Extra Special

You know what would make today really extra special?

Well, come to think of it there are a few things that would make today extra special, one would be eating an entire carton of these bad boys:


Another would be if a giant stuffed badger knocked on my door and gave me a hug. Because who can’t use a hug from a giant stuffed badger?

And thirdly, and most importantly is If we owned a house at the end of today.

It’s really not asking much, because our escrow was supposed to close three days ago. And all this anticipation, signing stuff, and moving around the painters, hardwood installers, and professional cleaners my husband is loosing his brain, it’s actually leaking out of his head. We can’t have that. Oh and his hair is falling out in clumps, and we really can’t have that because my high school reunion is coming up and since I look like total crap, my hot husband is all I have to show off.



What am I doing while my husband looses parts of his brain and clumps of hair?

Besides eating Pinwheels and getting snugly hugs from badgers?

I’m dancing around naked trying to cheer him up, of corse, like the wonderful wife I am. I’m doing that and dreaming about rainbows and sprinkle frosting, because really, I’m not cut out for comprehending loan documents. My reading level is about the same as a 3rd grader, and that’s just fantastic because there were some really good books in the third grade, like The Babysitters’ Club series and anything from Judy Bloom.

So here’s a thought: Why don’t the loan document people write their contracts with scenarios where Kristy and Dawn are late on their payments because babysitting is slow this time of year, and they end up with a foreclosure and then they trash the place with all their babysitter friends and they all get drunk and strung out and end up pregnant. That would make waaay more sense to me than all that legal jargon, and it essentially means the same thing–don’t be late on your payments, or you could wind up with a bad hangover, homeless, and knocked up.

Zombies Kill Bunnies.

I’m a zombie today

Not like a real zombie. Although that would be awesome. I’d wander around sucking people’s blood, eating cantaloupe, and running over bunnies with my car.


What exactly do zombies do?

If my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. South let me do my state report on zombies instead of Michigan I’d be so much more capable of explaining what a zombie does. So for now they eat cantaloupe and run over bunnies.

So what was my point?

Right, I’m a zombie today because I got zero sleep last night, because of Berlyn. I think she just has my best interests at hand and is trying to remind me of how little sleep I will get when her baby brother comes. But news flash, Berlyn, I don’t need to be reminded. I was there. And right now I need 10 plus hours of sleep a day, and don’t judge me because you get like 14.

Before I went to bed last night I checked on Berlyn and noticed that she felt warm. I took her temperature, and sure enough she had a fever.

After I found out about her fever I was physically incapable of falling asleep. Every hour I’d get up and wander into her room to check on her, because in those times when I was trying to fall asleep I was envisioning her going into shock or convolutions because of her fever. Or what if she stopped breathing, or what if I couldn’t hear her through the monitor and she really, really needed me?

You see? I’m crazy, and It’s kind of my fault, not hers that I didn’t get any sleep.

At 2:30 this morning I checked on her again, and this time she woke up. I figured this was a good opportunity to give her some Tylenol and try to cool her off. But all she wanted to do was play with her toys and the dog, and go see her daddy. The whole house was wide awake for an hour, and she was confused about why the sun wasn’t out. I had to keep reminding her that she was sick and needed to sleep, which in turn meant mamma could sleep, which ultimately meant no bunnies have to die.

After that episode I tried to go back to bed, but again every hour, I was up checking on my child like some paranoid freaky mother.

Today she still has a fever and it’s pretty dang high, I mean if I had a fever that high I’d probably be in the E.R. But she’s all, ‘oh, this fever, it’s no big thing mom. I got this. Now hand me my blocks and help me build a castle, bitch.’

Okay so she didn’t call me a bitch, but how funny would that be?

I don’t get it. How could a very sick child act like nothing is wrong?

Is she faking a fever? Is that even possible?

I think the only logical explanation is that she’s a zombie.

We’re Buying a Home.

So I have some ‘splainin┬áto do. I posted a photo of us buying a house, and talked about us buying a house, but I didn’t actually tell you people that we are buying a house.

Gosh, I can be so inconsiderate at times, and I can also be really gassy at times too, but that’s nether here nor there.

We bought a home. It’s not in Washington or Oregon, it’s in California. Orange County to be exact.

And not only is it in Orange County, but it’s in a very Orange County part of Orange County, where the ladies all get lots of botox and carry around their wine glasses while trying to corral their kids after the street lights go out. And the men get lap dances at Korean lounges, and receive unmarked packages in the mail. And I think there’s this underground swingers movement in my new neighborhood too. But I’m sure that makes it pretty comparable to every other neighborhood in America.

And to that I raise my boxed white Zinfandel and say, God bless the U.S.A.

So far I’ve met about 6 of my neighbors and they’ve been all so dang sweet. Like run inside and bake me a pie that very minute, sweet. To which I would have declined, because I’m watching my girlish figure, and I hate to put anyone out, naturally. Unless they wanted to make me a lemon meringue or a apple crumble, in that case, I’m totally okay with putting someone out.

We have less than two weeks to close escrow, and I’m fairly certain in that within those two weeks, I will acquire 12 more nosebleeds, and faint approximately 3 times. Because HOLY SHIT PEOPLE! Buying a house is a really big deal. And it makes me feel like I’m finally an adult. Like now, I can finally buy condoms without giggling, or decline a fancy dinner with friends on account of my mortgage payment, or talk about health insurance, or wear slacks. Adults always wear slacks.

I Bought Something Yesterday.

I was at Target and I bought…

fake boobs.

I didn’t know Target sold fake boobs, but there they were right next to the cotton briefs and tube socks. And somehow they ended up in my cart, right next to the bottle of Kaboom! and Oreos.

Fake boobs.

In my cart.

I was thrilled. I couldn’t wait to get home and stick them on. I mean, hello? who couldn’t use a pair of fake boobs. Even thought I am well endowed thanks to pregnancy, I could always use a bit of umph, I mean, I’m not stupid, and I’d never turn down a bit of umph. Nope. Never.

They look like boneless, skinless chicken breasts, which is probably why the peoples call them ‘cutlets’. And they stick. Like a big fake boobie sticker.

And I stuck those boneless, skinless bad boys to my chest, and then proceeded to squeeze them, because, COME ON!

Berlyn was intrigued.

My husband was confused.

And I kept dancing around the house squeezing my fake boobies. And you’re welcome for the mental image.

Here’s the drawback:

After an entire day of wearing my cutlets, immature boob fondling on my behalf, and flashing my friend Jenielle, whom I’m positive was appreciative, I finally peeled off my fake Target boobies, and then was bowled over with the smell. Like OMG I smell like a tree-living hippie who swears off deodorant or showering because it would interfere with their natural odor. Side note: natural odor, my friends? Smells. Bad. Even on me, a tiny, adorable non-sweaty girly girl.

I was stinky.

So word to the wise, if you’re going to buy fake boobies at Target make sure you’re not going to have the sexy-time right after you peel those stinkers off. Dip your boobies in a basin of soapy water and then proceed. Please.

Your man will thank me.