Sunday, February 28, 2010

Anti-Depressants and Blood Work

I thought that I was going to cause a riot at LabCorp this morning.

Because there is no lab or phlebotomist at my doctor's office, one must make an appointment with an independent lab when there is a need for blood work.

Hence my visit to LabCorp immediately after I crawled out of bed.

Appointments are encouraged at LabCorp, but not necessary. I have always made an appointment because my experience is that the place is hopping first thing in the morning. People tend to show up for their "fasting" blood work before they get too hungry or develop symptoms of caffeine withdrawal.

Today was no different. There were no chairs available. I signed in, then stood against a wall and waited.

I quickly noticed that the others around me were agitated .

It was 7:45 a.m. and I overheard a woman say that she had been there since 6:55. I contemplated crossing my name off of the list and trying again tomorrow. I was feeling an impending bowel issue and I hadn't had my morning coffee.

When my name was called several minutes later, it was obvious that I was not the popular girl in the room. I handed my lab sheet to the receptionist then stood at the front desk as she gathered my pertinent information. I could feel the angry eyes from those who had been waiting for an hour. Awkward.

I observed an impending scuffle at the sign in sheet. A visibly upset older man appeared to be counting the names before and after his on the list.

"Sir, please let the woman next to you sign in," the receptionist said. Either he didn't hear her or he ignored her.

"Sir, please take a seat. We will call you when it is your turn."

I hate to be in this type of situation.

The receptionist muttered something to herself that sounded a bit like "I'm going to smack him," but I can't be 100% sure. She rolled her chair over to the clipboard, pulled it out of his hands and set it it in front of the bewildered woman next to him.

It was obviously an unfortunate time to show up to LabCorp without an appointment.

I was in and out of the place in fifteen minutes. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone in the waiting room as I exited the building. I seemed to have caused some resentment.

Needless to say, I was more than ready for my coffee.

I woke up last night and was unable to fall back to sleep.

I stressed about the LabCorp appointment.

I fretted abut the mortgage and the piddly minutiae the bank was currently hounding us for, turning the entire home buying experience into some sort of sick water torture treatment.

My anxiety quelled about the tax preparation appointment we had not made yet.

I thought about my car that is leaking oil all over the driveway.

And my phone which has still not been replaced. It was inadvertently thrown in the washing machine ~ wrapped in bed sheets ~ after Maggie barfed on our bed over two weeks ago.

And the cockroach invasion that had begun in the kitchen, much to my f-r-e-a-k-e-d out and utter dismay. They were a problem when we first moved in, but Chris sprayed the outside (and inside) parameter of the house and we didn't see them for six months. They showed up abruptly about two weeks ago, despite my attempts to keep the kitchen remarkably clean.

It went on and on and on, and suddenly I realized I had been awake for an hour and a half.

I thought about my doctor's appointment I had earlier today and the Lexapro I virtually begged him for, then rued my decision to take the pill immediately before I went to bed.

One never knows with anti-depressants: Do they wire you? Do they make you sleepy? I had tried to determine this before I took it. The listed side effects were BOTH sleepiness and insomnia. I erred on the sleepiness side.

Wrong choice.

I have recently admitted defeat in several areas, one being my mental health.

It has caused angst throughout my entire life.

I come from a long line of glass-half-empty, depressive individuals; I come by it honestly and I recognize that the unfortunate chemical imbalance which was passed down to me is sometimes out of my control.

My stint of existing for almost three years without any sort of anti-depressant ended on March 1st, 2010.

I was pregnant and nursing for a portion of these three years. I am someone who ~ quite surprisingly ~ is fairly stable during pregnancy and post-pregnancy. Aside from one day of outbursts and tears postpartum (that can be attributed to a lack of sleep), I have never suffered from PPD.

It is when the hormones completely wear off that I become a hot mess.

The hormones leaving my body, as well of the stress of moving across the country, buying a house, moving again, having an ongoing cycle of sick kids, dealing with a new job, trying to make new friends, etc., finally took its toll on me.

I was making no friends this morning at LabCorp. I was ushered into the back room and they took several vials of my blood. These vials would help determine my liver and kidney functions, cholesterol, blood sugar and several other issues that I can't recall at this time.

I thought of asking for an extra vial of blood to take to the bank to see if they could use that, too, along with the fifty other documents the loan officer had requested within the past week to prove our identities and income.

I met the loan officer yesterday, though, and she seemed pretty uptight. I don't think she would appreciate that sort of humor.

It also might be detrimental to the loan process and label us as "weird" and even worse, "crazy." We are taking great pains to keep our noses clean and avoid any action that would negatively affect the loan for our new house.

So, for strictly pragmatic reasons, we'll keep the humor to ourselves. For now.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Finished Outside

February 18, 2010. The contractor let me in today and I was able to see the inside. It was finished ( minus the cleaning) . I was really happy to see there is a Crepe Myrtle tree in the front and back yard...they will be so pretty in the warmer months! Also, there are two live oaks in the side yard. SO excited to close in about three weeks. :)

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Noroviruses and Cell Phone Fails

Valentine's weekend 2010 was a fail.

Wesley brought home a Norwalk-type virus from school.

It is still unclear how it was transmitted throughout the school ~ if it was via food, water, etc. School officials, however, spent two days sanitizing the entire school and arrangements were made to serve only pre-packaged food this week.

The means by which it was transmitted was super duper efficient, though ~ in a germy sort of way.

It literally incompacitated 1/3 of the school's children from Friday night into Saturday (as well as about 20 faculty members). Because of the district's request to keep children home for three days after the symptoms subsided, about 550 kids were absent from school on Monday.

Saturday was eerily quiet on our street. This is unusual as there are usually a mess of kids out playing. On this particular day they were all inside causing their parents acute distress.

By Saturday afternoon, Wesley had gotten the hang of it. He would take a drink of ice water or 7-Up. Fifteen minutes later, he would calmly walk to the bathroom and vomit.

The virus swiftly moved on to the secondaries.

I'm certain Maggie contracted it because she successfully attempted to score a swig of Wesley's 7-Up.

I attempted to grab the cup out of her hands, but her greedy little mouth closed over the sippy cup's spout with lightening speed. I suspect this was the precise moment when the nasty little germ was ingested. It gestated for exactly two days before it wreaked havoc.

Most 22-month-olds have no concept of a toilet... let alone finding their way to an appropriate receptacle with an impending bout of vomit.

Maggie would start to cry, then empty her stomach contents where she was standing. If we were fast enough, we would hold towels out in front of her. Most of the time we were not.

It developed into a tag-team effort. One of us would clean up the violated area while the other would carry her at arm's length to the bathtub. I can't stress how not fun this was.

This went on for twelve hours. Twelve. Long. Hours.

During this twelve hour ordeal, we did approximately as many loads of towels. AND washed our down comforter (it said dry clean only, but I took a chance). AND our sheets. AND we threw out the area rug in the family room because it was irreparably soiled. Frankly, it needed to go anyway.

In our haste to wash the sheets, my cell phone found its way into the washing machine. And subsequently the dryer.

As I observe the washed phone, the laundering experience doesn't explain the teeth marks on the non-functioning battery. But it doesn't matter. No part of the phone currently works.

This wouldn't be as big of deal if we had insurance on the phone. But we don't, as we were informed by AT&T's Customer Care yesterday afternoon when my husband called to discuss our options (i.e.: His wife getting a new IPhone).

This upset him as we had recently been into the local AT&T store and had talked about insurance with the sales clerk, at which point she informed him that his phone(an IPhone) was uninsurable.

This conversation was exactly why he purchased the gaudy rubber armor unit that is supposedly going to protect his phone from any woe it might encounter. I argue that our biggest liability for destruction in our house is Maggie. But anything can happen, I suppose.

Why, when the clerk had our account open and directly in front of her, did she not inform us that NONE of our phones had insurance? We had assumed we were paying for insurance for the past five months because we have always carried it on our cell phones. We have learned over the years that sh** happens.

Not only do we NOT have insurance on the unit, a new IPhone for yours truly would cost hundreds of dollars, since I am not yet six months into our contract with At&t. The six month mark is March 26th ~ too long to go without a phone.

Our reason for the visit to the AT&T store recently was to add an additional phone for Calvin, our fourteen year old. He had pulled some sort of righteous trick out of his ass at the eleventh hour and pulled a 3.0 GPA. A 3.0 GPA is easier to recover from than the 2.0 GPA we were expecting.

I think he pulled this entire "ooooo, I'm gonna fail" stunt crap on purpose.

Because when he handed us his report card, we were mentally prepared for the absolute worst. Hence, the reality was so surprising ~ so exciting ~ to us that we ran out in search of the perfect reward.

A reward that in two weeks, he has used to send 4,401 text messages. If we hadn't spent the extra $20.00/month on an unlimited text message plan, we would have paid almost $900.00.

Therefore, Calvin wasn't really happy when I asked him to leave his phone home this morning. His phone started vibrating shortly after he walked out the door with incoming texts.

So, I am phoneless. But on the bright side, no one is throwing up.

There are some sinus issues, but I will take sinus drainage over vomit any day.

The week had no where to go but up.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Benefit Makeup and Emergency Poops, Metaphorically Speaking

I'm kind of pissed in an "I'm just a little annoyed" sort of way.

Somehow I landed myself on a Sephora e-mail list. I receive regular e-mails about their specials and products, all of which I delete immediately.

Today, however, I was feeling particularly plain.

My highlights are almost to the point of looking neglected and the five pounds that I lost in the past week (more on that in a bit) was hardly a drop in the hat.

Also, this morning was a little rough for the middle child. This is because he "goes from zero to sixty" and, according to my husband, is "just like me." There was a lot of screaming, crying and yelling before school this morning. And don't even get me started on Wesley's behavior.

I had a caged, panicky feeling and I just wanted to run away and drive south. The problem is, there isn't a whole lot south of here. I am south.

So, to run away, I suppose I would have to dig out the passport and flee via airplane to the Bahamas. Or Grand Cayman. Or, oh my God ~~ anywhere where there is not screaming children.

I was also worn down a little bit because for the past two evenings after dinner, Chris has put the boys to work. One empties the dishwasher. The other cleans off the dishes from dinner and loads the dishwasher right back up.

This has caused a tremendous amount of contention in our household. Which is funny, because you wouldn't think that sort of job would be contentious. Oh, but it is.

I firmly believe the trade-off makes perfect sense. Sort of a "tit for tat," and/or "I scratch your back, you scratch mine" type chore.

For example, we (the parents) will provide shelter for you. We (the parents) will wash and fold your clothes and will make every effort to keep your lunch money account from hitting the negative amounts. We will provide clean ~if not cluttered ~ common living areas for you to relax in and enjoy.

We (the parents) will also provide you with a normal, healthy ~emotionally and physically ~ family dinner during which we (the parents) will be appropriately interested about your day, your schoolwork and your activities.

In return, we (the parents) ask YOU (the children) to occasionally clean your rooms, get good grades and do the dishes.

I feel as if these negotiations are completely fair. However.

The past two nights have found me in my room with a pillow over my ears trying to block out the screaming and fighting coming from the kitchen.

The turmoil in the house had taken a toll on me and I felt that, even with my sunglasses on, I didn't feel like the pop star I could potentially be mistaken for. There was no fooling anyone today. Actually, there has been no fooling anybody for the past two years.

I decided, to boost my spirits, to check out the Sephora specials. One stood out: The Benefit package. I love Benefit makeup because I am a whore for a well-marketed and adorably packaged product.

You can click HERE to see it. It was such an unbelievable deal. ALL FULL SIZED products and was worth SO much more than what they were selling it for.

After a while of "should I's" or "shouldn't I's" I decided to just do it. I hadn't purchased anything "special" and "girly" for myself in ages and ages. I would even be home to get the package before my husband noticed. He would never know.

It was then that I noticed that it was OUT OF STOCK. I had JUST received the e-mail. HOW can it be out of stock that fast? I looked up the Sephora locations...and the closest one was 45 minutes away. Dagnabbit!

So instead, I dressed myself and Maggie and went to Ross' and TJ Maxx. I bought some conditioner for my hair. Sort of a necessity because I was completely out, but sort of a splurge because it was the Tigi brand and cost $11.99. I also bought a gift for my secret sister.

Then I went through the Chick Fil A drive thru for a chicken wrap. I gave the waffle fries to Maggie. It was 4:30pm and this was my dinner.

This brings me back to my diet.

One of my friends is from the Phillipines. She swears that the reason she is a size ZERO is that she doesn't eat after dinner. I suspect it has something to do with her genes, but whatever.

I stopped eating after dinner. I decided that if I am going to have a binge, I'm going to do it around noon. And if I do over eat I am going to have only a salad for dinner.

Also, I swore off my chardonnay to once a week. Preferably during Thursday night television.

Honestly folks, I have quickly realized there is not much else to stay awake for at night. I love my husband and enjoy his company, but not THAT much. I've been going to bed at 8:00 p.m.

I truly think that my husband would prefer me fat, slightly tipsy and great, witty company. Instead I am sober, boring and losing weight. I dunno.

He would vehemently disagree, but deep down? I am certain he feels this way and might admit it to himself if he did a little soul searching.

So, combined with a little daily walking, I lost several pounds. I keep telling myself it is a marathon, not a sprint. That all sounds well and good, but marathons suck and are painful.

And sometimes, from what I hear, marathon runners have to take emergency dumps during the race. They sometimes actually need to pull their pants down and crap on the side of the road!

I am not sure if this is true, but I will use it anyway as a metaphor for my weight loss journey: I'm sure at some point, I will feel as if I have to crap on the side of the road. Metaphorically speaking, that is.

I will keep checking back on the Sephora special and I hope it will be available soon. I am viewing the comments on the product review and there are a lot of disappointed people.

I'll just be patient, knowing that I will look dumpy for a little bit longer. By this summer, I vow to be in my un-dumpy clothes. I have a closet full of them and I will be as boring as needed until I can fit into all of them.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Animal Control and Naughty Cairn Terriers

Sven, the Cairn Terrier escaped yesterday. He was missing for an entire hour before Chris received a call from Animal Control.

He hasn't had a full blown "escape" for several months, although there have been several close calls.

Calvin had taken him out the front door, then re-entered the house through the garage door. That is is how it usually happens; a door isn't shut properly.

It always takes Sven a mere second to notice the door. I inevitably hear a skidding noise which is the sound of Sven gaining momentum to flee as quickly as possible.

We're not bad pet owners. We remember to feed him and he gets treats. He has a soft place to sleep and not much is asked of him.

He is, however, tripped over a lot and told to "get out of the way" perhaps more than other family dogs. But he certainly is not mistreated.

So...why does he want to get away from us so badly?

At one point we owned two cats, a bird, some fish and two dogs. They all (except Sven) met their ends in some way or another. Ole, the Norweigan Elkhound was the exception. He hit the doggy jackpot and went to live with my sister-in-law. He now enjoys dog parks, fancy dog food and his very own Christmas presents.

The concept of having pets is strange to me. I suppose there are some animals that prefer to be inside with their owners. If a door is inadvertently left open these animals don't rocket out with frightening speed.

Alas, we have never owned one of these animals who truly loves us and wants to be with us (except, of course, the fish, but that was only because of their nature. I'm sure they would have jet if they could).

So, we have ended up owning these animals who would rather not be with us. We feed them, snuggle with them at night, pet them, get them their shots.

Yet, in their little nugget sized brains, they are constantly scheming and devising ways to flee their forced confinement.

As I said, Sven escaped yesterday. Calvin went to look for him.

The baby was sleeping so unfortunately I was not able to join the search.

Instead, I walked down to the bottom of the driveway, put my hands on my hips and looked this way, then that way. You know, to show my deep concern and support.

I started to get a little concerned after they had been out for about fifty minutes ~ more for Calvin finding his way home than Sven.

Sven was most was most likely flagrantly presenting himself as gator bait in the freshwater canal behind our house. Calvin, with all of his wonderful and sweet qualities, often doesn't know where he is and finds himself lost.

I called my husband.

"Sven got out, and Calvin went to look for him. They've been gone for almost an hour, " I said. I further explained that I had a sleeping baby.

At this point, I was becoming increasingly concerned about Calvin. And the veterinary bills in case the idiot animal got himself injured.

"Crap," he said. There was a hint of resignation in his voice. He gets this call a lot. "I'm on my way home."

As they were perusing the neighborhood in the Corolla, Animal Control called Chris.

"Do you own a small, tan dog," the girl asked.

A chill of fear shot through Chris. Did they find him dead?

"We are down on ________ Road. I caught him," she said.

Now, we were really, truly impressed. We have never actually "caught" Sven without teamwork. Normally, he has to be snookered and blocked into a corner by two members of the family. One person then jumps on him.

"Thank you SO much," Chris said as he took the trembling dog from the dog catcher.

"I was just so scared," she exclaimed. "He almost got hit by a car thirty times!"

Yep, that sounds like Sven.

My husband explained that we "rescued" him from an animal shelter in St. Paul, Minnesota about ten years ago and that, although he is the sweetest dog ever, he will escape in an instant. And he is freakishly fast. The girl could hardly believe he was almost eleven years old.

Chris promptly sent an e-mail thanking Animal Control for being so helpful in finding and retrieving our dog. (Code for: we are really happy that they didn't yell at us and/or give us a ticket.)

Later on that evening, however, Sven couldn't move. I considered giving him an aspirin out of pity. He had found his way to a blanket that had fallen on the floor and didn't move for about two hours. If he happened to make a small movement, he would let out a pained groan.

It is the next morning and Sven's eleven years are hanging out all over the damn place. It's pretty rough. Perhaps I will go ahead and give him that aspirin.

After all, he IS almost 80 years old in human years. And it is sort of like he ran a marathon yesterday. A very naughty little marathon, and one that just about killed him. Literally.

I would have missed tripping over him, I think.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Fairy Godmothers and Turkey Chili

This was a friend's Facebook comment tonight:

any other moms find this time of day to be sucky?

I noted her comment as I collapsed on the couch after preparing a meal of scrambled eggs and cereal for Maggie.

I was tired and overwhelmed at the task ahead of me of preparing her for bed ~ because it is always such a production. I desperately wanted to elicit help from someone, anyone, to come put her to bed for me.

(I you are interested, I would tell you exactly what to do. I am really, really good at giving orders from the couch. Like, too good.)

It was a busy morning. For the second day in a row (shocking, really) I got up and showered. I toted Maggie to story hour. It wasn't a relaxing story hour. But then again, it never is.

I crossed the street to Kohl's. I was pretty quick in there because I had to pee. By the time I realized this, I had already tossed a value pack of socks in the cart($2.80!), along with a McIntosh apple fragrance diffuser and a Pumpkin spice candle.

That meant that going to the bathroom would involve unbuckling Maggie from the cart, then dragging her into the stall with me. I truly wasn't up to that for reasons I believe I have made clear in my previous posts. A crazy toddler in a dressing room is one thing; a public bathroom is completely different.

We went home and I prepared a lunch to take to my husband at work.

I KNOW. It shocked me, too.

I've never done that before. But honestly, I am sick and tired of people not eating my leftovers.

On a daily basis I am asked, "what do we have to eat?" To which I reply, "There is some leftover (insert last night's dinner) in the refrigerator." Ninety-nine percent of the time, my suggestion is met with a wrinkle of the nose.

So you know what? I took him the damn leftovers today.

And showed up in front of everyone. And sat with him while he ate. He would look like an ass if he suggested McDonald's after all of that effort.

This was a lot of activity for me before 2pm. And it made me really, really hungry.

Last night's turkey chili leftovers sounded awesome.

I once read about eating food from a tea cup to control portion sizes and weight. I think the authors are evil bitches, because I am still am not in my little black dress. I had so much hope going into that book. So much hope.

The teacup serving nugget of advice stuck with me, though.

If I was going to blow it, I might as well blow it with baby steps instead of one big giant leap So, I heated up a teacup full of chili to practically boiling. And ate it slowly. I was still in a mood, so I heated up another teacup of chili.

As I was carrying it to the table, I dumped it on my hand. And holy balls. It burned. Chili up splattered down the front of my new white tank cami (Target, $3.24), on the walls, trim, floor and on my feet. The spray literally flung across three rooms.

Sven, the Cairn Terrier was delighted. I let him lick up the spilled contents that included ground turkey, V8 juice and red kidney beans. He will not be allowed in our room tonight.

I still had the munchies a few hours later. I decided to cut up a grapefruit with one half of an serrated, electric knife. Not one of my brightest moves, but all of my steak knives were dirty and sitting in the dishwasher waiting for a cycle.

It sliced through the grapefruit and the tip of my finger.

So, I was wallowing ~ tired and pained~ in that black hole suckiness between dinner and bedtime. I practically swooned at the thought of a huge glass of chardonnay.

I wished that a fairy godmother would appear and put my toddler to bed. And after that task, she could clean up the mess of toys around me, dust, then take down the Christmas ornaments.

Because at this point Maggie had thrown down her spoon and was using her hands to scoop up the vile Gerber oatmeal that she loves so much and was in the process of flinging it to floor.

This action came complete with the sound effect, "DaHHHH! DaHHHH! DaHHHH!" (Dog.) Sven was the gleeful beneficiary of this misbehavior.

I mustered up my umpteenth wind for the day.

It was brought upon by the promise of my snuggly flannel penguin sheets, an Ambien and a mind numbing science fiction book.

Today, these happy thoughts were the carrots I needed to keep me moving forward, and sometimes a carrot is just what I need.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Misogyny and Goldfish Crackers

Today was a little unusual in that I was practically bouncing off the walls, wanting to get out of the house.

I am usually highly content to stay at home. Preferably in bed.

I showered early and put on my face. I dressed in something other than drawstring pajama pants. I actually put on a bra. I meant business; I was going out.

But it was pouring rain.

I have noticed that since I moved to the south, I've become a serious weather wimp. Rain, as well as any temperature below 50 degrees, adversely hinders my daily activities.

So, I waited.

And waited.

The rain finally let up after Maggie's afternoon nap. This didn't leave me enough time to head to Daytona Beach and back before the boys returned home from school.

I settled for Super Target.

For the sake of my sanity, Super Target is now my go-to store for just about everything. Walmart isn't even in my vocabulary, unless I am using it as an example of all that is wrong in the world. That, and Suntrust Bank.

For the most part, our Target visits are pretty uneventful. I have, however had a disproportionate amount of weirdness occur in the check out lanes.

(If you would like your memory refreshed about the time where the cashier implied that I was an complete and utter slob, you can read this.)

I recently dragged Calvin with me on a grocery run. The extra set of hands really helps sometimes.

He had protested wildly about being torn away from Facebook chat. But I put my foot down and insisted.

Along with the dinner items gathered during this particular shopping trip, I threw in a bottle of wine. The wine ended up being the source of contention in the check out lane.

"Can I see your I.D.'s," the cashier asked. I reached in to pull out my driver's license. "His, too," she added.

"You need to see his I.D., too," I asked, incredulously.

She nodded.

"He's fourteen," I exclaimed. "He doesn't even own an I.D.! He just came along to help me get groceries," I said.

I thought about how had begged for everything he laid his eyes upon, from sweaters to hair products, and seriously regretted my decision to bring him along.

"I'm sorry, I can't sell this to you, then," she said as she put the wine behind the counter.

"You're kidding."

"I'm sorry," she said. Obviously she was not.

I was burning up the cell phone lines complaining to my husband before I exited the store.

"Why didn't you ask for a manager," asked Chris.

"I didn't think of it at the moment," I said.

I am not one of those people who has a quick mind to know what to say and do in weird situations. I wish I knew what to say, but I just don't. I just look dumbly complacent and push-over-ish.

I usually think of something pretty good about ten minutes later later. Some people respond slowly to green lights; I respond slowly to stupid comments and situations. I suppose these differences are what make the world go round.

Today was another weird day at Target.

I made a circle through the accessories and shoes to see what was on sale. I rounded the bend through the 75% off clothing rack first, then proceeded to the 50% displays.

I threw a pair of jeans in the cart to try on. They were $6.48. If they fit, they would be a super deal and I would feel like SUCH a winner.

I should have noted the attached tag which read that the fit was "slim through hips and thighs."

I am more of a "weekend jean" or "relaxed fit" jean type of gal, if you know what I mean.

For good measure, I threw in a sweater.

I pulled the cart up to try the clothes on. "You can't take the cart in," said the woman at the counter.

Complacently, I unsnapped Maggie from the cart seat and took her in with me.

I stood in the depressingly unflattering light in my bra and underwear feeling like a jiggly lump. I tried desperately to pull the jeans above my hips. The seams screamed and threatened to rip. I gave up.

Obviously mis-sized. I swear that always happens to me.

Meanwhile, Maggie had taken off her shoes and socks. She climbed up on the bench and threw about the contents of my purse. She took off her shoes and banged on the walls. I gave her the "item number" to play with. As we left, she refused to give it back to the Target employee.

The shopping trip was uneventful thanks to Goldfish crackers. Each time she opened her mouth, I put another one in. Goldfish are brilliant that way.

I loaded my purchases onto the conveyor belt and prayed that Maggie's good mood would hold out. She grinned, made silly faces at the people around her and shoved Goldfish in her mouth by the fist full.

"Momma," she said, mouth full of Goldfish.

"Just a minute, Maggie," I replied.


"Hang on, sweetie."

"Momma, momma, momma, mom, mom mom? Momma?"

I laughed a little bit to the cashier as I threw the last bag in the cart, then took my receipt.

"She has that word down," I said. Har, har, har.

"Just wait," said the cashier, a tall fellow who appeared to be a little older than I.

"Just wait until she says the "W" word, or the "N" word," he said. Then laughed.

Delayed response time.

Wait a minute....

The W word? The N word? It took a moment for my brain to register.

I say dumb things a lot to cashiers and cashiers have said dumb things to me. Usually Chris is usually with me and we mock them as we leave the store. But that comment had to take the cake as the dumbest and most inappropriate.

I find it interesting that it wasn't the neutral, more socially acceptable "D" word. Or even the slightly more inflammatory "S" word. Instead, it was the racially disastrous "N" word, and the misogynistic "W" word. Who was this guy?

As I thought about it, I wanted to march back up to his lane, stick my finger in his face and say , "She won't say those words, like ever! Not even part of our family's vocabulary. So suck it, WEIRDO."

On my way home, I accidentally ran over the tail of a dead armadillo which made me a little sad. They are sort of cute, in a rodent-ish type of way.

As I pulled in the driveway, I noticed a (unused) tampon on the side of the driveway. I had first noticed it yesterday and thought it was a receipt or gum wrapper ~ you know, items that regularly fall or fly out of our car when we open the doors.

Rather, it was a tampon. And it had been sitting out there for over 24 hours. I looked to make sure no one was looking as I picked it up and tossed it into the garbage can.

I am back in my pajama pants again.

The forty five minutes I was out of the house has emotionally wiped me out. I am a little thankful that I didn't venture all the way to Daytona Beach.

Daytona Beach is only twenty minutes away, but still.

I am confident that my fellow moms will understand. Completely confident.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Insides and Fixtures

Some pictures of our new home. We were able to go inside yesterday to measure, snoop, etc. We are really happy w/ the progress!
This is upstairs, looking down the stair way.
Upstairs "bonus room" we are using for the family/game room. This is Farfar...Chris could have at least got him to smile! ;-)

Upstairs, again. Looking at bedrooms #1 & #2, the bathroom and the laundry room.
Upstairs, bedrooms #3 & #4 (has a Jack&Jill bathroom b/w them. To the left is the laundry room.
From the dining area to the kitchen.
Looking from dining area into the kitchen.
Blurry kitchen.

1st Floor Living Room
From family room to the outside door. And stairway.
More kitchen
Kitchen sink, into family room. I'm glad they put the fan in for us.
From front door...entry hall.