me: Grumble, mutter, snarl. It escaped me at the time that she had, in fact, complied and talked like a big girl... while she sassed me. Geh. "Babies who whine and cry are usually tired and get put down for naps. Do you need a nap?" This is like threatening her with brutal torture. Nevermind that at three and a half, she should still take a nap. She cut those out just before she turned two.
Andrea: With a horrified look on her face which is probably one of the funniest things I've ever seen she yells, "No!" and runs off, food completely forgotten.
I don't know whether to do a happy dance that our round robin on the food subject is over, or drive an icepick into my skull because now her sister has come around again, begging for something or other. I don't even remember what she wanted. My brain had shut itself off at that point... I'm pretty sure in self-preservation. I do remember giving up on my cleaning less than an hour later because of a vicious migraine. I wonder how that happened? Insert hefty dose of sarcasm here.
So my foray into cleaning my entire house should be fun. I say fun, I mean eye-gouging torture. Wanna come over?!?! *twitch*
And do you know what toddlers do when you try to clean? If you're a parent, you do; if you've babysat a toddler, you do; if you've ever observed someone cleaning around a toddler, you do. If you are none of the above, thank your lucky stars you did not have to witness the beat-head-against-brick-wall exercise that is cleaning when toddlers are around and conscious. Seriously. They come in behind you and undo every blessed thing you've just done, and they make two other messes to go with it. Your only real recourse is shove the little monsters at your significant other and order them out of the house, or distract their destructive little selves with something even more fascinating than making Mommy scream and blubber like a madman.
For my children, this is not easy. They've learned that when Mommy gives them full cups of juice, a big bowl of food, and a movie, there must be something awesome going on. They don't stay in their room. They come out and demand to know what you're doing, and can they do it too? "No," makes them cry, but there comes a point when you'd prefer murderous screams to redoing everything three million times. I reached this point when Andrea turned two. She's now three and a half. You do the math.
But if I don't do all of these three things, they inevitably read: every five minutes come toddling out and ask for one of the three. And because they can never synchronize these things, I get interrupted by each child each and every time they think they need something. Oh, and don't forget diaper changes/potty time! Throw a few of those in there, too. At the worst times. Like when I'm elbow-deep in cleaner. Example:
Raven: "Poop! Poop!" as she comes running out to me, pulling at the back of her diaper like she's got the worst wedgie of all time.
Me: Rolling my eyes, sighing, and washing my hands clean again of the bleach water I've been using to sanitize things. "Lovely. Okay, monkey, go lay down." I call my youngest monkey because she climbs everything and screeches and hoots like one. She's weird. I'm so proud!
Raven: "'Kay!" She proceeds to run to the couch, pull down the blanket, hide under it, and make a two-minute butt change take ten because we must play "where's the baby?"
If I'm lucky, I get ten minutes of peace between interruptions. If I'm unlucky as I was that day I just manage to get back to my cleaning when the other one comes out for something, or the same one remembers something else they needed. In this case, it was the other one...
Andrea: "Mommy?"
Me: "What, Andrea?" as I try, valiantly really, I should get medals for not strangling these kids to hold back the snarl of frustration.
Andrea: "I'm hungry and thirsty."
Me: Sigh. I've just given her food and juice, so I know she's neither. Or if she is anything, it's probably thirsty because she wolfed down her juice and then her food, in that order, and it dried out her mouth and/or throat. Oy. "Bring me your cup, and I'll give you a little more juice."
Andrea: "And something to eat!"
Me: "No, Andrea, you just ate. You need to wait a little while."
Andrea: With the most indignant tone ever heard by man, "But I'm hungry!"
Me: "I doubt that, honey," and seeing the immediate protest forming in her little brain, I added, "You're not getting any more food." End of story, right? *falls over laughing*
Andrea: "You hate me!" as she goes into full pout mode. It is at this point that I start praying for patience and have the overwhelming urge to slam my head into the nearest solid object. Repeatedly. My lovely child has entered the "you hate me, nobody loves me, wah" stage. God help me.
Me: "I don't hate you Andrea. I love you very much. I just don't want your stomach to explode." Humor is lost on three year olds...
Andrea: "My tummy's not gonna splode! It's hungry!"
Me: I'm laughing now, and this so doesn't help. I stifle it long enough to ask her, "Are you going to bring me your cup?" She stomps off ranting about something unintelligible, and comes back a minute or two later with her cup... and her plate. Sigh. I take them both, put the plate in the kitchen, and splash a little juice in her cup. "Here."
Andrea: "What about my foooooooooood?" Oh god, the whining. It's worse than the defiance. At least that was just loud talking, something my poor eardrums are used to by now. They will never get used to the whining.
Me: "No."
Andrea: "But whyyyyyyy?"
Me: "Andrea, don't whine. Talk like a big girl."
Andrea: "No! I'm not a big girl! I'm a baby!"
Me: Grumble, mutter, snarl. It escaped me at the time that she had, in fact, complied and talked like a big girl... while she sassed me. Geh. "Babies who whine and cry are usually tired and get put down for naps. Do you need a nap?" This is like threatening her with brutal torture. Nevermind that at three and a half, she should still take a nap. She cut those out just before she turned two.
Andrea: With a horrified look on her face which is probably one of the funniest things I've ever seen she yells, "No!" and runs off, food completely forgotten.
I don't know whether to do a happy dance that our round robin on the food subject is over, or drive an icepick into my skull because now her sister has come around again, begging for something or other. I don't even remember what she wanted. My brain had shut itself off at that point... I'm pretty sure in self-preservation. I do remember giving up on my cleaning less than an hour later because of a vicious migraine. I wonder how that happened? Insert hefty dose of sarcasm here.
So my foray into cleaning my entire house should be fun. I say fun, I mean eye-gouging torture. Wanna come over?!?! *twitch*
Monday, September 7, 2009
Rambling...
I'm bored out of my skull, so I'm going to ramble at you people for a while. Don't even know how many of "you" there are, but hey.
So I had my first ultrasound last Thursday. I was pretty afraid I was having twins, because in just under thirteen weeks of pregnancy, I'd gained 5 inches in my waist while losing 11 pounds. Everything else had shrunk by about a half inch, but my stomach just kept getting bigger! But the ultrasound tech swore to me and I made her promise! that there was, in fact, only one of them in there. She said my abdominal wall seemed pretty lax, so I might get kinda big. Joy. Thanks, lady.
Apparently, my body decided to give me a big ol' middle finger. It's basically said, "Screw you, and the horse you rode in on. I've held in two kids within the last 5 years, lady. You're lucky I haven't risen up in revolt by now." And I gotta admit, 3 pregnancies in 5 or so years is a bitch. I gotta give this point to the muscles. Go lax, my friends. Have a party. Just be sure to save me a daiquiri, okay? Seriously, I'm going to pick a day, sometime after I've healed up and feel human again, and go drinking. I'll pump for like a week before, hand Andrew a bottle and point out the boob juice in the fridge. Bye, babe, I'm gonna go get my drink on! I should push him to go out with his brothers/friends/guardian leprechauns for a day, too. He deserves it.
My next ultrasound isn't until 20-22 weeks into my pregnancy. That's like... er... late October at the earliest. I'm supposed to wait that long to know whether I finally get my boy or not. I can't buy most baby clothes because "gender neutral" is a bitch to find. It's frustrating. Some progress, however: we've chosen which car seat to buy -- the Graco My Ride 65, baby! -- and we got a swing, too. It converts into an infant seat and a toddler rocker. Tell me that isn't kick ass. Go ahead, try. We already have a play yard and a couple strollers.
I think the only thing we lack is a crib. The play yard has a bassinet for the first 15 lbs or so, so we can figure out if the baby will tolerate sleeping alone. My first two didn't. Co-sleeping may be convenient, but breaking them of the habit is a bitch. Two-edged sword... I pray he/she will sleep alone without the three hour crying jags of my first two. Then we can figure out how to pay for a crib. Freakin expensive crap. What happened to the good ol' days when families passed down crap like that? When cribs and such were actually built strong enough to last through multiple generations.
Not to mention, my house is full of useless crap. Now, you ask, why do I keep useless crap? The answer: I don't. Andrew does. He is a pack rat. I'm considering signing him up for a 12-step program for Pack Rats Anonymous. Seriously. He has stuff from his college days. It's crazy. At least most of it is in boxes, and boxes stack. But that just means I have mounds o' boxes... everywhere. It literally looks like we just moved in. But I think I prefer this to crap piled everywhere, spilling over on itself like an avalanche. I've seen houses like that. *shudders* Shoot me if I ever let it get that bad.
Now, I've made Andrew go through some of the boxes -- mostly because I started to, only to uncover stuff of his that I have no idea what it is, and it's either he gets to it or the kids do *evil cackle* -- but a lot of it is just papers and books that we have nowhere to put. Bookcases get demolished in our house. We have toddlers. I'm told this is normal. I got sick of putting everything back five times a day, so now I've stopped insisting on pulling things out of boxes. They're safer in the cardboard prisons. Dressers suffer the same fate as bookshelves... Clothes go in, clothes come out -- repeatedly. In one day. In one hour. In 5 golddern minutes. So clothes stay in their baskets. There are clean baskets and dirty baskets, and that is the only system that exists in my home.
I'm going insane. To be fair, I'm already insane. I'm going to start drooling and smacking the wall with my head soon. As soon as I no longer feel like microwaved death, I'm going to go through what things I can and throw away every blessed thing I can get away with. Anything I can't, I'm throwing on Andrew's side of the bed and he can do with it what he pleases. Including putting it back in boxes and stacking them in corners. But I guarantee you I can condense the shit. Just cutting the stacks in half would save what's left of my sanity. I know, funny, right?
Anyone else have a pack rat hubby/boy toy/roommate?
So I had my first ultrasound last Thursday. I was pretty afraid I was having twins, because in just under thirteen weeks of pregnancy, I'd gained 5 inches in my waist while losing 11 pounds. Everything else had shrunk by about a half inch, but my stomach just kept getting bigger! But the ultrasound tech swore to me and I made her promise! that there was, in fact, only one of them in there. She said my abdominal wall seemed pretty lax, so I might get kinda big. Joy. Thanks, lady.
Apparently, my body decided to give me a big ol' middle finger. It's basically said, "Screw you, and the horse you rode in on. I've held in two kids within the last 5 years, lady. You're lucky I haven't risen up in revolt by now." And I gotta admit, 3 pregnancies in 5 or so years is a bitch. I gotta give this point to the muscles. Go lax, my friends. Have a party. Just be sure to save me a daiquiri, okay? Seriously, I'm going to pick a day, sometime after I've healed up and feel human again, and go drinking. I'll pump for like a week before, hand Andrew a bottle and point out the boob juice in the fridge. Bye, babe, I'm gonna go get my drink on! I should push him to go out with his brothers/friends/guardian leprechauns for a day, too. He deserves it.
My next ultrasound isn't until 20-22 weeks into my pregnancy. That's like... er... late October at the earliest. I'm supposed to wait that long to know whether I finally get my boy or not. I can't buy most baby clothes because "gender neutral" is a bitch to find. It's frustrating. Some progress, however: we've chosen which car seat to buy -- the Graco My Ride 65, baby! -- and we got a swing, too. It converts into an infant seat and a toddler rocker. Tell me that isn't kick ass. Go ahead, try. We already have a play yard and a couple strollers.
I think the only thing we lack is a crib. The play yard has a bassinet for the first 15 lbs or so, so we can figure out if the baby will tolerate sleeping alone. My first two didn't. Co-sleeping may be convenient, but breaking them of the habit is a bitch. Two-edged sword... I pray he/she will sleep alone without the three hour crying jags of my first two. Then we can figure out how to pay for a crib. Freakin expensive crap. What happened to the good ol' days when families passed down crap like that? When cribs and such were actually built strong enough to last through multiple generations.
Not to mention, my house is full of useless crap. Now, you ask, why do I keep useless crap? The answer: I don't. Andrew does. He is a pack rat. I'm considering signing him up for a 12-step program for Pack Rats Anonymous. Seriously. He has stuff from his college days. It's crazy. At least most of it is in boxes, and boxes stack. But that just means I have mounds o' boxes... everywhere. It literally looks like we just moved in. But I think I prefer this to crap piled everywhere, spilling over on itself like an avalanche. I've seen houses like that. *shudders* Shoot me if I ever let it get that bad.
Now, I've made Andrew go through some of the boxes -- mostly because I started to, only to uncover stuff of his that I have no idea what it is, and it's either he gets to it or the kids do *evil cackle* -- but a lot of it is just papers and books that we have nowhere to put. Bookcases get demolished in our house. We have toddlers. I'm told this is normal. I got sick of putting everything back five times a day, so now I've stopped insisting on pulling things out of boxes. They're safer in the cardboard prisons. Dressers suffer the same fate as bookshelves... Clothes go in, clothes come out -- repeatedly. In one day. In one hour. In 5 golddern minutes. So clothes stay in their baskets. There are clean baskets and dirty baskets, and that is the only system that exists in my home.
I'm going insane. To be fair, I'm already insane. I'm going to start drooling and smacking the wall with my head soon. As soon as I no longer feel like microwaved death, I'm going to go through what things I can and throw away every blessed thing I can get away with. Anything I can't, I'm throwing on Andrew's side of the bed and he can do with it what he pleases. Including putting it back in boxes and stacking them in corners. But I guarantee you I can condense the shit. Just cutting the stacks in half would save what's left of my sanity. I know, funny, right?
Anyone else have a pack rat hubby/boy toy/roommate?
Sunday, September 6, 2009
I'm a bad, bad girl...
Get your minds out of the gutter, people. I realize the summer homes we own there are quite comfortable, and Raul makes a killer Mai Tai, but... wait, where was I going with this?
Oh yeah, I'm a bad girl. I haven't been posting. Again. Want to know why? I'm going to pretend you're all clutching the edges of your seats in anticipation and nodding enthusiastically. ... Shut up, it's my fantasy! I'm experiencing an all-new level of Hell! Go me! My newest pregnancy symptom appears to be vertigo. Yup, vertigo. I apparently have Central Vertigo, because it always accompanies the most agonizing migraines I've ever experienced with the exception of one particular nasty mofo that showed up right about the time I got my first period... thank you, Mother Nature, you raving bitch and sticks around for the after party. My head still feels like it's spinning and I can't quite walk a straight line yet, even though I kicked the worst of the migraine a day ago. Go home, Mr. Vertigo. We're out of beer.
I praise whatever bug got up my butt the other day to go to the City Market and pick up a snotload of fruits and veggies, because guess what my kids got for dinner yesterday? Yup. Rabbit food. They ate blueberries, peaches, apples, bananas... oh, and some cheese, because I figured they should get some sort of protein. And hey, cheese is good for them. Right? Er, right. I managed to drag myself off the couch and stay upright! Go me! long enough to cut up/clean off/chuck in a bowl a bunch of each of the above and drop it in front of their starving little faces, which were happily glued to the TV. I know, I'm a terrible mother. I let them watch more than a half hour of TV a day. Well, bite me, AAP. Disney happens to keep them out of trouble while I'm busy rolling around on the couch, half dead, calling myself an idiot for wanting a third child. Not because of the kid, but because of the pregnancy. So there.
This is my life. It sucks. I accept that. But at least you now know why I haven't been posting.
Oh yeah, I'm a bad girl. I haven't been posting. Again. Want to know why? I'm going to pretend you're all clutching the edges of your seats in anticipation and nodding enthusiastically. ... Shut up, it's my fantasy! I'm experiencing an all-new level of Hell! Go me! My newest pregnancy symptom appears to be vertigo. Yup, vertigo. I apparently have Central Vertigo, because it always accompanies the most agonizing migraines I've ever experienced with the exception of one particular nasty mofo that showed up right about the time I got my first period... thank you, Mother Nature, you raving bitch and sticks around for the after party. My head still feels like it's spinning and I can't quite walk a straight line yet, even though I kicked the worst of the migraine a day ago. Go home, Mr. Vertigo. We're out of beer.
I praise whatever bug got up my butt the other day to go to the City Market and pick up a snotload of fruits and veggies, because guess what my kids got for dinner yesterday? Yup. Rabbit food. They ate blueberries, peaches, apples, bananas... oh, and some cheese, because I figured they should get some sort of protein. And hey, cheese is good for them. Right? Er, right. I managed to drag myself off the couch and stay upright! Go me! long enough to cut up/clean off/chuck in a bowl a bunch of each of the above and drop it in front of their starving little faces, which were happily glued to the TV. I know, I'm a terrible mother. I let them watch more than a half hour of TV a day. Well, bite me, AAP. Disney happens to keep them out of trouble while I'm busy rolling around on the couch, half dead, calling myself an idiot for wanting a third child. Not because of the kid, but because of the pregnancy. So there.
This is my life. It sucks. I accept that. But at least you now know why I haven't been posting.
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