My 17th century English literature teacher called me ‘plucky’ once. I think it was his way of saying, “Sorry for the D I gave you. I gave it to you because I need you to know that this paper is total crap, but I know you’ll rebound. Hey maybe your next paper, you’ll knock it out of the park and get a C-, because you’re plucky like that.”
To which I replied, “You’re a douche.”
Okay, I said it with my eyes, and the dirty look I gave him as I knocked all his stupid books off his desk when I left. And then I turned and said, “Have fun with your enormous brain. Hope you and your giant brain have a fantastic day. I’m going home to read a gossip magazine and look up the word ‘plucky’ now.”
I had to actually look the word up, because HELLO? This isn’t the 17th Century. We don’t use words like plucky. Plus I believe the word he was reaching for was uninterested and so bored that I actually faked passing out just to leave his lecture about Metaphysical poetry and John Donne.
And then that next semester I had him for Shakespearean Literature and he called me ‘buoyant’.
What does that even mean? I look bloated? A little puffy? What the eff?
After that, I dropped his class and put a bag of poop in his mailbox, because I’m plucky like that.
I applied to take the big scary test to get my hairstyling license a month and a half ago, and now I have to wait until they mail me back a date. I’m not so good at the waiting. I suck at it. Especially when it’s waiting to take a nasty test that makes me all panicky and clammy and uncomfortable when I think about it. And I’m still waiting, and I don’t have a date. But now it’s like I’m all dressed up in my crushed velvet dress, with my hair crimped, and I’m just waiting for my date to show up. Every day I walk to the mail box, peek my head, but and all I see is ads for mattresses and credit card applications. This is a good thing, the longer it takes for me to get a date, the more time I get to practice.
Speaking of practicing, I did a practice class yesterday with my loyal and loving friend Jenielle. She let me do all sorts of awful things to her all because she loves me, but first I had to buy her a cheeseburger and a coke.
So, thanks Jan for making my life a little bit easier, even though it kinda sucked a bit for you.
And now, I’ll leave you with this fantastic, yet creepy photo of bald heads on tables.
Every year for Christmas or my birthday, since I’ve been married, my step-mom and dad like to buy me domestic gifts. I love this, because if my husband bought me a blender I’d have to blend some of his man hairs, but if my dad does it, I’m like, “daiquiri anyone?”
In the last four years my step-mom and dad have given me:
a stand mixer
a sewing machine
a robotic vacuum
a robotic mop
and a steam cleaner
I got the steam cleaner for Christmas and order to use it, I actually have to clean something. So, I’ve been avoiding eye contact with it for the past 2 months. But since the peeing Jesus has left my home in shambles, I decided now would be an excellent time to christen my new gift. And HOT DOG! The thing works like a charm. I steamed my tile floors, and after that I slept for 20 hours, then I mustered enough energy to steam clean my wool rug. And while I was cleaning I was humming the Prince song “Purple Rain,” but the only part I know is “Pur-ple rain, purple rain…” And right as I was trying to figure out the next lyric, it coughed up a mighty-sized hair ball. It was like I was steam cleaning a wookie. And then I wondered, did I steam clean a wookie? My mind was wondering, singing the “Purple Rain” song and all, so I don’t actually recall. But I’m pretty sure I’d notice a hairy-lummox of a man/beast walk through my front door, lay on my wool rug, and let me steam clean it’s hairy body. So, I’m pretty sure the hair clump came from my rug…pretty sure.
When the hair ball came out of the steam cleaner, it was like popping a massive zit only instead of puss it was wool carpeting, bits of fingernail, and Zoey’s fur. Ohhhh, It felt so good, I can’t wait for the next time I get to steam clean my rug–See? It’s sentences like that that make me R rated.
If you remember, last month some over-pumped gym rat called me chunky. It made my ass sad, so I ran out and bought a pair of these babies:
Not so much with the cute, right? Well, for your information, they are ‘magical’ shoes. Unicorns fart every time you step down which releases a special trigger that makes your legs and buns more shapely. I know, you want a pair, right?
Actually they have this rounded bottom that mimics walking in the sand, and my pair are like walking on a Mediterranean beach, because, like I said, magical.
I haven’t noticed too much change in my ass yet, but that’s probably because I wear them while watching Real Housewives of New York City. I’ll keep you posted though.
It’s hard to admit that we’re actually trying, because then people get all up in your business about your baby making parts, and well we just don’t want that type of intimacy with everyone. Plus the words vaginal fluid get thrown around a lot, and I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that. So instead of actually admitting the world that we are trying to conceive, we like to say, well, we’re not not trying, if you know what I mean. And then I like to punch the shoulder of whoever is asking in a polite, yet offensive way, no reason really, it’s just kind of fun.
But truth be told, I envisioned myself already pregnant by now. I envisioned Berlyn having her siblings somewhat close in age, and I envisioned myself being a young and incredibly hip mom. Well, at least the last one is true.
As the months pass, and the heap of peed on negative pregnancy tests pile up (I mean that figuratively, I don’t actually save peed on negative pregnancy tests, that’s gross), I just keep thinking that maybe the Lord intends it to be us three. I love the life we have right now. Berlyn is so easy going, and we can still travel places if we want to, we can spend our money on private school, and not have to worry about buying a minivan or a double stroller. I don’t have to worry about stretch marks, hypertension, and not eating sushi. Finding a babysitter for one child is way more realistic than for 2 or 3, and I can finally get rid of all of Berlyn’s old baby stuff.
But when I envision our family I see more babies. I don’t feel like I’m done. I crave a little chaos, but not too much–I’m susceptible to migraines. I want to do it all over again. I want to have a family big enough to necessitate a mini van, but then not buy one because, come on-it’s a mini van. I want to be that annoying mom that brings her kids to Saks and needs a dressing room to nurse her newborn while her toddler tries on 500 dollar pants. I want Berlyn to have younger siblings to torment and make her personal slaves. I want that. And I’m not ashamed to admit it. So, I guess I’ll just keep peeing on sticks until one comes up positive.
This President’s day weekend we celebrated our nation with a trip to a Mission. Partly because we were bored, and partly because we love looking at old stuff. Speaking of old stuff, we brought along my old camera and took photos that you can’t preview right after you take it. Weird, right?
Unfortunately none of these photos were taken with my vintage camera, because you have to develop the film, then get a disk, and upload them and that’s a lot of work, so I took these photos with my phone instead.
If Hippo Brigade was a movie you’d have to be 17 to watch it. Which means you’d watch half of Princess Diaries and then sneak into Hippo Brigade when your mom wasn’t looking, but not before you stole her Jr Mints.
This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:
Sorry I haven’t updated in a while. The main reason is because someone’s peeing in my downstairs bathroom.
You see, a few days ago I mentioned we had holes in our walls. And Because I didn’t want ferral rodents jumping out of the walls and attaching their spiny teeth to my precious face, digging in, and ripping chunks off my cheeks, we’re having the holes repaired. It seems like a simple process, except that I have to evacuate my home every morning before I poop and have my morning cup of coffee. I must note that the combination of me being constipated and surly does not make for a happy camper. But I go, I take my baby, some snacks and head out for a peaceful happy-time afternoon. Meanwhile, the dude who’s repairing my walls is drinking way too many Powerades and getting all hopped up on drywall fumes because his urine is all OVER my bathroom. At first I gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed he got a mound of insulation in his eyeball, which may have compromised his depth perception, therefore rending his aim more challenging to navigate. I felt sorry for him as I cleaned up his mess, and hoped his eyeball felt better. Then it happened again the next day, and I’m thinking, humm…maybe it’s not so much the hunk of pink furry stuff in his eye, but maybe that’s where he thinks the pee pee goes. So I had a little chat with him.
ME: So Jesus, how does it feel to be named after the Messiah? That’s a lot of pressure. Speaking of pressure, you peed all over my bathroom, what’s up with that?
JESUS: I’m sorry. I didn’t notice.
ME: That’s alright. Just clean up after yourself. You’re a guest in my home, and you should be respectful of my space. Well, actually you’re not so much a guest, but more like an intruder sent on a mission to destroy my sanity, but same rules apply.
JESUS: Whatever lady.
ME: Thanks Jesus! You’re the best.