Calm down people. I have not turned into some cannibalistic baby eater. I’m talking about the good old biological clock. P.S. Mine, not ticking. I am firmly convinced that its battery is either dead or non existent. In actuality, I believe the more exposure to children I experience the more allergic I become. Occasionally I have what I like to call “moments of insanity” where I have the urge to procreate. Again, calm down they never last long. These fleeting moments are typically caused by such things as wonderfully staged nursery displays in Target or watching a man hold his toddlers hand as they cross the street. My mother lives for these moments, as she holds onto thin strands of hope that someday I will give her a grandchild. A fact that, she reminds me constantly, will require me to actually HAVE a child. I am convinced there is an easier way. I am also aware that at some point I will be subjected to the preposterous idea that is pregnancy.
Think about this. No alcohol and no sashimi combined with ridiculously out of whack hormones. Also, a nugget that I have recently been enlightened with, my feet will GROW at least a half a size in 9 months. For those of you who are not intimately aware of the fact that I have a serious shoe obsession, this is NOT acceptable. Could you just imagine, all of those fabulous ALDO shoes in my closet...no longer the correct size?! I die. I don’t care if I end up with canckles, I WILL wear heels up to my due date. I will walk my awkward pregnant ass into the delivery room in the highest heels I can stuff my elephant feet into. It’s my God given right as a woman to wear high heels at all times. I digress. So, my other concerns are also valid. Women, mothers I should say, have a terrifying habit of sharing the most horrible parts of pregnancy with people, unsolicited mind you. Such as, “OMG! Honey, take the stool softeners they give you because your first BM after the baby is painful.” Thank you for that. I also have had the honor of working as a tech in labor and delivery. I spent countless nights assisting surgeons while they sewed up women’s mutilated “cash & prizes.” Anyone else want to sign up yet? Didn’t think so.
For the moment being I will take my pill religiously and avoid sperm on the regular. I have no desire to preform the other shenanigans I have to endure during his deployments whilst I am humongous with child. Honestly, if you think about it they are parasites. Not even symbiotic relationship type of parasites. The little bastards suck the life out of you as they grow. Then, they come out and only increase their consuming power with the added bonus of you wiping their asses on a regular basis. Have we ALL gone insane? Please, someone tell me something other than, “Oh, but there are these wonderful moments when...balh blah blah, and it’s all worth it.” LIARS!
Friday, October 22, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
I hate grass
As I mentioned previously, my wonderful husband and I have been newlyweds for almost three years now. We lived in sin for about a year before we got married under the same roof of our first home in Alabama. (horrified gasp) Anyway, ever since then I have been in another relationship which is dysfunctional and should actually be referred to as a relation-shit. That would be the one between myself and lawnmowers. Due to my husbands constant deployments, I unfortunately am one of those wives who has to mow lawns on occasion, an activity that I avoid like the plague. The first mower we had was an old P.O.S. that was abandoned at the last base were he was stationed. THAT should be the first clue, maybe this is not the highest quality machine. It wasn’t even self propelled, seriously people.
I told you that story to tell you this story. Now that we are all on the same page and realize how I loathe anything lawn related, I will continue. We ditched the outdoor paperweight and acquired another lawnmower from our neighbor when we moved to Miami. Is anyone noticing a theme here? Maybe free lawnmowers are not the way to go. This one, however, is self propelled. I’m moving up in the world one shitty lawnmower at a time. So my man seems to mow the lawn effectively for a few months before he is deployed. Then he leaves to rescue all the people floating in makeshift rafts out in the Caribbean. My first attempt to mow the lawn begins.
I put on jeans and cowboy boots, because I don’t want my cute pink running sneakers ruined. A very large brimmed hat that is actually in my profile picture and a coral sunscreen shirt. I have to protect my albino skin. So I decide to try starting the thing in the back yard because I know it’s going to be a shit show. I prime it a few times and start pulling that god forsaken string. The fucker breaks in half and the leftover string sucks right into the motor. Perfect. I instantaneously burst into tears from sheer frustration. Not the I’m so sad tears, the I could kill someone because I’m so mad tears. I walked back into the house and immediately opened a beer. This is an emergency people, focus. So I called my landlord who, thankfully, is an awesome guy. I borrowed his mower. I get home and lift the big bastard out of the truck myself. By myself, just incase you missed it the first time. I’m 5 nothing and not the strongest person in the world. So I get his mower started and mow the grass. His mower is also not self propelled. Again, Perfect. By the time I am done my hands are killing me and I can BARELY get the mower back in the truck. My neighbors watch as I struggle to LIFT the LAWNMOWER BY MYSELF into a truck. I almost dropped the damn thing. I wanted so badly to shout at them, “Don’t worry, I got it, no it’s ok don’t come help me.” My landlord also asked me if it was difficult to mow because he had a hell of a time last time he mowed it. Fantastic.
The next day I was driving to Tampa for a baby shower so I brought the mower with me. This requires me, yet again, to lift a lawnmower into my truck, alone. My dad fixes the string while I’m in town and I bring it back home. So, round two comes a couple weeks later. I put on pink paisley rain boots this time and headed to the back yard to duke it out again. I start pulling, and pulling, and pulling, and...this goes on for a good 20 minutes. (Yes, I primed as well) Nothing. Yes, there is plenty of gas and oil in my friend. So, I let it sit and come back. I manage to get it started this time. Victory! Whoops, too soon. I get about 8 feet and it sputters out. I start it again. 5 feet, sputters out. Again, 3 feet, sputters out. At this point I believe I lost all sanity. I started screaming obscenities at the top of my lungs. This colorful part of me I get from my father, I’ve witnessed it enough to know this. I kicked the lawnmower several times in the process.
Thankfully, the only man in this city that I know was back in town. So, I call and ask if he could possibly take a gander at my disabled cohort. He obliges. Spends a few minutes in the back yard and gets her going again. Thank God. It rains for 2 days. Then I finally get the chance to mow. I go out there in my pink paisley boots again and she starts right up. Victory! Again, too soon. That bitch got 15 feet and sputtered out. I start her up again. 8 feet, sputter out. You get the idea. Insert more obscenities and kicking of the lawnmower. So my friends, here comes the cherry on the top of this shit sundae. My husband gets to Cuba and calls me. He is drunk, fantastic. In the conversation he reveals that he was AWARE that the mower needed some tweaking. I think at this point I had visions of strangling him on the pier when he returns. He tells me the air filter needs to be changed. I say, “Yes, dear. I’m aware. Our lovely friend who came to my aid alerted me to that fact.” Then he says, “And the carburetor needs to be flushed.” This, I come to learn, our mutual friend was also aware of. I then informed my inebriated husband that I was on strike and would never, ever, ever be mowing a lawn again. He tried to convince me that he would fix it and leave it in tip top shape. At this point he could buy me a John Deer riding lawnmower with a 6 disc CD changer and a GPS. I STILL wouldn’t mow the fucking lawn.
I told you that story to tell you this story. Now that we are all on the same page and realize how I loathe anything lawn related, I will continue. We ditched the outdoor paperweight and acquired another lawnmower from our neighbor when we moved to Miami. Is anyone noticing a theme here? Maybe free lawnmowers are not the way to go. This one, however, is self propelled. I’m moving up in the world one shitty lawnmower at a time. So my man seems to mow the lawn effectively for a few months before he is deployed. Then he leaves to rescue all the people floating in makeshift rafts out in the Caribbean. My first attempt to mow the lawn begins.
I put on jeans and cowboy boots, because I don’t want my cute pink running sneakers ruined. A very large brimmed hat that is actually in my profile picture and a coral sunscreen shirt. I have to protect my albino skin. So I decide to try starting the thing in the back yard because I know it’s going to be a shit show. I prime it a few times and start pulling that god forsaken string. The fucker breaks in half and the leftover string sucks right into the motor. Perfect. I instantaneously burst into tears from sheer frustration. Not the I’m so sad tears, the I could kill someone because I’m so mad tears. I walked back into the house and immediately opened a beer. This is an emergency people, focus. So I called my landlord who, thankfully, is an awesome guy. I borrowed his mower. I get home and lift the big bastard out of the truck myself. By myself, just incase you missed it the first time. I’m 5 nothing and not the strongest person in the world. So I get his mower started and mow the grass. His mower is also not self propelled. Again, Perfect. By the time I am done my hands are killing me and I can BARELY get the mower back in the truck. My neighbors watch as I struggle to LIFT the LAWNMOWER BY MYSELF into a truck. I almost dropped the damn thing. I wanted so badly to shout at them, “Don’t worry, I got it, no it’s ok don’t come help me.” My landlord also asked me if it was difficult to mow because he had a hell of a time last time he mowed it. Fantastic.
The next day I was driving to Tampa for a baby shower so I brought the mower with me. This requires me, yet again, to lift a lawnmower into my truck, alone. My dad fixes the string while I’m in town and I bring it back home. So, round two comes a couple weeks later. I put on pink paisley rain boots this time and headed to the back yard to duke it out again. I start pulling, and pulling, and pulling, and...this goes on for a good 20 minutes. (Yes, I primed as well) Nothing. Yes, there is plenty of gas and oil in my friend. So, I let it sit and come back. I manage to get it started this time. Victory! Whoops, too soon. I get about 8 feet and it sputters out. I start it again. 5 feet, sputters out. Again, 3 feet, sputters out. At this point I believe I lost all sanity. I started screaming obscenities at the top of my lungs. This colorful part of me I get from my father, I’ve witnessed it enough to know this. I kicked the lawnmower several times in the process.
Thankfully, the only man in this city that I know was back in town. So, I call and ask if he could possibly take a gander at my disabled cohort. He obliges. Spends a few minutes in the back yard and gets her going again. Thank God. It rains for 2 days. Then I finally get the chance to mow. I go out there in my pink paisley boots again and she starts right up. Victory! Again, too soon. That bitch got 15 feet and sputtered out. I start her up again. 8 feet, sputter out. You get the idea. Insert more obscenities and kicking of the lawnmower. So my friends, here comes the cherry on the top of this shit sundae. My husband gets to Cuba and calls me. He is drunk, fantastic. In the conversation he reveals that he was AWARE that the mower needed some tweaking. I think at this point I had visions of strangling him on the pier when he returns. He tells me the air filter needs to be changed. I say, “Yes, dear. I’m aware. Our lovely friend who came to my aid alerted me to that fact.” Then he says, “And the carburetor needs to be flushed.” This, I come to learn, our mutual friend was also aware of. I then informed my inebriated husband that I was on strike and would never, ever, ever be mowing a lawn again. He tried to convince me that he would fix it and leave it in tip top shape. At this point he could buy me a John Deer riding lawnmower with a 6 disc CD changer and a GPS. I STILL wouldn’t mow the fucking lawn.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Clogged Drains
I have been married to my coastie for almost three years. Our first unit together was in Alabama and now we are in Miami. My father has become accustomed to the phone calls while the man of the house is away. He gets a kick out of my predicaments and suggested I start a blog.
The most recent chore was particularly disgusting. My man is usually the hair extractor from the drains in our home. Since he is floating around in the Caribbean guarding our coast, the honor falls to me. Now this is not a particularly challenging task and it is one that I have preformed before. However, this specific drain is very different. I went to the kitchen to get my pink rubber gloves, knowing ahead of time this was not going to be pretty. I had been about to shower when I realized that I needed to extract the “small animal” from my tub first.
So, I find myself squatting in my tub wearing only a white Victoria’s Secret bathrobe and pink rubber gloves. I managed to unscrew the round silver cap and the rubber seal. There was this plastic shaft that was still in the middle of the drain. I couldn’t get the hair out from around the plastic part. I was in need of some help from and expert. By expert I mean someone who knows more than me about drains, which could be just about anyone. I called up dear old dad for some advice. He didn’t know exactly how to disassemble this specific drain but he said something about unscrewing something. This made me realize that there was a notch in the thing inside of the plastic shaft. Even though it wasn’t the type of screw dad was talking about I was well on my way to a clear drain. I went to retrieve my pink tool bag then proceeded to remove the plastic piece preventing my progress.
This was by far the largest wad of hair that I had ever produced in a drain before. I have to admit I was mildly impressed with myself, and curious as to why I’m not bald. I removed my “pet” from the drain and placed it in the trash can. I had to share this with my buddy who happened to be over with her two girls. She was disgusted I’m sure and not nearly as impressed as I was. Thankfully, I have a clear drain now. I look forward to my husband leaving his sea duty and relieving me of these tasks.
The most recent chore was particularly disgusting. My man is usually the hair extractor from the drains in our home. Since he is floating around in the Caribbean guarding our coast, the honor falls to me. Now this is not a particularly challenging task and it is one that I have preformed before. However, this specific drain is very different. I went to the kitchen to get my pink rubber gloves, knowing ahead of time this was not going to be pretty. I had been about to shower when I realized that I needed to extract the “small animal” from my tub first.
So, I find myself squatting in my tub wearing only a white Victoria’s Secret bathrobe and pink rubber gloves. I managed to unscrew the round silver cap and the rubber seal. There was this plastic shaft that was still in the middle of the drain. I couldn’t get the hair out from around the plastic part. I was in need of some help from and expert. By expert I mean someone who knows more than me about drains, which could be just about anyone. I called up dear old dad for some advice. He didn’t know exactly how to disassemble this specific drain but he said something about unscrewing something. This made me realize that there was a notch in the thing inside of the plastic shaft. Even though it wasn’t the type of screw dad was talking about I was well on my way to a clear drain. I went to retrieve my pink tool bag then proceeded to remove the plastic piece preventing my progress.
This was by far the largest wad of hair that I had ever produced in a drain before. I have to admit I was mildly impressed with myself, and curious as to why I’m not bald. I removed my “pet” from the drain and placed it in the trash can. I had to share this with my buddy who happened to be over with her two girls. She was disgusted I’m sure and not nearly as impressed as I was. Thankfully, I have a clear drain now. I look forward to my husband leaving his sea duty and relieving me of these tasks.
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