Posted on | October 8, 2010 | 47 Comments
i have always been a sleeper. if left to my own devices as a teen, i would sleep until 2 or 3 in the afternoon. naps are up there with coffee, burritos and the perfect hair day (i.e. i love them). if you were to look up “morning person” in the dictionary, i guarantee no matter what version you were looking in, you would never, ever find my picture. to say i like taking the night-night train to sleepy town via tie-tie avenue would be considered the understatement of the century.
so it’s wildly concerning to me that in the last 6 months or so, i’ve become an insomniac. like, up until 1 am, tossing and turning, starting at the ceiling, mind racing crazy person. as a lover of having my eyes closed for upwards of 10 hours at a time, you can imagine how unsettling this must be for me. because you know what happens when you fall asleep at 1 am and you answer to a tiny dictator that has been sleeping since 8pm the previous evening? you get very little sleep. and then you kick yourself for not taking full advantage of having a kid who sleeps like a champ (also? a little jealous).
and then you want to scream because all you could think about whilst you laid in bed was which house that couple picked on house hunters international and it better not be number 1 because obviously 3 was the clear choice but the husband had horrid taste in shirts so he probably sucks at picking houses too, but maybe there is a chance because the wife sure did talk to him like she wore the pants and surely she will make the right decision but you know what? screw them because it MUST be nice to have enough money to just be all “you know what, i really like greece so we should go ahead and buy a vacation home there and then have hgtv follow us while we decide which one to spend all of our extra money on even though my husband can’t dress himself and i’m kind of a douche” and next thing you know you’re all sorts of paranoid about YOUR bills and cheese and rice! did i remember to pay the car payment because if not surely they are going to come and get it and you know if they did that stupid neighbor lady would be outside, you know the one you complain to the association about because her dog barks so loudly your kid can’t nap? and then you turn into a crazy person and while she is snickering because your car is getting reposessed you snap like Britney and tell her to eat your shorts and then the internet calls you a loser for quoting the simpsons.*
see what i’m dealing with here people?
one would think my body would be like, hey remember that one time we birthed a child and then never slept for more than one hour stretches for like half of a year? lets go ahead and pay back the dividends and hit the sheets at like 9pm every night to try and refill the Bank of Sleep. but no. my crazy brain has other ideas, like trying to devise a plan to teach my french bulldog lulu to wear a saddle and carry my pug stella around on her back. or you know, other way around if need be.
i’ve thought about cutting out coffee or switching to decaf, at which time i laugh maniacally and take to the pantry to take out my ground dunkin’ donuts and craddle it softly while apologizing for even let the thought enter my brain. file that under “nah-gonna happen”.
i’m wondering if i need supplements? or sleeping aids? a lobotomy?
insomnia can eat my shorts.
*i’m bringing back eat my shorts. write that down.
Posted on | September 21, 2010 | 78 Comments
last week whilst on vacation, visiting Scot’s parents, i got an email on my phone. it started with “Congrats Mandy!”, so i almost deleted because hello, i’m not really interested in winning the Nigerian lottery and all i have to do is send my first born plus 3 goats and 9,236,000 rubles or whatever.
but then i saw the word Balenciaga. and then i saw BlogHer. and then i realized all at once as i was reading it that this wasn’t jokes. i remembered specifically dropping my card in the fishbowl at Sugar Inc. while Mae and i perused the expo. i specifically remembered them saying “you could win a Balenciaga handbag” and specifically remembered my heart skipping a beat.
this email was telling me i’d won. me. i never win ANYTHING. i think i’ve won one giveaway on a blog, but before that i’m pretty sure the last time i won something was when i was 5 years old, had a raging case of chicken pox so bad i was quarantined for 3 weeks and won a coloring contest at the local safeway for a cabbage patch kid. true story.
that was last tuesday. the last week was spent jumping up and down at random times, looking at the bag over and over online, doing the necessary steps to claim my prize (dude, a notary was involved), and emailing back and forth with the very lovely Victoria over at Sugar, Inc. those of you who follow me on the twitter know that i’ve barely shut up about it. sorry. only not really because seriously?
it came today. and yeah, it’s totally on my mantle right now. because obviously.
it’s perfection. gorgeous, magical, soft, GORGEOUS and looks like narwhals and unicorns sat for years painstakingly creating this masterpiece. i’m actually scared of it. hence the current mantle placement.
i knew i had to sign for the package so like any smart person, i put a bra on when i woke up this morning (you’re welcome fedex guy!) because my tracking number said it would be here today. wouldn’t you know right as i’m changing the monsters diaper, the doorbell rings? luckily i had already wiped, but the new dipe wasn’t on. i started to panic. omg, if i don’t get down there NOW, he’s going to leave! and by the time i get this diaper on and down the stairs he’s gonna be driving away and i’m gonna have to run after his truck and i’m gonna look crazy! and then they will send the bag back and pick a new winner and ZOMG!!!1!!one! so i scooped her up, no dipe, legs of her footie pajamas flailing behind us, and booked it down the stairs. i don’t care if she pees on me! i set her down in the kitchen and opened the door as nonchalantly as one could who just had baby business on their arm, signed for the bag and WELP, HERE WE ARE.
last night, before it’s arrival, we got the bill for Harper’s hospital stay (we don’t have insurance, but they thought asking for $8000 by october 5th would be right up our alley. GO AMERICA!). after throwing up in my mouth, i turned to Scot (and twitter) and said “i’m gonna have to sell the bag”. but after seeing it today? OH HAIL NO. besides, i’d need about 7 of these bags to pay the hospital bill so I’M KEEPING IT. besides, how cool will it be to give Harper someday?
::passes you a drool rag::
i want to thank Sugar Inc profusely from the bottom of my never-owned-anything-this-nice heart, especially whoever drew my little business card out of the many. this has made my day week month possibly year.
special thanks to emily and morgan for talking me down of the ledge last night re: selling the bag. seriously.
if you need me, i’ll be off wondering if it’s kosher to carry a target wallet and dr. pepper chapstick in something that cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.
Posted on | July 29, 2010 | 43 Comments
ok. this isn’t another blogher post. i mean, not in the way that it’s about blogher. but it is about me leaving for blogher. we’ve covered the fact that i’m afraid of flying. we’ve covered the fact that i’m nervous to meet people. but the thing i just can’t fathom doing? the thing that makes my stomach lurch and my mouth water (you know how right before you throw up you get all saliva-y? THAT) is leaving my little monster.
every saturday we drop Harper off at my moms house in the evening and pick her up the next day. this is easy for me. we’ve been doing it for so long that it’s not hard for me anymore. i still think of my nugget, miss her and get super excited to pick her up, but it’s not hard. she is never further than 10 minutes away. thinking of being on the other side of the country for 6 days without her? is hard. the thought of it makes my heart hurt in a way i can’t explain.
the most obvious fact of me being a stay at home mom is that i am with H all. the. time. even though when Scot gets home we share the parenting responsibilities equally, i am with her 24/6 (’cause you know, that time at GG’s). she is my nugget, my best buddy, my right hand gal. i know her better than anybody and it’s safe to say if she could talk, she’d be able to telly you things about me even Scot doesn’t know (like how i sometimes steal morningstar chicken nuggets off her plate if she isn’t going to eat them). i have no problem saying that being Harper’s mom defines me. i am many other things, but her mom? is my thing. i love it more than anything and it’s been 20 months and counting that i really haven’t been anything else. i’m not sure i know how to go to the big city and not be her mom (obviously i will still be her mom, but you get me. at least i hope). will i be ok without her taking up room in my arms, without kissing her fat cheeks each night, without talking in my mom voice all day? will i be ok gallivanting around with my hair done, make up on and no sign of mushed crackers on any article of my clothing? will i be ok not having a single sippy cup, pack of wipes or binky on my person at all times?
will i be ok?
it goes without saying that she will be fine. she may not really even understand i’m gone. maybe she will, but most likely she won’t. she will be having so much fun with her daddy, and her grandmas, that she may not even notice her mommy is MIA. i’m not worried about her. i’m worried how i am going to kiss her goodbye, walk to the plane and voluntarily fly away from her and Scot.
as the day gets closer (hello, ONE week), i find myself getting worse and worse. tearing up, feeling sick to my tummy – please tell me this is normal? at least normal for a first time mom leaving her first born for the first time ever? i asked Harper and she was helpful, but i need reassurance from people who don’t poop in their pants.
please click to vote for us. you have to be feeling sorry for me by now right? people *always* feel sorry for the crazy lady.
Posted on | June 30, 2010 | 37 Comments
i have a serious road rage problem.
like, i’m not gonna get outta my car at a stoplight and try to punch anyone and i don’t keep a crowbar in my trunk or anything, but let’s just say words are my friends in the car, and let’s be real here, YELLING AT PEOPLE IS AWESOME. since Harper came along, it’s been my mission and biggest hurdle to take a chill pill on the car language. it’s hard. but since i really don’t want my kid repeating anything i say whilst i’m in a blind rage in the car, i have severely taken it down a notch.
it wouldn’t be a problem in the first place if people would just LEARN TO DRIVE. find a happy medium between driving like a bat out of hell trying to murder people and crawling along like you’re on your sunday stroll. find the gas pedal for the love of jason mraz and USE IT. that little bar jutting out forth your steering wheel? yes, that little guy not 3 inches from where your hand is now? it’s called a blinker and it would help so profusely when it comes to me deciding whether or not you ARE THE WORLDS BIGGEST IDIOT (spoiler alert: you are). the light just turned green – what shade exactly is it that you’re waiting for? OMG GO! GOOOOO for the love of baby and standard size jesusssss!
i think 10 miles an hour is an acceptable speed for a parking lot, where people, kids and old people are milling about, trying to get safely into the store and back. i also think you should perhaps turn your head BOTH WAYS as you’re pulling out of a parking spot so i don’t have to stop suddenly whilst holding my child contemplating how much trouble i’d get in for kicking your car. speaking of parking – HOW HARD IS IT? they put the two lines there for you and everything. all your stupid ass has to do is get the car between them. yet it’s still an impossible task. now i’m bending all gumby like just trying to get out of my car. THANKS SO MUCH.
QUIT WITH THE TEXTING ALREADY. no one, and i repeat no one, will die if you don’t respond to Chad RIGHT NOW about what beer to bring to the bbq or what puka shell necklace will look best with your salmon (it’s pink, btw douche) polo shirt. people however will die, if you ram into them at 50 mph because you can’t wait to see what Amber is wearing to the “club” tonight. i’m totally gonna pull an oprah here and say STOP TEXTING. you’re gonna kill someone. yourself, fine, but others, NO.
tonight i had to run a few errands, so i went alone after Scot was home. it’s always weird to leave the house with an empty car seat since H is literally always with me. you know what my favorite part of the 25 minute errands trip was? yelling loudly. telling people where they should go. exclaiming at the top of lungs “I HOPE YOU GET DIARRHEA BEFORE YOU GET HOME!” and “GO FALL OFF THE TACOMA NARROWS BRIDGE!” and “YOU’RE GONNA GET SCURVY ON YOUR FACE!” and countless other things i cannot possibly type here lest you think i’m certifiable (spoiler alert number 2 – i am). it. was. glorious.
i’m home now and feel like a new woman. total stress reliever. i think i need to make a weekly date with myself to just go for a drive and go totally ape poop crazy on some mofo’s.
hey, it’s cheaper than therapy.
post summary: you can’t really get scurvy on your face. unless you’re a pirate. OR THAT GUY NOT USING HIS BLINKER.
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