Friday, August 7, 2015

I say we lock ourselves in our room and use that one swear word we know.

I tried to watch the debate last night—I really did. I made it through the “social issues” portion, although in hindsight I wish I had gone to bed during the preceding commercial break. It just made me angry, and I’ve spent enough time being angry lately, for reasons I won’t go into here.

I’m the first to admit, I have a hard time letting things go. I like to think it’s because I’m the descendant of a long line of stubborn “fighting Scots.” But most likely, I’m just kind of a bitch.

Anyway, I knew I wasn’t likely to make it all the way through the debate and through Jon Stewart’s last show. Why? Because I’m not only angry, I’m tired. I love my kid, don’t get me wrong, but he is always on the go, rarely takes a nap, and screams and bangs his head any time he doesn’t get what he wants. What does he want? It includes, but is not limited to:
  • the phone/iPad/computer/any wire he can get his hands on;
  • my set of Big Bang Theory bobbleheads;
  • Jeremy’s giant Lego X-Wing;
  • to pull all of the wipes/tissues out of the container;
  • to run into the street;
  • to lick the bottom of my shoes;
  • to mount and ride the dog; and, most often,
  • to be released and given free rein in any crowded and/or hazardous public place.
It’s amazing how quickly they transition from “I’m immobile, please feed and clean me” to, “I refuse to stop moving, your new purpose in life is to chase me around and keep me from hurting myself—which I can do in an infinite matter of ways that will never occur to you until they present themselves and I come within an inch of losing a limb.”

So 14-month-olds are hard, because they want to be independent but have no sense of self-preservation. We’ve all heard about the Terrible Twos. I have it on good authority from several people that “all 3-year-olds are assholes,” and a friend whose child recently turned 4 admitted that it’s not much better thus far. And then yesterday, someone told Jeremy that 5-year-olds are the hardest, because they are big enough to do some things for themselves, but still lack any ability to understand reason. Dear God, does it ever stop? Are 6-year-olds prone to building meth labs? Do 7-year-olds specialize in insider training and money laundering? Will 8-year-old Archie attempt to overthrow the government armed with a shiv fashioned from Sophie the Giraffe and a jumbo Crayon?

In short, I’m angry, I’m tired, and if I think past one day at a time, I kind of want to curl up in the fetal position with a tube of cookie dough. But instead, I will go pick up some bobbleheads off the floor and disinfect the bottoms of my shoes. Just in case.

Friday, February 20, 2015

I'm just a girl from a trailer park who had a dream.

Oscar time is almost upon us! Past highlights of my Oscars wardrobe can be found here and here

This year’s Oscar dress options:

Option 1. Gucci, $8,800.

Because when you’ve recently had a baby, you want…nay, crave…midriff cutouts. And Manolo Blahnik ($765):

Option 2. Oscar de la Renta, $8,690.

I know what you’re thinking: Really? A mullet dress??

Normally I would agree, but I love the color and structure of this one. Plus, when you’re imaginarily 6 feet tall, you want to show off those gams! Not to mention these fabulous Oscar de la Renta shoes ($1,290):

Option 3. Carolina Herrera, $9,990.

I’ve always wanted to rustle when I walk. This looks like it would do the trick. And how about some more Manolo Blahnik ($1,030):

Decisions, decisions...

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

I would rather bleed out than sit here and talk about my feelings for 10 minutes.

It’s almost imaginary Oscar time! But since I haven’t blogged in a year, and I had a slightly life-changing event occur between my last blog post and now, I figured I should probably address that first before writing my annual post on what can’t-afford-it dress I would wear to the wouldn’t-let-me-near-the-event-with-a-hundred-foot-pole Oscars. So here goes.

To say motherhood started out roughly for me would be an understatement. Archie will be 9 months old in a couple of weeks. It’s simultaneously been the longest and quickest 9 months of my life. I flat-out adore him…now. When he first showed up, I was a depressed, sleep-deprived, “why the hell did I do this?” mess. I never wanted any harm to come to him, but it felt like I had birthed a human Tamogotchi:

Tamagotchis are a small alien species that deposited an egg on Earth to see what life was like, and it is up to the player to raise the egg into an adult creature. The creature goes through several stages of growth, and will develop differently depending on the care the player provides, with better care resulting in an adult creature that is smarter, happier, and requires less attention…The player can care for the pet as much or as little as they choose, and the outcome depends on the player's actions. 

So, no pressure! A parent’s actions are only responsible for the health, wellbeing, and overall happiness of the kid. All I had to do was live my life in 3-hour cycles, pressing the real-life feeding, bathroom, and sleep “buttons.” (The sleep button seemed to malfunction often, BTW. And the bathroom button was highly volatile).

I was afraid to take him anywhere, so I mostly spent my maternity leave on the couch, watching daytime TV and hoping he would just fall/stay asleep. I cried everyday. I hated to nap, because I’d wake up disoriented and, just for a moment, forget he existed…then I’d remember and feel worse than ever.

I’m lucky I have the greatest, most supportive husband in the world. He not only took great care of the baby, but got me the help I needed: counseling and anti-depressants (oh, anti-depressants, my old friend!). And gradually, it got better.

I still don’t know what I’m doing most of the time, but I now have faith that I can figure it out. Archie lights up when I enter the room, and vice versa (he’s also started screaming when I leave the room, which is…less cute). I love my drooly, non-napping, dog-chasing kid. I love that he finds hats hysterical; that he likes to bite feet; that he heads straight for the space heater, or dog bowl, or air vent, or anything else we don’t want him touching, over and over and over. He is weird and funny and adorable and 100% mine.

That being said, I still hear the Hallelujah Chorus most days as he heads off to daycare. Judge me if you must.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Sell Me This Pen!

It’s that time of year again…Imaginary Oscar Dress Decision Time!

Last year, it was Zac Posen and Bradley Cooper:

My dress will likely be a game-time decision (as will my date), but here are the candidates:

Going for Glamour

David Meister Signature ($2,650)
I love the slight shine and the satin belt.

Valentino ($25,000)
Pink, frilly, and girlie. To quote Captain Hammer, “Not my usual, but nice.”

Going for Sex Appeal

Stella McCartney ($5,200)
Sort of “Tron Meets the Prom.” No word on whether the belt doubles as an Identity Disc.

Jason Wu ($4,785)
If you’re going to wear black to the Oscars, it’s gotta be spectacular (more like “Jason Wooooo!”)


The dress is even more important this year, as I am nominated in the following categories:

Best Song – for “impromptu shower performance of ‘On My Own’ from Les Mis (deemed ‘confused head tilt-worthy’ by the Household Canine Association)”

Best Imaginary Reaction – for “upon seeing girl running on treadmill with t-shirt pulled up for the sole purpose of showing off her abs, Mary hops on the treadmill next to her, pulls up her own t-shirt, and trudges alongside, her pregnant belly bouncing and wobbling out front.”

Fingers crossed!

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

This is no dream! This is really happening!

I’ve started this post in my head a million times. On any given day it is an angry post, a joyful post, a selfish post, a deeply personal post, or my usual “snarky tidbits.” I’ve decided just to toss something out there, so here goes:

I’m pregnant! It’s a boy, and he’s due at the end of May.

And that, basically, is all the information that I consider even remotely any of your business. Just as most pregnant women don’t want some weirdo randomly touching their stomach (seriously…you will LOSE that hand), neither do most pregnant women want some weirdo/acquaintance/relative randomly asking:
  • Was this a surprise?
  • What took you so long? or (my favorite)…
  • How old are you? (asked with way too much incredulity)

 And yes, I’ve heard all of those questions.

So there you have it. Think it through first, people.


In other news, I've spent the day huddled on the couch with my laptop, listening to the heat pump run and the power bill rise. There was a brief, frustrating conversation with the dog this morning:

Me: It's too cold outside to go for a walk. You'll have to hold in your poop until tomorrow.

What Tilly Heard:........go for a walk........poop.

She regretted her enthusiasm when I shoved her into a toddler-sized fleece hoodie in an attempt to keep her warm. We made it back unscathed, and she has spent the afternoon curled up on her dog bed with an afghan my Grandma crocheted. Her life is hard.


So after a disastrous trip to Miami two years ago, and Jeremy consequently having attended 2 of Clemson's 3 worst bowl game losses in history, we put in place a self-imposed ban on bowl game travel. Naturally, the last two years have seen two pretty amazing victories. It could be a coincidence. Or it could be that Tiger fans everywhere should be thanking their lucky stars that J and I kept our butts at home (further evidence...our trip to Clemson during this year's FSU game. Oy vey.).


I'm forever trying to figure out why I get so grumpy this time of year. Yes, the holidays are over. It's dark and cold. We're bombarded with messages and ads that make us think we have to be thinner, better, stronger, simply because a page in the calendar flipped over. And don't get me started on the phrase, "New Year, New You!" Whoever came up with that deserves some sort of public shaming ceremony.

However, I've long since given up making resolutions. And pretty routinely, J and I take a quick jaunt somewhere warm. I'm certainly not going to concern myself with getting thinner this year. So what's the deal? Is there some January-based adolescent trauma I'm repressing? (I mean, there most likely is, but the adolescent trauma was more of a year-round thing for me). Perhaps I'll never know...I'll just keep trudging along through January until I walk right into the soft cushion of day-after-Valentine's half-priced candy.

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Just look at the face: it's vacant, with a hint of sadness. Like a drunk who's lost a bet.

First off, can we discuss this latest Facebook recommendation for a second? I’ve written in the past about sidebar ads (did you know that wrestling a piglet into Wellies is one of the 365 things you must do before you die?), but the juxtaposition of zombies and Dumbo just opens up a whole new, disturbing train of thought. I found myself rewriting Dumbo wherein, instead of the “magic” feather to help him fly, Dumbo furiously clings to the brains of his enemies before jumping off the platform at the circus.

And speaking of creepy things, we have had two (2!) snake sightings in our driveway in the last couple of weeks. And while I keep flashing back to watching my Pappaw take an axe to a snake when I was a kid, the closest I’ve come to “decisive” action is squealing and hurriedly closing the garage door.  I’ve dubbed this plan of attack the “Fright and Flight” reflex. I’ll let you know how that works out for me.

And finally, there are the stinkbugs. So many that I told Jeremy if I saw one more, we were moving. They’re in the windows, in the fireplace, somehow in the upstairs bathroom, on fruit we bring home…I’ve had it. Last night one was flying and bumping into the ceiling above my head. I cowered under the afghan (see above re: “Fright and Flight”) while Jeremy disposed of it (my hero). Although after the stinkbug met its demise, Jeremy looked at me and—out of nowhere—said, “No, we’re not moving.” 

He’s just not being reasonable.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

The ratio of people to cake is too big.

I have spent the better part of the last week as the sole effective communicator in an IT/Writer-Editor/IT sandwich.  An example:

IT 1: The apples are rotten. We need bananas.
IT 2: The apples aren’t rotten. We shouldn’t need bananas.
IT 1: Why do you refuse to buy bananas? That means I’ll have to go out of my way to buy kiwis to bypass the rotten apples.
IT 2: Kiwis are ridiculous. And the apples aren’t rotten.
IT 1: Well, I agree the kiwis are ridiculous. You really should just buy the bananas.
IT 2: I don’t see why we should have to buy bananas.
Mary: mutters string of curse words under her breath

 I have sent several emails that start with “IT 1, I think what IT 2 means is…” Future emails may include such wisdom as, “You know, sentences really should have both a noun and a verb,” and, “If you don’t pick up the phone and talk to each other, I’m going to find a way to upload really graphic pornography to your federal government website.” (Sidebar to the NSA on that last one: I wouldn’t actually do that).

Still, even on days like today, with the frustrating IT mediation, Starbucks being out of regular bacon sandwiches and having to settle for turkey bacon, and spilling my coffee in spectacular, if-this-was-TV-they’d-show-it-in-slow-motion fashion, I must remember that, when commuting to my old job, a hobo once hit me with a newspaper. Funny how quickly our threshold for annoyance adapts to our situation…