Teach me how to Shatner, Baby Girl.



Picture a 9-month old girl in pajamas doing exactly this. With a pacifier in her mouth.



So I hear stories of babies (and their parents) with nice, calm, gentle sleep routines. Bath, pjs, bottle/nurse, book, song, bed. Or whatever.

I want them to come to my house and experience the whirlwind that is my spirited little girl at bedtime.

First, the bath. All is well, she loves the bathtub and splashing water all over the bathroom. Generally she is squealing with happiness the whole time. (Our poor neighbors.) There are the attempts to stand up, the flinging of water from the cups she must have in there, the attempts to TOUCH EVERYTHING, including the drain stopper, overflow cover, and the faucet. Which I do try to keep clean, but this *is* a rental apartment, and must she try to lick them??

After the bath everything goes all to hell. Getting this kid in pjs is like wrestling a greased-up pig. Well, pajamas aren't so bad, it's the diaper that is the biggest issue. She's in the stage where she just wants to crawl away from diaper changes, so it's definitely a challenge these days. The past couple days she has added in a "I hate sleeves! I hate pants!" kind of mood, as well. So she's been in short outfits, because it doesn't really matter right now.

Bottle, mostly all good there. Until she is getting close to full and starts playing with it. She likes to take the bottle away from me (she doesn't hold it herself yet to eat) and flip it upside down, pushing the nipple around so she sprays milk or lets it collect in the palm of her hand. And she'll lick the side of the bottle. Weirdo. But not that big of a deal, I take it away and all is well. She's just learning how things work.

It's after that where things take a turn for the comical. Generally she finishes the bottle, starts to let her little eyelids get heavy, and takes a pacifier. A couple minutes of peace. On some occasions, she will actually fall asleep at this point. I like those times. It's sweet. Usually, though, there is still a ways to go.

If she can't quite settle into sleep, she starts a-flingin'. First an arm or a leg, but then she twists around and sends her whole body into the most dramatic Shatner-esque display of "I'm soooo tired" I have ever experienced. She stands up against the back of the couch, sometimes facing it, sometimes not, and leans her head against it with her eyes closed. Then she slides back down and falls over, until she is either laying in between the back and seat of the couch or is flat against the seat. Hand over face. Then she flings herself into a different position. Again, and again, and again. Sometimes she lays on me, half on and half off, rolling around. Just... can't... get comfortable... She does full 360 spins on her back/front. She goes from one end of the couch to the other. Climbing over me to get there. I try to keep an arm or hand in contact so she doesn't fling herself right onto the floor, and so I can kind of ease her flinging around so she doesn't hurt herself (or me) while on the couch, and she gets even more dramatic about how my arm is in the way of her flinging and laying. Tonight she even added in some pelvic thrusts while she was sprawled on her back next to me, starfish-style. She'll walk along the back of the couch, laying her head down periodically, until she reaches me and just collapses onto me. She lays her head on my chest, but it's... just not... right so she picks it back up, looks around, whips it into facing the opposite direction and drops it back like a rock onto my chest. My poor chin has been caught up in this more times than I care to admit. Puts her hands up by her face but something's... wrong so she tucks them underneath her, between herself and me. Then one arm up and the other down. One tucked, one hanging loose. Switch it up again. Then she sliiiiiiiiiiiiides back down into a cradle-hold position.

Sometimes she's done there. Sometimes she is still not ready. More energy to burn, more... Shatnering to do. Sometimes when she lays against my chest she slides down so she's in a squat position or puts her legs around my waist... and then flings herself backwards. Hand over face.

More than anything, the "hand over face" is her "I'm ready for sleep" sign. It's like she's so over the day she just has to *facepalm.* She does it roughly 8 gajillion times during this little ritual, because she really is ready for sleep. She just doesn't want to be. If the hand stops floating on up there, she goes back in the floor for more play time. (Because obviously the dramatic flinging is serious business, and not for fun. Don't mind the grunts and squeaks and smiles and squeals and random vocalizations. They're totally serious.)

But I love when she finally does settle down, whether it's in a cradling position or if she's laying against my chest, and falls asleep. Even if she flips her head from side to side a few times. She is a very independent kiddo, but she still likes to snuggle to sleep. I missed it when she had stopped for a few months. I really wonder if she is going to keep doing this and make toddlerhood super interesting, or if she's going to switch it up on me again and make it interesting another way. There's no telling, really. I'll just keep rolling with it, and try to stop interfering with her "process" by giggling throughout.

It really distracts her from her "process."

Eat it, self-doubt!

It's definitely been an interesting couple weeks since I last posted. More on that later.

When I took my little love in for her 4-month appointment (she rocked at getting her shots, by the way!), based on their scale she hadn't gained any weight since her 2-month appointment. She had grown in length and head circumference, but apparently was still 12.5-ish pounds. The doctor didn't seem concerned; it wasn't like she had fallen off the charts altogether, and she has doubled her birth weight. But I was a little thrown off my game, so I did a stupid thing and opened my big mouth about it. We agreed that the fact that Little Bit is teething and had been pooping constantly for a while most likely led to her losing a little. But the doc suggested I start her on rice cereal (which I have been against using for SOOO many reasons) just for the extra calories, and to bring her back in 2 weeks for a weight check.

As soon as I walked out of the appointment my internal debate began. Deep down, I really did not believe anything was wrong with her. I felt like the pediatrician made the suggestions he did more to appease a first-time mom rather than out of a sense of concern for Baby G's health. Which I have issues with anyway, because I don't feel like I need to be coddled, and for the most part I am NOT an alarmist or paranoid parent who is terrified by every cough or sniffle. I have a background in child development, and I have spent the better part of three years monitoring debates and trends and doing a hell of a lot of research regarding raising children. I knew then and I know now that all the studying in the world can't truly prepare you for a baby, so I didn't go into this with unreasonable expectations. (Unless you count my expectation that a high-needs demon child would inevitably be what my husband and I released upon the world... I was totally wrong there. This kid is absolutely amazing.) My point is, I am not an idiot, I am not uneducated. I don't do things just because others are doing it or because I think it would be neat or fun, I do things because I have done my research and feel like it is best for my child and our family.

But while all this was running through my head, I was still trying to fight my concern over a number. Her weight. I thought it "couldn't hurt" to start her on cereal, JUST so she would put on some weight. Even though everything in me was screaming that she was okay, I was beginning to doubt myself for the first time. So I bought some organic rice cereal, and a bunch of spoons and bowls. I had been wanting to get those anyway, just to have around for when we do get started. When we got home I mixed up some of the cereal and tried to give her a few bites. She wouldn't/couldn't take it. Her tongue-thrust reflex was still pushing the spoon out. She was NOT ready. I didn't want that for her. We were done.

So we just carried on about our merry little way, and I continued following her lead regarding feedings. She ate as much or as little as she needed, as often as she needed. At that point she would typically eat around 30 ounces a day. As we were coming up on the followup appointment, Baby G developed a nice little case of pink eye. It was Easter Sunday (naturally), and I went ahead and took her into Urgent Care so we could get it treated ASAP. Of course, they weighed her... over 15 pounds!!!

My thoughts: somebody's scale was wrong. There is just no way this kid gained 3 pounds in 2 weeks. My scale at home had had her around 14-15 pounds prior to that 4-month appointment, which is why I was so damn surprised when they said she was just 12 pounds and some change. I called to cancel the followup appointment and explain the situation, since the purpose was to check her weight, which had been done, and I didn't want to bring pink eye into a well clinic. (The urgent care clinic is a feature of her regular clinic.) The lesson I learned from all this? My mama instincts rawk. I will try my hardest not to doubt them again.

On pregnancy and the need to slap people.

Pregnancy has not been a walk in the park for me, but I'll live. Almost immediately after peeing on a stick and it saying "Come on, really? You're going to act like you don't already know?", the vomiting started. And continued constantly. I was so dehydrated from the constant throwing up and inability to eat anything that I had to sit in the waiting room at the health department for another half hour downing a bottle and a half of water before I was able to pee a tiny bit in a cup so they could confirm what I had known in the back of my head for a few weeks. Something just felt different. Even though many of the symptoms of MWW were present, they were a little off. Funny how most of the MWW symptoms are the same as pregnancy symptoms, eh? A little cramping, fatigue, sore boobs, skin issues, bloating... Only the main event of MWW never started.

I was super excited. Well, as excited as possible what with all the hurling going on. Whether I have anything in my stomach or not doesn't matter, because it seems I have a lifetime supply of stomach acid to throw up. (Pretty sure I'm going to end up with the heartburn symptoms later because of that.) Within a weekend I had lost about 4 lbs, and I have continued to lose weight since then. Absolutely nothing worked. I tried eating crackers, eating crackers before getting out of bed, eating this or that, avoiding this or that, getting out of bed slowly, acting casual while getting out of bed to see if I could trick my body into forgetting it's supposed to be throwing up, sleeping in every position to see if that would help, eating some peanut butter before bed so my stomach wouldn't be empty in the morning, etc. For every person that suggested I eat some saltines? Fuck you. You should be slapped. You don't even have to be pregnant to have heard that helpful little tidbit, you moron, you honestly think that wasn't the first goddamn thing I tried? And if it's been weeks of sickness, do you really think you're the first person to make that totally original suggestion? The ones smilingly saying "I don't know what to tell you, I had absolutely zero problems during pregnancy, my pregnancies were so easy and perfect and all rainbows and happiness that the sun practically shone out of my vagina," are also unhelpful and deserving of slaps to the face. "Well, bully for you, Bitch!", is all I want to say. But I digress.

All in all I have lost about 10-12 pounds, and have never looked forward to gaining weight so much in my life. That will mean that baby is growing healthy and that I'm able to eat again. I've only just gotten to where occasionally I can eat before I go to work. I'm not sick every day now, as of last week it was about half and half. And although I was totally miserable for the first few weeks, my apparently amazing willpower meant the only porcelain god I prayed to was the one in my own home. No getting sick at work (couldn't do it, because then everyone would know and I'm not really wanting to deal with that), no getting sick out in public, no getting sick when visiting the families, no having to pull over to the side of the road to grace the grass with my stomach acid. It wasn't until my second prenatal appointment, where we got to hear the heartbeat, that I threw up somewhere outside of my own home. I have been keeping a trashcan in my car for a while now, and it got put to good use that morning. And my car is my second home, so I'm going to say that doesn't count either.

Then there was the time I threw up in the trashcan in our kitchen, because The Hubby was in the bathroom. Unfortunately, the trashcan contained some used kitty litter from when he had cleaned out the litter box, as well as the empty, fume-y can of Scotch Guard since we had just gotten new living room furniture, and various other chemicals from the housework that had gone on the day before. All that was inhaled as I gasped for breath between heaves. Worst. Experience. Ever. My throat burned, I was shaky as hell, and I was terrified that I had seriously fucked up my chances of having a normal kid. Or remembering what a door is. The jury's still out on the whole "normal kid" thing, I guess. Although any child released from my womb is already at risk of being a bit odd, so we may never know.

Another infuriating symptom is that my skin exploded. (Figuratively. Sort of.) Acne like I have never known before has plagued me incessantly since this whole shebang kicked off. Granted, I've never had the best of skin, but I've never been this broke out all over before. It's awful, and I hate it.

Then there's the fatigue. This paired with the "morning" sickness means all I do is work, sleep, and vomit. I've been a night owl for a while, and the shift I work definitely doesn't help, but I can't imagine trying to work days right now and having to deal with the nausea and vomiting. I have always been someone who had to eat before going to work, and I haven't been able to for a few weeks now. I'm not even hungry then. I only take snack stuff to work, because the idea of an actual "lunch break" is a joke for me. By the time I get off work I'm starving, so I eat, but I'm exhausted, so then I sleep. The past couple of weeks, though, have been different. I'd been staying up later to spend time with The Hubby before he left. And now I'm staying up later after he's gone in order to take care of the things that he had been taking care of during the day while I was at work. Laundry, dishes, cleaning, grocery shopping, etc. All taking place after 9-ish PM now. Still, it's so hard for me to get up early, because that just means more vomiting and fatigue and longer awake-time without being able to eat.

I'm hoping that now I'm starting in the second trimester of all this fun-ness I'll be able to start experiencing less of these pesky symptoms. Really I just want to be able to eat regularly again, so the nurse won't say to me again at my next appointment "You've lost some weight again... Are you sure you don't want us to prescribe you anything so you stop getting sick?" The thing is, right around the time baby showed up in the picture I had just started to cut way back on my soda habit, and my job description changed so that I was thankfully able to be up on my feet a lot more at work rather than sitting in front of a computer screen. And we weren't buying as much junk food, because The Hubby was having to watch his weight and stay healthy too. That, paired with the nausea/vomiting and work schedule that restricted my ability to eat was going to lead to some weight loss. Although I have to admit 10 pounds in a couple of weeks is maybe a bit excessive.

I really want to make it through this without having to take any kind of medication (except the prenatal vitamins, of course). I hate taking medicine anyway, but I really feel like even though it sucks the nausea isn't bad enough or debilitating enough to warrant medication. If it was seriously interfering with work, maybe, but again, I have yet to actually throw up at work, and I don't think I'm going to. It seems to be on the down swing now, so hopefully it'll start to fade and I can start chowing down like a pregnant woman's meant to.

Drunk ninjas at midnight.

It had been a long day. My ability to sleep has been shoddy at best recently, and I knew I had to get up super-freakin' early the next day. I left work early, and called The Hubby to let him know that I was on my way home but needed to get something quick to eat and go straight to bed, because I'd be getting up at 4am. Usually we roll on into bed around 1 or 2... So I knew it was going to be bad. I got home a little after 9, and after eating and settling down some it was around 10 or 10:30 when I was finally able to try and get to sleep. A couple hours later, I was finally starting to fall asleep.

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

At first I thought it was one of the cats, somehow. You know how when they're scratching themselves sometimes on the down-stroke their foot slams against whatever they're sitting on? Repeatedly? Every damn time, as if they have no concept of self-control or force? Then I heard the thud of a cat landing on the floor, followed by claws scratching against the kitchen floor as she bolted into the bedroom. Damn Jugga. I was a little startled, but I wouldn't have thought anything of it if hadn't been for other kitty The Pants at the foot of the bed suddenly going on alert. Then I heard the banging again, and The Pants started growling, since she's our alarm system.

Someone was at the door. At 1 am. Aside from my tendency to not answer doors being knocked on by people who didn't show the courtesy of calling first, I was aggravated because of all nights it had to be this night. There wasn't a single person I could think of that would be knocking on our door at that hour without having called us first. And if it had been the police for some reason, they would have announced themselves. At least they should according to television and movies. So my plan was to ignore them until they went away. (It's always worked before.)

Unfortunately, they didn't get the memo and kept knocking. I nudged The Hubby awake, and went to look out the window to see if there was a vehicle out there. There wasn't, so no clues there. And the knocking still hadn't stopped--we weren't going to be able to just ignore this person. Finally, The Hubby goes to answer the door. I stayed huddled on the bed, cell phone in hand, ready to call 911 if necessary. I hear the door open, and then this guy starts talking and won't stop.

I couldn't hear it very well, not being in the same room, but what I did hear alternated between mumbled slurring and clear moments of the utmost sincerity.

"Hey man, mumble mumble mumble I just live right over there, and I just wanted to let you know that if you ever need anything, anything, I'm here for ya. Mumble mumble mumble. I really am a good person, and I just like to help people all the time. I'm always willing to help anybody."  There was more mumbling, and a lot of repetition, and at one point I heard "I'm so sorry, man, I'm not trying to make you mad or anything... Yeah, it is kinda late... But I just wanted you to know..." And more of the same a couple more times. Finally The Hubby comes back in, saying "He's so drunk. He kept pointing and saying he lived right over there, his eye was all busted up, and he kept trying to shake my hand."

Then the fun continued as we tried to figure out where the hell this guy disappeared to. There wasn't a vehicle around, so he wasn't driving (definitely for the best), but still... The Hubby looked out all the windows, trying to see where he had gone. But apparently he had just dropped off the face of the earth. We couldn't see him anywhere. I thought to myself, "Dear Cheezits, clearly he's a drunk ninja." The Hubby kept making a circuit of all the windows, and we were both wide awake. At 1:30 in the morning.

I tried so hard to get to sleep, and he decided to stay up for a little longer. I listened to the shower running, and eventually dozed off. Then I felt something hit and then touch my toes--The Hubby had kicked my foot on accident when he climbed back into bed, and thinking it was a cat he had reached down to make sure it was okay. I eventually dozed off again.

When my alarm went off at 4, I could have screamed. Thanks to a drunk ninja, I turned into a zombie for a day.

(boop BEEP.)

It's been another crazy couple of weeks. Although I wasn't moved back into my house by December 31st as I had hoped, we did manage to get back in on January 2nd, while we were both still off work for the holiday weekend. It was kind of rough for a couple of days, adjusting to the "new" digs, but it's so nice to be back in our own home again.  We only just got our internet connected this weekend. I've been dying.

The next day was the start of my first "full" week (even if it was only a 4-day work week) at the new job. It's been all kinds of crazy, and extremely stressful with loooong days of chaotic work and not seeing The Hubby, but there's been a few moments of pure, unadulterated comedy to marginally lighten the load.

A little lead-up: We (my fellow supervisor/friend and I) were scheduled to attend a webinar discussing an updated technology we were to begin using. It did not go well, but I took notes regardless. It was just too good not to record for posterity. What follows are the notes I took... complete with the written version of the sound effects liberally sprinkled throughout the 10-minutes of disaster.

"This is Person A*, NOT Person B* (names redacted to protect the unfortunate.)

Star 6 mutes your phones. DO IT. (boop BEEP.) (boop BEEP.)


(boop BEEP.) Introduction of Blah Blah. 


Or not.


Maybe. We're not sure yet. (boop BEEP.)

Again, this is Person A, NOT person B.


Star 6 mutes your phones, people. (boop BEEP.) (boop BEEP.) (boop BEEP.) Good God please mute your damn phones.


We MAY HAVE lost connectivity to the webinar. (boop BEEP.)


Oh, the dismay. (boop BEEP.) There's a CONFLICT!!  (boop BEEP.)


(boop BEEP.)

("You can't hear me, can you?")

At this point, he (an attendee somewhere else in the world) is just facking with everyone. "Jeopardy!" "Tagalongs!" "They're having some problem, I don't know. She's gonna have to go to lunch or something. . . I hope we're on mute." (boop BEEP.)


We have "sharing issues." We may have to reschedule. (boop BEEP.)"

I cannot stress enough how frequently the boop BEEP occurred throughout this, as well as everything else. If I wrote it, it's because it was repeated over and over again. Seriously, there was this one guy that came in a little late and somehow didn't get the thoroughly covered tip that star 6 would mute your phone. But with all the other boop BEEPs going on, for a while all we could hear was random interjections about TV shows and cookies.  Coworker and I could not stop laughing through all of this. At least we had immediately muted our phone...

Honestly, this was the best webinar I've ever attended in my life. And it never even got past the first slide.

Love, "Beth-not-Dana"

I had a real *headdesk* moment earlier today. You know how I've been applying for different jobs? Well, I got a call back from one today. Unfortunately, she had called the wrong number. But in the good news department, now I have a new nemesis, and her name is Dana. Dana the Job Stealer. (Maybe it's just "Interview Hoarder," but "Job Stealer" makes it easier for me to shake my fist at her while scowling.) So Dana? Whoever you are, you better have ROCKED my interview and got the job. If I can't have it, I at least want to know it went to a worthy foe.

(Whore.)

Holding pattern.

If you're here looking for a laugh, check out the hilarious reviews for this amazing product. Seriously, who doesn't need a pair or two of handerpants?? And if you're not impressed, there's always the classic Three Wolf Moon shirt, where I can always find the most epic, amazing reviews that can instantly cheer me up.

* * * * * *

In any case, that was the "phoning it in" fluff so the few readers I have don't forget about me, and know I'm still alive and haven't forgotten about them! If you're here to read a rambling wallow in self-pity, read on, because after this sentence comes the *actual* post.

It's been almost 2 weeks since I last posted, and I am ashamed of that. It's not like I haven't had plenty of time on my hands, or plenty of ideas for posts... I actually have a ton of drafts of posts started, but I just haven't seemed to have the energy to do much but sleep or read or snack or watch shows on the computer or anything else that doesn't require much getting up off my butt or thinking. I go to work, come home, and blah. On days when I don't work, all-day blah. Folks, I think it's safe to say that the depression is back.

There was a couple of weeks solid where I was crying at the drop of a hat, and every time I went to sleep it was nightmare after nightmare. I just want to be left alone, I'm extremely irritable, don't feel like doing anything productive, and just want to sleep all day. That oh-so-familiar empty feeling is back, and I feel like my job is not helping at all. I'm basically selling my weekends and ability to make plans, and the tiny paycheck is totally not worth it.  I've already had to miss one event with my friends that I really wanted to be able to make it to, and I don't want to have to wait until Christmas to see my family again. This will most likely be the last year we'll all be together for a while, and it sucks ass that I will most likely only be able to spend a few hours with them on Christmas day. I so hate working retail. I've sent out resumes, but no luck so far. There's just not a lot of hiring going on right now, and although I totally rock at everything most places are looking for people with experience that I don't have, or it's more freaking retail.

I'm just kind of miserable right now. I hate that I've moved backwards like this in the job department. I hate that in every other aspect of my life I'm just in this kind of holding pattern, waiting. Waiting for our house to be finished. (I hope it's done by Christmas, and the fact that I have to *hope* for that pisses me off. It's been 6 months. It could have been done twice by now. "Progress" keeps getting stalled.) Waiting for a different job to come along. Waiting for The Hubby to leave for and be done with boot camp and all the training after that so we can get out of here and away from some of the toxic cycles we're stuck in. Waiting for our life to start. It feels like starting over, and I wish it would hurry up already. I feel like I'm about to lose it, but I can't allow that to happen because I wouldn't even be able to simply deal with it in the privacy of my own damn home.

November News!

So there's been a lot going on in my life here lately... Not so much a "constantly staying busy" thing as a "a hell of a lot on my mind" thing. And until some of it had sorted itself out I wasn't really feeling like I could blog about it. Plus, The Hubby had requested that I keep a bit of it under wraps until some things were squared away. He's a much more private person than I am, and I respected his wishes and waited until I got the go-ahead to spill. But enough with the cryptic bullshit, eh? Here's what my month has been like so far.

This past week The Hubby went through MEPS, the Military Entrance Processing Station. He has been sworn into the Marine Corps. He's been back and forth about wanting to do this for the past couple years, but he's finally committed to it. He started talking to a recruiter a few months ago, had to make some changes before and after going to MEPS for the first time a month or so ago ("clothing" a tattoo on his back, and getting the holes in his ear sewn up--he had two holes stretched to 0 gauges), and then waiting on going back to MEPS for the second time so they could verify the changes and get him sworn in.  At this point he's not going to be able to ship out until around the beginning of May, and he'll be going through the 13-week boot camp in San Diego.

How am I feeling about all this? Honestly, I couldn't be happier. Any time he has mentioned the possibility of entering the military I have supported him. I think this is a great opportunity for him, and a great opportunity for us. I know it will be difficult for us both, in very different ways, but totally worth it. We both understand the risks involved--with our country having been at war for the better part of a decade it would be foolish for us not to anticipate a Marine to be deployed into a war zone. They have made it clear that because he is married his first permanent duty station will be within the continental US, but after that? It will all just depend on his job and where he is needed. I will admit to feeling some trepidation... After all, I talk a big game about my independence and toughness (I'm super tough.), but my hand has never been forced like this. Being without him for a weekend is one thing, but I'm about to be away from him for a solid three months while he's in boot camp. And then another month for combat training. And then up to a year while he's at his MOS (Military Occupation Specialties) school. And then at some point I know I'll have to face the separation of deployment, and everything that means. At least he'll get some time in between all that to come home, and while he's gone for boot camp and all the training after that I'll have the support of my friends and family nearby.

But in the meantime, and throughout his military career--whether he stays in for four years or until retirement--we'll just do our best to take it one day at a time, and deal with whatever comes our way. Besides, it gets us the hell out of this area. We'll be selling the house as soon as I'm able to move with him. Unfortunately, it'll probably still be a while.

But that's not all that's been going on... November also marks my youngest brother's birthday. I adore that kid--even if having just turned 18 he's officially not a kid anymore. I spent the Saturday after his birthday with my family, celebrating at Buffalo Wild Wings and at Mom's house with a homemade ice cream cake and lots of music. Youngest Brother had a friend over who, like Y.B. is talented with a guitar. I had so much fun listening to the two of them singing and playing guitar. Our house had frequently been filled with music in the past, but it's been a while. At least for me, because The Hubby doesn't play as much anymore and Y.B. isn't always playing when I'm over there (which is nowhere near often enough). Y.B. has also enlisted in the military as of this month, but like my other younger brother who is older than Y.B. (he will be O.Y.B. I guess...) Y.B. has enlisted in the Navy. He will most likely be shipping out sometime around August or September. Lots of big news in my family these days.

However, the same day that I was celebrating with my family, The Hubby was mourning the loss of his maternal grandfather with his. If it was any month other than November, I would have been with him. But there is no way I would have been able to handle a funeral that day. In any case, things have been a little rough lately for The Hubby's family. Maybe in another post I'll talk about why I personally find life a little more difficult every November, but I'm not feeling like going into that right now. Besides, this post has been long enough, don't you think?

Surprisingly, there's not a single cuss word.

To Whom It May Concern:

I have the good sense to know when I'm being insulted. I hope you have the good sense to know when you should be ashamed of yourself. I'm letting things go (...again), but only because I sincerely believe you do not, in fact, have the mental capacity to realize how infuriating your comments and actions are.

I deeply hope that someday soon The Hubby and I will be able to move far, far away from here and everyone we know. Those who would actually be missed are important enough in our lives to hopefully understand that no amount of distance can destroy a strong relationship, because at this point those who matter are considered family anyway. And we always find a way to connect with the family members that matter, whether it's through phone calls, texts, Facebook, or Twitter. Or those super-fun road trips we all love, but that don't happen often enough.

In the meantime, to those who infuriate me and make me want to move as far away as possible, I will borrow the words of a dear friend of mine: You make me want to reach out and touch something... violently.

XOXO,

The ZB

On dickish behavior.

Tonight at work I was faced with a situation that irked me a bit. I won't bore you with the details, but the gist of the conversation consisted of someone acting out of spite (and likely a healthy dose of laziness) while expressing fake indignation at "needing" to do so.

Come on, now, you know your ass wasn't going to be working hard whether someone pissed you off or not.

Unfortunately, this is a conversation I have all too frequently with some coworkers, and of course people I know *outside* of work.

My argument is (and yes, I use it with the people saying these things, too!), how does you being a dick in return help the situation any? Ever. The only thing that happens is that everyone gets progressively pissier, and more and more defensive of their dickish behavior, until all things productive and helpful have come to a complete standstill, because inevitably they try to get others involved in proving their own righteousness in being a bigger dick.

This situation is typically made worse by the tendency of the individuals involved in the dickish-behavior contest to not actually say a damn word to each other about it. Because, of course, "They know what they did!" So instead of saying honestly, "Hey, you did (or didn't do) _________, and it seriously pissed me off. What the hell?", and opening up a *conversation* with the person they're pissed at, they modify their own behavior in a way that makes things more difficult for that person. Then they feel the need to tell someone what they did and why, expecting applause or pats on the back or pursed-lipped "Mmmhmm!"s. And you know what? They get it. Almost every damn time. So now while the "target" of the "retaliation" may or may not realize in the first place they did something that irritated someone else, they sure notice that they are being mistreated in some way and now there's a crowd of people taking sides in this dickish-behavior contest (that, again, they may or may not have known they were involved in). At that point? Game on.

Unless, of course, one of the parties involved realizes that what is going on is only going to escalate way beyond the original point of irritation, and does something to stop it. This is perhaps how some marriages go from dirty socks on the floor to divorce.  

In any case, my main point is this: How about rather than matching them step by step with dickish behavior, try "killing them with kindness." Or honesty. And if you REALLY want to get their goat? Be genuine about it. And I'm not even being a smartass here--I'm being totally serious. If you continually show that you are a decent person who works hard and just tries to do what's right, you'll find yourself in these dickish-behavior contests a lot less often, and when you do get tangled into one it most likely won't last as long. Nothing is lost by taking the high road once in a while, when you know what that low road is going to bring. Because seriously? You're just making more work for yourself by playing these kinds of games.

CH-CH-CH-CHANGES!!

...Or not.

You know how when something is supposed to happen, and then it doesn't happen like they said it would, and you feel stupid for listening to rumors about it? Harold Camping's followers do (HA!), but I didn't even realize the similarity between their plight and mine until I just now typed that out. It makes me feel even MORE stupid for making such a mountain out of a molehill when their mountain out of a molehill was a much bigger deal, for them AND for pop "cult-ure" history. Here I am worrying about a job-related change, when they were all worried (actually they seemed pretty damn excited) about the end of the world. Probably excited at the demise of us heathens.

Anyhoo, hooray for positive sorts of letdowns! As in "Hey, that wasn't as bad as I was being led to believe it was!" Am I being vague enough for you about the job-related non-change? Because it doesn't really matter. It's THAT MUCH not a big deal. It's only a big deal when you build things up in your head before you know what the hell's going on. This is normally not even something I do, but with everything going on in my life right now it's my first instinct to jump to the worst-case scenario. Now I'm lookin' like a fool with those beliefs on the ground.

That's really all I have to say for now. Actually, I have lots to say--as always--but I'm going to try to keep these things more topic-focused when a specific topic is indicated in the title. (See? This post is all about "Change." Or a lack of it. But see, even "lack of change" still fits the general topic becau... *stopthatnow*)

Now I'm going to go to bed, because it's starting to seem like that "third wind" of energy I caught may have had a hint of nitrous oxide, causing a headache and a serious case of the sillies.

The Painted Toenail Apocalypse

I recently came across the story (stories, really) about the reaction to the J. Crew article featuring pictures of designer Jenna Lyons painting her 5-year-old son's toenails pink. Who knew that wielding a tiny paint brush could cause so much of an uproar? Apparently she should have known that painting her son's toenails hot pink will lead not only to his gender confusion and definitely "choosing" to become gay, but will also lead to *nobody* wanting to have and nurture children or join the military.

Because that's the *obvious* result of such careless action.  At least it is according to Dr. Keith Ablow's opinion piece (on none other than the Fox News website, of course!). Some of my favorite quotes, accompanied by my own personal commentary:

This is a dramatic example of the way that our culture is being encouraged to abandon all trappings of gender identity—homogenizing males and females when the outcome of such “psychological sterilization” [my word choice] is not known.

(Believing that spending time with her son by painting his toenails pink--she says it's his favorite color--is a dramatic example of anything other than spending time with her son is frankly astonishing to me. I guess if he wants to watch Dora the Explorer, she's brainwashing him to support illegal aliens through learning how to say "door" in Spanish?)

Well, how about the fact that encouraging the choosing of gender identity, rather than suggesting our children become comfortable with the ones that they got at birth, can throw our species into real psychological turmoil . . . Why not make race the next frontier? What would be so wrong with people deciding to tattoo themselves dark brown and claim African-American heritage? Why not bleach the skin of others so they can playact as Caucasians?

(Now I'm not saying he's a "well-known" psychologist, but the fact that he believes we can freely *choose* our gender identity is irresponsible in his profession, to say the least, let alone forcing them to just "become comfortable with" the one they got at birth. Sorry sir, even I know that biological sex and gender identity are two totally different things! They teach you that stuff in even *introductory* psych classes. Also, anyone else sick of the dramatic snowball crap that these assholes use when it comes to this topic? Gay marriage leads to marrying animals, polygamy, etc., now hot pink toenails on 5-year-olds leads to light-skinned folks in "black face" and darker-skinned folks "playacting" as Caucasian. Right. Sound logical argument there!)

And while that may seem like no big deal, it will be a very big deal if it turns out that neither gender is very comfortable anymore nurturing children above all else, and neither gender is motivated to rank creating a family above having great sex forever and neither gender is motivated to protect the nation by marching into combat against other men and risking their lives.

(Wow.  Selfish current and upcoming generations, with their whole "GTL" fascination. Apparently it's not just a few individuals, it's everybody. And it's no joke. But that's not my real point here. Since when has there been problems with people who don't feel  like they were born in the right body NOT wanting to have children and start families, just like everyone else? I thought the Neanderthalic (is that a word? Nope, not according to spellcheck) assholes (that one is for SURE) were all pissy about LGBT couples/individuals WANTING to have children and be able to join the military? So... is that off now? Have we changed our mind about that? In any case, I'm sure it would definitely be a big deal if nobody ever in the whole world ever wanted to do either of those things ever. But logically? Yeah, that's not gonna happen. Unfortunately, assholes like you will continue to procreate smugly in the knowledge that none of your children will ever question anything if you have anything to say about it.)  

Jenna Lyons and J. Crew seem to know exactly what they’re up to. That’s why the photograph of Jenna’s son so prominently displays his hot pink, neon toe nails. These folks are hostile to the gender distinctions that actually are part of the magnificent synergy that creates and sustains the human race.   

(Yes. Spending time with her beautiful 5-year-old son doing whatever activity he wanted is clearly a hostile action. It was a massive liberal conspiracy, which frankly I'm surprised conservatives on your so-fair-and-balanced network didn't make up in order to point out such massive liberal conspiracies. I'm sure Glenn Beck has some pictures of some crowds that attended the nail-painting event.)

One of the saddest parts of this whole thing for me is that I actually liked Keith Ablow as an author of psychological thriller/suspense novels. I'm really sad to see that now... Well, you know.

Sigh.

Dear "The Office,"

Hi. I am a big fan of the American version of your show.  I'm sure I would also be a fan of the original British version had I ever watched it, but alas, I never have. Perhaps if I had, I would have become a fan of the whole shebang sooner than a couple months ago.

You see, what has kept me from watching all this time is the person playing Michael Scott. I have harbored a healthy (perhaps not-so healthy, really) dislike for Steve Carell for... well, pretty much forever. He seems to play the same character no matter what he is doing, and although it obviously has worked very well for him, I hate that character. Very strongly. It causes a serious, visceral reaction, where I want to growl and throw something at the screen. I still feel this reaction when it comes to his "work," but things have changed. I have made this exception.

A few months ago, Dear Hubby began watching the show on Netflix. It was on our only TV constantly, and since we have a smallish house and Dear Hubby considers ear-blasting to be the only acceptable volume level I simply could not escape either the sight or sound of it. He had expressed surprise from the beginning that I didn't like the show, since it definitely seemed to match my sense of humor. Turns out, he was right... once immersion in the show helped me to focus on the other characters, who are AWESOME, I came to love the show. Granted, I still wanted to punch Steve Carell in the face, but I was more easily able to overlook his antics and appreciate the way other characters interacted with him.

Imagine my dismay tonight when I tuned in to a new episode (Super amazing, by the way!! Loved it!!), and finally discovered Will Ferrell would definitely be replacing Carrell. The anticipation/dread has been building since I heard he would be leaving, because I have only just gotten to where I can tolerate him, and could only see things getting worse with the new "boss". I had no idea. The only person I hate worse than Steve Carrell is Will Fucking Ferrell. Well, Will Fucking Ferrell, Tom Cruise, and Sean Connery (I know, that one seems blasphemous to many but it's a long story...). But I knew there was no chance the replacement would be Misters Cruise or Connery, and I had heard the rumors about Ferrell. My only consolation is that Will Ferrell will only be *temporary*--rumors are that Will Arnett will eventually be moving into the position, and I'm okay with him. But still... I'm not sure how many episodes will be featuring Douchecanoe Ferrell, so I don't know how many chunks of hair will be missing from my head by the time he's gone. I can only hope that my schedule will be such that I am simply unable to watch. Please remember your reluctant fans when it comes to casting in the future. I'm sure I will eventually cave into the curiosity and watch these dreaded episodes, but please understand that it will be past folded arms and narrowed eyes. Best of luck!

Hugs,
The ZB

Dreams!

I've been working from 5 am - 1 pm this week, (yay for working again!) but so far it sucks. Big time. My body has firmly decided that it prefers a sleep schedule that does not want anything to do with this particular work schedule. In theory, it's nice to be getting off work early in the afternoon, but it doesn't matter if I'm so exhausted from not being able to sleep the night before that I just go home and go to bed. Yesterday I took a nap right after I got home, and was feeling like American Idol comes on too late for me to watch it these days. I was worried I'd already be in bed by 7. But the nap helped tremendously, so I was able to wait until *after* watching that horrible, awful, addicting show before passing out. Today wasn't so bad, though, so maybe I'm starting to adjust. Fingers are crossed.

The other night (during the two hours I was able to kind of sleep) I had a hilariously bizarre dream. (Note: I frequently have bizarre dreams, but more on that later. Perhaps another post.) In this particular dream, I was walking through my house because I couldn't sleep. I heard someone stop in front of our house, so I went to the window to see what was going on. Of course, in this dream I was naked, so I didn't want whoever it was to see me. But I had all the lights on in the house despite the late hour, so I *knew* they knew someone was up. Turns out it was a friend of a friend, who in the dream I remember lives down the street because I remember him having stopped by on his way home a few times. In reality, he does not live nearby and has never been to our house. I recognized him *in the dark* because he was driving his Blazer and had his tattooed arm hanging out the window. Again, in reality he does not own a Blazer and doesn't have tattoos covering his arms. But in the dream, it was TOTALLY my friend, and I DEFINITELY did not want him to see me naked. We're not that close. So I decided to text him to let him know that I was just getting ready for bed, and I wasn't trying to be rude. Again. I do not even have this person's phone number. Are you getting the weirdness? But then it gets awesome.

Fast forward a little bit (because I can't remember what happened between these parts of the dream...), and suddenly I'm running outside (dressed now, of course) because I found out that *someone* had let my cats outside. They are strictly inside cats, except for a few dramatic escape attempts that make yet another story for another time. So I'm going outside after them, and when I'm going to scoop up one of the cats (we shall call her The Pants, the other cat shall be called Juggabutt) from the ditch across the street, neighbors outside barbecuing (Note: It's still nighttime when I should be sleeping). I look off to the left because OMG THERE'S A COUGAR AND A LEOPARD!!! And they looked irritated. So I scoop up The Pants and scramble to find Juggabutt to take her inside too before the BIG cats decide it's dinner time. Then suddenly The Pants and Juggabutt aren't an issue anymore, because they run inside all on their own when the big cats decide they're interested in *me.*  Luckily, the leopard disappeared (I guess my brain decided that THAT was a little too bizarre, therefore not believable enough to maintain a presence in the dream.), but the cougar moved into my driveway close to my garage. Also luckily, some random chick (who I believe was responsible for my kitties being outside) was standing behind the cougar (who stood up on his hind legs and walked menacingly over to me) holding an ice pick and a kitchen knife. I knew that it was my purpose to kill this vicious kitty, so I ice-picked him in the heart. He gave me this pitiful "How could you??" look, paws outstretched in true Jesus form, then proceeded to not die. So I cut him with the kitchen knife. He finally collapsed on the ground, but still was not dead. I ran inside.

*Fast forward*  I look out the window and see the cougar lying on the ground, flopping around all melodramatic, but clearly faking it. I mean, he was really milking it. It was like a bad movie. He wanted pity, and apparently he was never going to die. Then I hear something in the laundry room, so I go in there and find that same damn woman digging my dog out of a laundry basket full of clothes. (???) I ask her what the hell she is doing, and she says "I think he wants to go outside." So I of course say, "What the fuck are you thinking, woman? There's a goddamn COUGAR outside!!" She scoffs. So I tell her I will PROVE IT TO HER, and take her to the front door. And wouldn't you know it, that damn cougar is sitting on my porch, staring at my door, pitiful face and all. I decide to call the police, and they say "Yeah, we had come by there earlier after one of the neighbors called about a cougar, but we figured you could take care of it, so we left. How's that situation going, by the way?"  I started to tell them about my ice pick misadventure... when my alarm went off.   When I later tell my hubby that I dreamed a cougar was outside, he simply shrugs and says, "Eh, Pants would have taken care of it. She's a tough kitty." *Facepalm*

But seriously, why did it end up there?!

Was just commenting on this about the hubby's (and seemingly all men's) tendency to try to "fix" the problems of those nearest and dearest to their hearts. How considerate of them, really, but in all honesty most of us ladies just need to vent sometimes and be heard. We want to know that someone knows we are dealing with something we don't like, whether it's major life decisions or the need to switch the load of laundry from the washer to the dryer (dealing with said load of laundry after it's ready to be put away is back to being a major life decision...), and that they support us and know we work hard and every miniscule action is a drastic battle to change our lives, and that we obviously deserve a medal for the sacrifices we make and the obstacles we overcome on a daily basis.

How dare they presume to offer advice when we don't ask for it! Especially logical, sound advice which makes perfect sense, except for the fact that THAT is totally irrelevant at that point.

Especially when it's MY hubby, who automatically jumps to the assumption that if he can't find a certain screwdriver (which naturally he was the last person to use), it must have been stolen. Or *I* must have done something with it. I don't know how many times he has stomped around the room asking what *I* did with [insert random object here] (<-----Side note: *tee hee*). Usually something that typically I don't have much need for. And the more time he spends looking for it, the more frustrated he gets, making him less likely to find it. I refer to this as him going "mad-blind." I frequently have to look for things because he goes "mad-blind" and neglects to look NEXT TO areas he would typically put the things, underneath things near the areas he would typically put the things, or on the floor near areas he would typically put the things. Eventually I'll help him look for it, despite his protests that he doesn't need my help, he can find it or (suddenly) he probably doesn't even really need it, or maybe he could borrow one from his dad, and why would I be able to find it when he can't? Obviously it's gone. The look on his face when I find it after 15 seconds is priceless. The love I feel for him knowing we're just going to go through the same process a few more times before the week's out is even better.

We have fun with it now, though. At least now, after a few years of going through this constantly, as soon as something is discovered to be "missing" one of us will smile, sigh, and sadly say "Someone must have stolen it..." So although I very deeply want to punch him in the face for offering advice and not just commiserating when I'm whining/complaining to him about whatever, I don't. Because we all have our flaws.

Yesterday, I found the Holy Grail of his missing items, a certain screwdriver, on top of the medicine cabinet in our bathroom. Even *I* was baffled by that one. Those tricksy thieves.

*CLUNK* "What was that noise?" "Oh, my jaw just hit the floor. Then my eyes rolled back and I passed out from terror."

Have just been reading about the oh-so-wonderful hCG diet. You know, the one where you inject yourself daily with human choriogonadotropin. This is a hormone found only in pregnant women, allowing them to move excess fat to the fetus, so that it will have enough in the event that the mother doesn't take in enough nutrients to adequately support fetal growth during the pregnancy.

Since it only affects those troublesome areas of belly, thighs, hips, and booty (because those are areas where excess fat isn't physically necessary, but tends to pile up much to the chagrin of millions of men and women worldwide), once the lucky dieter has melted off those pounds, they become "immune" to the treatment and must wait about six weeks for it to fully cycle out of their system before starting another round. Of course more than three or four cycles of "treatment" aren't recommended. In theory, they shouldn't be necessary, because it is supposed to keep the weight off... just like every other diet claims to do. Some of the side effects may be headaches, increased risks of blood clots, restlessness, ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome (which is potentially life-threatening), and depression. Also, not-surprisingly, one might experience symptoms commonly experienced during pregnancy. Oh, and PREGNANCY can also be an unfortunate side effect, since although the FDA hasn't approved this for dieting purposes (here's hoping that move isn't made anytime soon!), they HAVE approved hCG as a fertility drug. So *there* people trying to lose massive amounts of weight through bad decision-making. Your bad decision could lead to the need for healthy weight gain.

Did I forget to mention the part about... ? Yep. Knew I was forgetting something. And it's a good one, too. You're going to love it. YOU'RE ONLY ALLOWED TO EAT 500 CALORIES A DAY. Of course nobody on a diet would ever admit to experiencing hunger pangs, so apparently they're not bothered by this after the first few days. Please see this helpful guide for tips straight from the horse's mouth (that is, the mouth of Dr. Simeons, who established the "diet regimen" in the 1950s): ...And start at page 6 for the real wow factor. Please, please PLEASE note that I am very much against this diet, and am providing this link for entertainment purposes only. If the sarcasm and incredulous nature of the post thus far has not come through, I sincerely apologize. On my end of the computer, I feel like my eyes are about to pop out from shaking my head so much with sheer amazement. People truly amaze me with the dangerous lengths they will go to to lose weight. Not to mention that the shots can cost about $10 apiece, and the "consultation" visits. If you use that website, you can get a 30-day supply for $89.95, in drop form rather than injection; $69.99 for the supplement that provides energy, works as an appetite suppressant, and naturally is good for stress relief as well. Then there's the box containing twelve 30 gram packets of "meal replacement powder" for $39.99. How many of those do you think you'd need? This *basic* package would run you a total of almost $200, but one might also choose a 60-day supply (note: they do not recommend being on the "diet" for more than about 40 days in a "treatment") for a meager $159.95. Besides, think of all the money you're saving on food! Come on now, that's a deal! *stabs self in eye*

Alright people, this is ridiculous. Apparently this diet has made a dramatic resurgence in popularity, they're giving these injections in all kinds of places. Or they're neatly avoiding potential medical career suicide by showing dieters how to do the injections themselves, even that first injection. Even if this "diet" tricks your body into thinking it's all cool, limiting yourself to 500 calories a day is astonishing in its ignorance. At that rate, as many others on the interwebs have said, whatever you're shooting yourself up with doesn't matter. However, the upside is that they don't exactly recommend exercise with this particular diet... Gee. Wonder why? Dizziness?  Pssh. Obviously anyone not expecting dizziness during exercise when you're only ingesting 500 calories a day just isn't serious about their diet. They should probably stop.

No, seriously. Please.    

STOP.

This is what marriage means.

I am very good at keeping secrets. Most of the time, anyway. But just about everything gets run by the husband, in all honesty. So it's slightly more difficult for me to keep things from him. But it can be done.

About a year and a half ago, he was off somewhere and I was at home watching one of my DVD sets of House. I had the windows opened up because there was a nice breeze going, but the blinds closed because it was dark outside. (Actually the blinds are just about always closed, because I immensely enjoy being nude.) So when the knock at the door occurred, it was too late for me to pretend in good conscience that I wasn't home. Luckily I was clothed. I paused my show and cautiously opened the door to a politely smiling but out-of-breath young man. The first thing he asked was, "Has anyone else come by here?" I of course said, "Noooo..." and would have raised a single eyebrow if I was lucky enough to have that ability. I did, however, have the ability to keep the door mostly closed to this probable rapist/burglar/mass murdere, so I did do that. Should've closed it all the way, but he just would have knocked again. I'm too nice. Apparently, his church youth group had a contest going through some company where whoever sold the most magazines would get to go on a vacation of some sort. He had the cool book of magazines and all.

I know, I know. But again, I'm too nice.

I bought a 2-year subscription to Spin. (We're big music fans.) On some level, I considered that money totally wasted at that point, and was resigned to just forgetting it ever happened. This was before the young gentleman had even left my driveway. On foot, might I add. Yes, I know. So first thing I did after this "event" was google the company that was supposedly sponsoring this contest, and guess what... Everything that came up said it was a scam. My next move bordered on overkill: I called our local police department to let them know that someone was selling fake magazine subscriptions door-to-door. The poor dispatcher told me the sheriff (our one officer at that point) was out on patrol, and that she'd let him know what was going on. She probably just could have yelled out the door and he would have heard, our town is that small. So my NEXT move definitely took the cake for crossing the line into "overkill." I decided to go out myself and find either the one cop in town or the gentleman scam artist and get my money back. I don't know how I was planning to go about doing that if I found him, but I was determined. After driving around aimlessly for a few minutes I realized how stupid this was, all of it, and returned home. When the hubby got home I didn't say a word about any of the night's happenings. Again, I was already considering that money wasted. So for the next few months I didn't think about it.

Then the first magazine came in. Imagine Hubby's surprise when a random music magazine starts showing up in our mailbox. Then his feeling of suspicion and confusion and fear appeared as well. Still, despite my almost equal level of surprise, there was no way in hell I was going to admit to my part in this. I mean, how embarassing would that be?! I gave money to a random stranger at our doorstep for a magazine subscription that I knew good and damn well was never going to happen! So the first month we passed it off as a fluke. Then the second magazine came in, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, the seventh, and I held firm that some random person in our life, perhaps a friend or family member, knowing our love of music must have gifted us a magazine subscription. That was why my name was on the address label and why we never received a bill or anything. It was indeed strange that we never got anything saying that we were receiving this as a gift, or that nobody we knew had told us that they were gifting us a subscription, but hey, why look a gift magazine in the mouth? We were just lucky I guess. Then I vaguely remembered that one of the guests at our wedding years ago had mentioned that they were going to be gifting us a magazine subscription of some sort, maybe they had forgotten about it and just now remembered! Of course, our screen door didn't have as many holes as those stories, so I would always end those conversations with a shrug and a flabbergasted head shake, saying "They'll stop coming eventually, I guess!" Hubby would walk away muttering to himself, still obviously confused. Then one more magazine showed up in our mailbox, and he finally hit the roof. "Why are we getting these freakin' magazines, where are they coming from, and most importantly, AM I GOING TO GET A BILL FOR A MAGAZINE I DIDN'T ASK FOR?!?!?!" The poor guy. He had no idea when he married me that this is the kind of thing he'd most likely have to be dealing with for the rest of his life. So I came clean, sort of. I told him that I had bought a magazine subscription off a suspicious door-to-door salesman and didn't say anything because it was most likely a scam and I didn't want him to be mad at me if it didn't ever come to anything. And when the magazines started showing up I didn't tell him why because I was astounded at my level of idiocy. He agreed it was indeed an idiotic sequence of events, but *sigh*-ed and let it go. He's awesome and understanding like that. This is why I married him, and any time I feel like I could stab him, these are the kinds of stories I remember. Besides, he does the same kind of stuff to me all the time, usually involving car parts ordered off Ebay or Craigslist. Except his general M.O. is to either order stuff without telling me and then something random gets brought home, or he asks for permission AFTER he's already ordered it. This was my first and only major "secret" purchase.

That dear hubby of mine doesn't necessarily think I need a blog. So for the mean time, my personal information, such as age, general location, and names of myself, the hubby, friends, family, and even my beloved pets will not be used. I'm sure that a super-determined person could still figure it out, and if you have that much interest then more power to you, but... I'm trying to wait a while before revealing this to at least the hubs. We all know it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission.   

He still doesn't know to expect the magazine to come in for two full years, though. I still shrug when he asks "When will we stop getting this??"  Who knows?

And I'm barely even a nerd.

Unfortunately, at this point I must assume that *This is not the blog you are looking for.* Perhaps at some point soon I will have something of interest to offer. But I'm going to be completely honest... I'm sure that once I do start regularly posting, it will still be disappointing.

*HUGS*

In the meantime, please enjoy this:

(I could so easily do a Rick Roll here, but I'm classier than that.)



Perhaps I should rethink the title of this post.