tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90359258291188852292024-03-05T03:33:42.957-08:00East Coast Girl In The MidwestA working mom's attempt at preserving her sanity by describing the details of her life to people who don't know her and after reading this will never want to.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.comBlogger115125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-78468859456564164312010-07-13T09:32:00.000-07:002010-07-13T10:09:14.409-07:002010 Can Suck ItEvery January 31st, I anxiously await the clock to near midnight. I sit there filled with hope that this <span style="font-style:italic;">NEW</span> year will be better than the last. That might sound selfish to some, I call it honest. No matter what blessings you have in your life, they are countered balanced by trials. We all have them and we all hope to put on a happy face and pretend our life is perfect. Mine - not so much! Yes, I have a wonderful husband, a home, a good job, great kids (for the most part), etc etc etc BUT at the same time, I have heartache, pain, defeat, burdens, etc etc etc. While I realize that other people have burdens far worse than my own, the burdens I carry are oh so heavy because they are mine. I empathize with others but at the back of my mind - the small dark hateful corner of your mind that no one likes to acknowledge - I am still thinking about what I am going through. <br /><br />I've been through some very dark times as an adult. Divorce is no picnic. Especially when you are left with the burden of two children - raising them, supporting them (financially and emotionally), loving them. Its a hell of a lot of balls to juggle and inevitably, you drop some. All you can do is hope that the shiny balls that lay shattered on the ground aren't ones that will have an impact in the long run but only time tells. As you stare into the shards that represent pieces of your life, you just hope that you can put it back together enough that the cracks can be hidden on the backside, like a antique Christmas ball. <br /><br />How as a parent can you come out and honestly say that you have failed your child? To admit those words - its like ripping your heart out through your asshole....both painful and embarrassing. Unfortunately, as parent's we WILL fail our children. That is the one lesson that I have learned. It WILL happen. You just have to hope that its not something that will have long reaching consequences. <br /><br />I sit and look at pictures of my oldest child. The baby boy I had when I wasn't much more than a baby myself. I had dreams of being someone in life but I allowed "love" to take over and sacrificed everything I had ever hoped for. I'm still someone in life but that reality is far different one than I imagined at 16, 17 or even 18. I'm a mother - for better or worse. And let's face it - there is a lot of worse involved in raising children. No one can make you question your intelligence, sanity, confidence, and common sense more than a child. <br /><br />My "baby" moved out of the house back in April. It was for the best as he grew to the point where he didn't believe that a single rule applied to him. Somehow the balance of power shifted. No longer was I the one making the rules and enforcing them - he was the one telling me how it was. He forgot that it was MY house. That I paid the bills. It was miserable. I was ready to hand him his walking papers when he left on his own accord. Naturally, there was no planning on his part. He met a girl in another town (about 2 hours away) and would go visit on weekends. I knew the writing was on the wall and I was secretly counting down the days until he was gone, all the while feeling a huge load of guilt because I didn't think it was OK to feel this way. He eventually ended up staying there. Why? Simply because he didn't have gas money to come home. Does he love this girl? I don't know. Not the most auspicious way to start a relationship. <br /><br />I got the news most parents have nightmares about last week - the girl is pregnant. Pregnant at 18. A life of dreams shattered. A young adulthood filled with fun over. My son is 19 and has absolutely NO concept of what he is for. His lifelong mentality of somehow, someway it will all work out isn't going to happen in this case. I'm angry, hurt, sad for them, and so very disappointed. Worse of it, he doesn't understand why I feel ANY of this. He thinks (and yes this is what he actually said to me) that since this happened, they must be ready for it. I wanted to reach through the phone and choke him. I don't know this child. This isn't my baby so filled with dreams and ambitions. This person is a complete stranger to me - one that is heading on a one way path to a life filled shattered balls and broken dreams. One that is doomed never go anywhere in life. <br /><br />Now, before anyone starts telling me that this doesn't mean his life is over - let me tell you, I know this child, you do not. This is the child that I didn't think could hurt me any worse than when he didn't get his shit together to graduate. This is the child that over a year later still doesn't have a diploma or a GED. This is the child that gives up when things get tough. I wanted him out of the house to have a strong dose of reality but this wasn't what I bargained for. <br /><br />So, at the end of the day, I failed my child somewhere down the line. I wish that I could pinpoint the exact moment. Was it divorcing his dad? Was it giving him too much freedom because he'd always been responsible? Was it ending therapy too soon because I couldn't afford it? Was it removing him from Catholic school? Truth is, it could be all of those things or it could be none of them. Children must forge their own paths. As I've told him, you bought this big boy bed, now you figure out how to make it. <br /><br />What am I looking for with this post? Nothing - just simply a way to articulate the sadness and anger I've been experiencing. 2010 has not shaped up to the year I'd hoped it to be, not just because of this, there have been other issues. I've struggled to find my voice to talk about them. They have been stowed in my emotional backpack for me to take out and stare at in the dark and question myself. So, 5 more months of 2010 - I say lets start the countdown now and raise a glass to hoping 2011 is a better year.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-16327109450453848332009-09-28T07:29:00.000-07:002009-09-28T07:41:55.664-07:00Isn't It IronicAs I was driving to work this morning, I had the tunes blasting on my Pod. Nothing makes a Monday drive to work a little less sucky like good music and since this is MY pod, I get to listen to MY music without all of the craptastic (thank you <a href="http://www.sashasays.com">Sasha</a>!) garbage my husband likes. (hello - Bon Jovi??? Are you a 15 year old girl in 1987???)<br /><br />First up - Kashmir. One of the best sex songs ever! No, not for the lyrics but the beat and the wailing???? Hello, Orgasm! Sorry, I lost myself there for a minute. Then, one of my guilty pleasures. A Motley Crue song. Yes, they are totally a hair band from the 80's and yes, I totally just made fun of my husband for this same type of music. Shut up, you know you listen to them too. <br /><br />I'm driving down the street attempting to sing along to Shout at the Devil. Anyone who knows that song knows all you can sing is Shout, Shout, Shout, Shout at the devil. The rest is like listening to Mick Jagger singing Jumpin Jack Flash. Unintelligible. Unless, you are a total dweeb who looks up the lyrics so that you can sing along (Hi, Honey! I love you!). I stopped at a traffic signal and looked out the window as the chorus was playing and I was singing. What was I stopped next to? A Catholic Church. <br /><br />So, yeah, a lapsed Catholic badly belting out the chorus to Shout at the Devil while stopped next to a Catholic Church. The irony of it all. I started laughing uncontrollably. Needless to say, I couldn't be sure if the funny looks I was getting were from the music choice, my caterwauling, or maniacal laughter. <br /><br />All I can say is, its a good thing Closer played while I was on the road and nowhere near the house of God. Although, you gotta think that God has a sense of humor.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-19423262788311336832009-06-26T07:29:00.000-07:002009-06-26T07:59:25.932-07:00Farrah vs MikeObviously, the world lost two icons yesterday. There is no disputing the greatness that was Michael Jackson. However, I feel that a great disservice is being done by only honoring him and only reporting the sensational details of his death. Lets face it, a peaceful, quiet, and dignified death just isn't going to grab the headlines. <br /><br />Farrah was an icon in her own right. I read that her poster from the 70's is still the biggest selling poster of all time. There is no denying that she was gorgeous and could easily have been typecast into your stereotypical blonde bombshell roles but Farrah had some acting chops. She took on some real gritty roles. Playing Diane Downs in Small Sacrifices - a role so repugnant due to the nature of her crime - and playing her well. I've read the book by Ann Rule and seeing Farrah act out the character is so true to life to the book its just as you imagined Diane Downs as you read it. <br /><br />Farrah seemed to live a quiet and dignified life. She didn't create a ton of tabloid headlines and was only recently in the news again due to her documentary. A documentary so gritty and real that it was almost the antithesis of a Hollywood star. She used her illness to educate the world. She used her illness to shine the light on huge inequities in our health care system. She refused to gloss over the gory, sad, and horrific side effects of her devastating illness and through it all kept her dignity and class in place. <br /><br />On the other hand, Michael's passing surpassed and tributes to Farrah and even preempted network television. You couldn't change a channel on the TV without hearing a song of his playing or hearing the details of his death. I cannot deny that the music world has lost an indisputable legend and tremendous talent but his death shouldn't be reported as more important than Farrah's. I've heard the media say that his death is more tragic because it was unexpected but let's be real - his death is garnering more media because of his scandalous life. The strange marriages, the molestation accusations, the childlike way that he lived, and now drug abuse.<br /><br />I think that this is the very epitome of what is wrong with the media. We, as a culture, thrive on salacious details. Who's dating whom, who's marrying whom, who's divorcing whom, etc. I am not excluding myself from that group by any stretch. I enjoy reading a good bit of celebrity gossip as much as the next person. However, the more I watched the media coverage last night, the more perturbed I became. I heard newscasters saying they had tributes planned for Farrah that were now cancelled due to Michael's death. How is that right? Our culture lost TWO great icons yesterday but only one of them is getting recognized. <br /><br />I personally was not a huge fan of Michael's. I don't mind his music (as a music lover, you have to appreciate how revolutionary he was) but as a person, I think he was a nut. Whether or not he actually did sexually molest those boys, I am not sure but I do believe there was something "off" about a person who gets comfort from surrounding himself with young children - especially boys. I also believe that there is nothing right about sharing your bed with children who are not your own or any type of relation. He lived his life in the spotlight - partly because of his tyrannical father but lately because of his bizarre actions. I feel for the child he was but I cannot respect, or even like, the adult he became. <br /><br />He will definitely leave a lasting effect on the music world. Everyone in the 80's knew someone with the Beat It jacket, glove, and huge mirrored aviator shades. People today still emulate his dances, especially the moonwalk. And a new generation is becoming familiar with his music. That should be his legacy. His legacy shouldn't be drugs, cosmetic surgery, bankruptcy, and legal issues. <br /><br />Farrah is the Charlie's Angel we all remember. It doesn't matter that she was only on the show for one season. I remember my cousins and I would play Charlie's Angels and invariably there was a huge fight over who was Farrah. Most teenage boys in the 80's had a crush on her and most teenage girls wanted to be her or at least have her hair. Be at peace, Ms. Fawcett!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-91919133418661217212009-05-27T06:19:00.000-07:002009-05-27T06:45:06.683-07:00WTF WednesdayI need to vent and what better way to do it then to wrap it up in a cute little package with a title filled with alliteration? (Gee, can you tell that I've been helping the boy wonder with his English homework?)<br /><br />Lately, I've been on daycare duty. This isn't something I normally do as the daycare is close to Hubby's work. Its been about a year since I've been in and out of there with any regularity. Needless to say, there is new staff and when I walked in a couple of weeks back to pick up the Demon, I realized that I no longer knew which room she was in. As I was looking around, one of the girls asked me who I was looking for. When I told her, she stared at me a minute longer and then asked if I was grandma. WTF? Seriously, if you have any doubt, don't you err on the side of caution and say Mom? That way, you won't insult anyone and if I was in fact, grandma, you would have flattered me. Of course, since I'm so polite and all, I told her I was mom and then informed her that I didn't like her.<br /><br />Crapplebee's again. After <a href="http://eastcoastgirlinthemidwest.blogspot.com/2007/10/crapplebees.html">this</a>, you would think that I would know better but apparently I'm a slow learner. Also, read the comments on this post - someone out there really loves Crapplebees! We waited ages to go back and what happens when we do? There is rotten (and I do mean ROTTEN) celery in our starter. Normally, I wouldn't eat the celery but I just happened to be munching away on the rotten stalk. When I called the manager over and showed him the rotten celery, he asked what the problem was. Are you FUCKING kidding me???? WTF? He took the starter off our bill but it went downhill from there. I've never left a restaurant without leaving a tip but I did that night. I even wrote a note on the receipt explaining why I wasn't leaving a tip and told the manager I wasn't leaving one and why. We had to ask for our child's drink and our waitress couldn't be bothered to come back to our table. We weren't offered refills - EVER - and after sitting and waiting 10 minutes with a rambunctious toddler, I finally took the bill to the bar and bitched out a different manager. Yeah, I'm sure this get a slew of anonymous comments telling me to stay home and eat meatloaf but whatevs. <br /><br />Hubby and the Demon left for a short vacation to PA this morning. I miss them already but seriously, Hubby, can't you book a flight that doesn't leave at the ass crack of dawn??? WTF? You know I'm not a morning person and it makes me want to remove your testicle (singular on purpose :D) to get up that early especially when you are off to have fun and I have to go to work. You're lucky I love you the way I do. <br /><br />Hormones + teenage girl = mother ready to drink for fear of killing teenage daughter. This one doesn't even get a WTF - it gets a full Fucking Kill Me Now! Bad part is, she's only 14 so there is no end in sight. I think teenage girls are a mother's punishment for torturing their mother. I've tried apologizing but my momma only laughs. I spend days trying to decide which is less painful, repeatedly smashing myself in the head with a hammer or throwing myself down the stairs or dealing with her. <br /><br />Join me in the bitch fest, won't you?Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-6147207688708913632009-05-18T06:54:00.001-07:002009-05-18T12:14:05.068-07:00What Today Should BeToday should be the day I stand by my oldest child with my heart swelled with pride. Watching as he carefully dons the mortar board and cocks it at a jaunty angle and gives me the grin I've been seeing my whole life. The grin that says, I know this isn't right but you know you can't help smiling with me. This should be the day I reach out and straighten the hat and help him carefully place the tassel. The tassel that will eventually hang from his rear view mirror in a rite of passage. This should be the day I jam my purse full of tissues and watch my baby - the baby whose first faltering steps I witnessed - make that trek across the stage and receive the diploma that signifies his transition from childhood to adulthood. This should be the day that I watch each year of his life flash by me with each step he takes toward that diploma, from the cute little baby to the gangly preteen to the man he is today. This is all what today should be about.<br /><br />Instead, today is about dreams dashed and hopes dimmed. Today is instead the day I listen to my other coworkers talk about their children's graduations that occurred over the weekend. Today is the day I listen to their stories and realize that I won't have one to share. Today is about failure, shame, and embarrasment - his and mine.<br /><br />Sean needs one - let me repeat that - ONE freaking credit for his diploma. Instead of buckling down and getting the work done, he's been putting it off. Oh, he'll get a diploma but he will never have that walk, dressed in a dark green cap and gown, to receive it. I'll never have the moment of my heart swelling with love and pride, watching him take that walk. I'll never get cheesy pictures with a diploma in one hand and a thumbs up with the other hand with his buddies. <br /><br />I've spent the last few weeks trying to convince myself that its ok. That as long as he eventually receives that piece of paper, the ceremony doesn't matter. I was wrong. It does matter. I sit here typing this with a lump in my throat, knowing I've failed. I've failed because I let him fail. I kept telling myself that he is 18 and it has to be his responsibility to get the work done. However, reaching high school graduation is my last official job as a parent and I didn't make it happen so the failure is mine. Now, he has 3 assignments to finish and he'll receive his diploma without any fanfare, without any announcements, without any revelry, without any ceremony. And my heart aches.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-19425405985341267392009-03-30T17:49:00.000-07:002009-03-30T18:09:14.954-07:00Not So Good TimesYep. I've totally neglected this blog and the blogs of all those I read. I have still been reading, but I haven't been commenting. Mea Culpas!<br /><br />At any rate, between our usual busy time at work, I've also been dealing with some personal stuff. About a week ago, my parents house caught fire. Thankfully, everyone is ok and that is truly the main thing! Unfortunately, the back side of their house is trashed! Once we got over the shock, we realized that our family truly does deal with things with humor as there have been many jokes. <br /><br />I've never had a childhood home. With my father being in the Air Force, I spent most of my years in base housing. I was very lucky though, in the fact that no matter where we lived or what kind of house it was, it was always home. My parent's weren't (and still aren't) wealthy but every place we lived in had a home filled with love and memories. Most of our memories can be conjured by looking at certain items in the house. No matter where we lived, I always knew home by the things around me - a house decorated for tradition, family, and comfort and not for show. <br /><br />My mother was one of 10 children. Obviously, my grandparents didn't have any money and most of our "family heirlooms" were probably purchased using Green Stamps at the grocery store. I remember it being my job to lick the stamps and put them in the books. <br /><br />One such purchase was our famous Turkey platter. Yes, this is just what it sounds like - a platter with a picture of a turkey on it. It graced many of my childhood Thanksgiving dinners back East until it eventually came to reside with my mother a few years prior to my beloved Nana's death. We used that platter faithfully every Thanksgiving and it was well known amongst my siblings and I that the platter would eventually pass on to me as the oldest child and the only one with children. <br /><br />Once, my mother, sister and I were at an indoor flea market. I was marvelling over the booths filled with junk that was so similar to many items we had in our house. Things that others would easily view as junk but to the right person would hold precious memories. I turned a corner and busted out laughing - calling my mother over at the same time. My mother came over, thinking, I'm sure that her oldest had finally lost her mind, and stopped dead and joined my giggling. There, sitting in pride of place in this booth was the exact same turkey platter. Selling for a whopping $2.50. Once the giggling subsided, I thanked my mother for my fantastic inheritance.<br /><br />We don't know what items will be salvaged from the kitchen (the worst of the damage) and the fear is that turkey platter will be lost forever. However, it is good to know that my parents will be able to claim their $2.50 loss back from insurance!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0L7eVsXMAVObn8QKaXwa-k7COdR8RDk2OO6269ARLnwzz2LivMXIYXkyJjoAxcLmSZe7tCqGSRV19y_CvF1G5pCO8ulFfUVrLcRHB5BJKU0H-Xx7TXPBbzFGu5VoeiJsLmrPLVE3tFyXo/s1600-h/034%5B1%5D.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0L7eVsXMAVObn8QKaXwa-k7COdR8RDk2OO6269ARLnwzz2LivMXIYXkyJjoAxcLmSZe7tCqGSRV19y_CvF1G5pCO8ulFfUVrLcRHB5BJKU0H-Xx7TXPBbzFGu5VoeiJsLmrPLVE3tFyXo/s400/034%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319151583774015602" /></a><br />That lovely plastic covered hole you see is the kitchen<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhJlkVFZE5cEo6yWFuRxalLIk_ZWRaI4A8y23-kUm0cV425PD2ZTIhh_nDhywAouczvQs64OgwamvMhdCrshT_EqG7vKiCAQJ07tqgImTAUyyVSbyEYluIux-0lGC-X3x7HQJW69LHBVPP/s1600-h/049%5B1%5D.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhJlkVFZE5cEo6yWFuRxalLIk_ZWRaI4A8y23-kUm0cV425PD2ZTIhh_nDhywAouczvQs64OgwamvMhdCrshT_EqG7vKiCAQJ07tqgImTAUyyVSbyEYluIux-0lGC-X3x7HQJW69LHBVPP/s400/049%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319151587981860930" /></a>The view from the other side of the plastic<br /><br />On the upside, my mother finally gets to remodel!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-8296574429858389302009-01-20T13:05:00.001-08:002009-01-20T13:48:05.563-08:00Yes We CanToday, I sat at a computer completely transfixed while watching history be made. I've struggled to find the reason why this inaugaration is different and the only thing I can come up with is Change. Ushering in Obama as our 44th President signifies youth, hope, unification, and change. <br /><br />As I lay in bed last night, a thought struck me. There is a fundamental difference between my generation and my children's generation. As a teenager (same age as the Drama Queen), I couldn't fathom the idea of a black man and a woman competing for a presidental nomination. I saw the carnage that a female vice president wreaked on Walter Mondale. I have to admit that it was beyond my comprehension that this day would arrive. As I sat in awe seeing all the "old school" candidates drop out (ie: white males) and watched it come down to the wire between Hillary and Barrack, I knew I was witnessing history. To me, it was akin to what those in the 60's must have felt watching the civil rights movements and see the integration of the blacks. To my children, it was just the way it was. It wasn't a question for them of if could happen but why couldn't it happen. That is the moment I realized just how important this election was.<br /><br />I watched on election night as polls closed and votes came in to see Barrack take state after state, I realized how much our country and our people needed this. This became not an issue of a black president, but of a young, new leader who had the power to energize a nation with his words. The power to remind us that it is not an issue of black or white, woman or man but an issue of American people stepping up to the plate to do what we can to affect change. I sat and watched my 13 year old daughter intently watching the television, so excited about an election, not because of the barriers that have been broken but because she too felt inspired by Obama and realized his message is meant and understood by all ages, race, sexes, and religions. <br /><br />I, for one, am excited by all the barriers that have been broken throughout this election. Woman or man, black or white, old or young no longer matters. Having the power to unite and compel a people through your words, having the skill to speak convincingly and inspire a nation, giving us all hope for a better and brighter tomorrow is what it should be about.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-14572577971624128432009-01-19T12:05:00.001-08:002009-01-19T12:19:20.491-08:00PSA Number 2Alternately entitled, why birth control is a GOOD GOOD thing.<br /><br />How long does puberty last in girls? Oh that's right, it starts and birth and ends sometime around the time they birth their first <s>demon spawn</s> girl child. Then, they start calling their mother's and apologizing for every shitty thing they've ever done to them. At that point, their mother laughs and tells them they deserve it. Not that I speak from experience or anything. <br /><br />I always wanted a boy first and now I know why. I used to think it had to do with wanting an older brother who would be so cool and look after me, now I know its because if I'd had a girl first, I would have ripped out my own reproductive organs to prevent any further births. <br /><br />The Drama Queen might not make it to 14 at the rate she's going and her birthday is in April. Hell, I might not make it to 37 at the rate she's going and MY birthday's in April too. <br /><br />Apparently, at age 13, these things become your right:<br /><br />1. Unlimited phone use<br />2. Unlimited computer use<br />3. Ability to ignore chores<br />4. Ability to roll eyes at anything parent's say<br />5. Ability to not only talk back to your mother but yell at her<br />6. Ability to act like a total snotbag<br />7. Ability to ignore any and all rules that you do not like<br /><br />I missed this section of my parenting handbook, I think the parent's before me removed the chapter as some kind of karmic joke. Well, I'm not laughing. I'm thinking that Prozac is good - not for me, but for her. She gets me so mad to the point that I want to strangle her like those stress dolls until her eyes pop out. Some of you out there might be nodding along in agreement and some of you (either still with young girls or better yet, no girls at all) might be shaking your head in horror. I say, if you think you can do better, leave me a comment with your mailing address and I'll send her along!<br /><br />I try to have sympathy - oh how I try since I remember those days myself. The days of knowing you are being a rag yet being unable to change it. The days of tears being just a eye blink away. I remember. Yet, when I get the monkey wailing at a pitch loud enough that only the neighborhood dogs can hear it, I lose any sense of sympathy. <br /><br />So, help me! I need advice on how to survive raising a teenage daughter and surviving. I know it can be done - after all I'm here and my mom made it through. I'm scared to ask her in case there isn't a magic formula. The only good thing about this is I'm a redhead and they don't tend to go gray as early! :DKatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-72647924056159291622009-01-06T07:38:00.000-08:002009-01-06T07:46:38.279-08:00SupahstahI love Mary Catherine Gallagher. So, even though the show is really called Superstars of Dance, I always pronounce it as Supahstah in my best Mary Catherine Gallagher voice and then sniff my armpit fingers. <br /><br />Moving on....<br /><br />The Dancing Drama Queen and I have been watching this show and there is one itty bitty tiny thing about it that bothers the living fuck out of me:<br /><br />Dear Michael Flattely -<br /><br />You are NOT Irish. You were born in and raised in Chicago. Yes, I realize that there are a lot of Irish Americans in Chicago. Yes, I realize you are one of the best Irish step dancers there is. However, that does NOT give you the right to be the host of this show and talk throughout the whole show with an Irish accent. It bothers me and I must insist you stop. If you don't, I might be forced to come and pull a Tonya Harding on your Nancy Kerrigan ass. Don't fuck with me, fake Irish boy, as I'm a Irish American from New England area (ehhh, close enough to Boston for arguements sake) and we all know that the Boston Irish can and will kick ass.<br /><br />Erin Go Bragh, motherfucker!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-32048000150519281942009-01-05T16:50:00.000-08:002009-01-05T16:55:24.402-08:00Shaggy's Library TripWhat happens when you send your 17 year old son to the library to pick up books for you? Books that you wrote the titles and author down for. Books that you made all by one author to make it easy for him?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJA9sYSi0MgNtGkyDurAjnIzeTmg0Gg3aQm2U9KSSvoJUzqLejNl8O4LyMmmR2CTjrfpa6-v8VIWZi06IRBvj1oCxTTQR1L3x8wz4OKxLAHGgahz8_YmdYDVWhzTSLLDCcurODdDS19C4K/s1600-h/002.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJA9sYSi0MgNtGkyDurAjnIzeTmg0Gg3aQm2U9KSSvoJUzqLejNl8O4LyMmmR2CTjrfpa6-v8VIWZi06IRBvj1oCxTTQR1L3x8wz4OKxLAHGgahz8_YmdYDVWhzTSLLDCcurODdDS19C4K/s400/002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287977343150195922" /></a><br /><br />You are seeing that correctly, those are LARGE print books. <br /><br />When I asked him why he got me large print, his response was, "Those were the first set of shelves."<br /><br />Thanks, Shaggy, thanks a bunch! As if having a high school senior didn't make me feel old enough!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-55680483366194540802009-01-02T11:29:00.000-08:002009-01-02T11:40:46.975-08:002009 And I Still SuckAll of you readers (**knock knock - there are readers out there, right? I know <a href="http://www.sashasays.com">Sasha</a> still pops in and Anonymous is STILL commenting on the Crapabees post so here must be at least 2**) may have noticed that my usual lack of posts has become much longer lately. So, yeah, I suck.<br /><br />I suck at commenting lately. I suck at posting lately. I just suck. <br /><br />I've had stuff to say but it just hasn't seemed to want to travel to my fingers. I lay in bed at night and think back through the day and think, I should have posted about that. Then, when I wake up in the morning, its gone. Whatevs, I'm getting old.<br /><br />I had this brilliant idea that I'd start off 2009 by posting something each day. Hell, this is more of way to document what a shitty parent I am and something that proves that happens at least once a day. But, here it is, already January 2nd and I've screwed that up. <br /><br />I could have posted how I fell asleep Christmas Eve and almos forgot to have Santa visit. I could have posted how our front yard has become a deer graveyard. I could have posted about stealing a case of Coke from Wal-Mart. I haven't done any of those things. So, yeah, I suck.<br /><br />I could have taken pictures of how the Demon Spawn decided to decorate herself with a pen and liquid eyeliner but I didn't. I could have posted pictures of how she has decided clothing is optional and is perpetually naked. <br /><br />Instead, I've spent the last few weeks (months??) lounging in front of the TV. I've been comtemplating what makes a good blog as I've been reading my usuals and wondering what my voice is. What's my hook? What's my angle? <br /><br />Apparently, its just to suck. And I'm succeeding!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-35240283087500271692008-11-26T12:56:00.000-08:002008-11-26T13:13:40.282-08:00Happy Eating Til You Wanna Puke Dayfrom me and mine to you and yours!<br /><br />Since Thanksgiving technically kicks off the holiday season, I figured I'd take five minutes and reflect on what I am thankful for:<br /><br />My Husband - even when he aggravates the holy hell out of me, he is still the best thing to come into my life. He loves me unconditionally, thinks I'm pretty, tolerates all my moods and quirks. I need to spend more time telling him how great he is instead of getting dwelling on what he does to piss me off. I love you more today than yesterday, Don. Thanks for healing all the holes in my heart.<br /><br />My Shaggy - the child that made me a mother, the child that makes me proud. I can't believe it is almost time to drop kick you out the front door. You will always be my baby and I will always love you. You make me laugh and your sisters should thank you for raising a mother so they had the easy road! :D<br /><br />My Dancing Drama Queen - the only expected (not to mention conceived in welock child since I'm a sinner and all) child and my first beautiful baby girl. You were everything I hoped for when I was pregnant and have grown into so much more as the time has flown by. Even though I'm seriously giving thought to deporting you until puberty is over, you always hold a special place in my heart as my first and most precious baby girl. Keep pirouetting through life and living up to all your dreams!<br /><br />My Demon Spawn - you were the most unexpected gift I never thought I wanted. You have completed our families in a way that we didn't even realize they needed until you came along. Even though you will always be Daddy's girl, you have definitely taught me that motherhood isn't something that happens at birth but more so something that you have to earn. I love you, my pumpkin pie!<br /><br />My Mom and Dad - you both showed me what family means and also what marriage means. You are the greatest parents any child could want. Thank you both for all the joy, the memories, the love, and most of all for being my parents for the last 36 years. (Remember when I was a teenager and thought you both sucked and you told me when I was a parent I'd think you were cool again? Yeah, you were right!)<br /><br />My sister - thanks for always showing me up by being the "good child". Erin - what can I say to you...I'm thankful for you and all that it entails. I love you more than I ever tell you Owen.<br /><br />Friends - there aren't many but for those that I am close to (yes, in case you are reading, this includes you Devil Boss) thanks for letting me be me and always being there if I needed an ear. <br /><br />I've come to realize that as I get older, I get (A) sappier, (B) wiser, (C) introspective. A good friend just lost her mother and another found out his father has cancer and yet another is struggling watching her paren't age and it has made me realize, there isn't always a tomorrow and we must take the time to let those who matter know how important they are to us. So, thank you to all of you in the internetz/bloggerville who have touched my life. <br /><br />Have a wonderful, safe, and satisfying Thanksgiving!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-86417163523757354542008-11-19T17:20:00.000-08:002008-11-19T17:35:37.672-08:00Abby and the Potty<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlOpydHddKe-hLxHuBIKP-oTX47SPTzT7XnEQHITJk5F2zsIpwxHwl8rceEU6uTu1V11o2taD0lVhZ2T9cfRBW_6TLXs5pOmoS35Jrvt-SXbY-KbMsW-Xgk3JTjQyR4tp4l5PttI3vpcH/s1600-h/Abby+Poop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlOpydHddKe-hLxHuBIKP-oTX47SPTzT7XnEQHITJk5F2zsIpwxHwl8rceEU6uTu1V11o2taD0lVhZ2T9cfRBW_6TLXs5pOmoS35Jrvt-SXbY-KbMsW-Xgk3JTjQyR4tp4l5PttI3vpcH/s400/Abby+Poop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270547236969306930" /></a><br />Abby turned 2 in September. Right around that time, she decided that shit in her diaper wasn't pleasant. AT. ALL. We had to start watching her like a hawk because...well because toddler shit doesn't like to stay put in a diaper. It likes to roll onto the carpet and then get smashed in by toddler Flintstone feet. Quite frankly, Momma is sick of cleaning carpets. <br /><br />We dragged the trusty potty into the living room and bought some schweeeeeeeet undies (or sandies in Abbyese) and decided this would be a good time to start potty training.<br /><br />Lo and behold, she had some instant success as demonstrated in the picture. If you look real close, you can see the brown shark in the potty. Wow, I thought, this is going to be easy. Yeah, she fooled me. The potty eventually got retired for a couple of months and we started putting the diapers on backwards and gave a permanent place of residence to the steam vac. I started calling it Stan and it was like he was a part of our family he got used so much. (I'll be damned if the Demon Spawn didn't figure out pretty freaking quick how to remove those backwards diapers).<br /><br />Fast forward to the last couple of weeks and we have been having renewed potty success. We still have to watch the Demon Spawn like a hawk because she loves to empty the potty and with those toddler Flintstone feet, she falls alot. That is something I totally don't get - I swear her feet are as wide as they are long..you'd think that would give her added stability. At any rate, the other night she peed in the potty, grabbed the cup out and started her mad dash to the bathroom to wish her tinkle good-bye.<br /><br />I managed to stop her and asked her what she had...her response has me really worried about what she's doing with that potty when we aren't watching. She said it was juice. Hmmmm...thats a new kind of juice but I guess whatever floats her boat!<br /><br />As an aside, potty training her reminds me of Shaggy way back in the day. When he finally shit on the toilet, he wouldn't let me flush it because his dad wasn't there. He sat in his bedroom window and waited for his dad to get back. When he saw him walking up the steps (we lived in a townhouse complex), he screamed out the window, "Dad, come watch my poop dance." Apparently my kids also have a bathroom fetish....Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-37186223577950776252008-10-27T19:47:00.000-07:002008-10-27T20:04:35.859-07:00Into The Rabbit HoleSince Hubby has been watching the World Series - a World Series I am totally boycotting in spite of my love of baseball, a World Series we aren't talking about since the Sox C-H-O-K-E-D - I've been forced into the bedroom to find whatever I can on television. Let me tell you, its been slim pickings. The good side, I've been catching up with my reading. <br /><br />At any rate, I was flipping channels last night and happened to catch another Duggar show. Thinking it was another of their specials, I started watching and quickly - oh so quickly - got sucked into the newest Duggar Vortex. 17 Kids and Counting. <br /><br />Now, I think these people are freaking certifiable. I have enough trouble with 3 kids. I'm also a little (ok more than a little) freaked out by their lifestyle. There is just something so....so....cultish about their family. The girls all dressed in skirts and long long hair. The boys in khakis and polos. The constant religious aspect. The homeschooling. I know there are people who read this who homeschool *cough*Tina*cough* and I truly do say to each their own but, when you add homeschooling to this family. At any rate, I think you get the point that I think they are strange. <br /><br />OK - I'll say it. They flat out piss me off. They have all these kids and say that its "God's Will" but as far as I can see from watching any of the shows, they don't raise all these kids. Each little kid is assigned a buddy - an older sibling - to help care for them. To me, you are forcing these kids to become parents. If you want to have 100 kids, GREAT! Have them! BUT, I think you have to be prepared to raise them yourself. Your children didn't have these kids - you did! <br /><br />Now, I feel better getting that off my chest. I'm sure there are those who will not agree with me and that's ok. That's what makes this country great - we can all have our own <s>asshole</s> opinion. <br /><br />However, in watching one of the episodes last night, I was left totally speechless. And for anyone who doesn't know me, that doesn't happen often. The Duggar's oldest son has a girlfriend. One he wants to start dating seriously. What does he do? He calls the girl's parents and asks if he can have her hand in marriage so that they can date seriously. OK - strange but I get all that. He flies to Florida and proposes and then...he hugs her. He later explains that they will not kiss until their wedding. What the HELL??? I get the no sex thing. I can even respect that. I couldn't do it but I do get it. I even understand the engagement thing. What I don't understand is, you are 20 years old, you've asked this woman to marry you and all you can do with her is hug her and hold her hand? That, I do NOT get.<br /><br />You will notice that I tend to shy away from 2 things on this blog - politics (I'm a democrat) and religion (I'm a Catholic) since both are pretty personal things and both are things that you generally will not change someones mind on. The Duggars fall into my no religion rule but I just had to blog about this. I give them a lot of credit in that they seem a very happy <s>cult</s> family but, I do also believe in all things in moderation. I'm pretty sure God wouldn't keep them out of Heaven for kissing.<br /><br />**stepping down from my soapbox with the promise to return to regularly scheduled programming**Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-52512924852171275392008-10-20T06:03:00.001-07:002008-10-20T06:03:30.010-07:00SHHHHHHWe are NOT going to discuss the Red Sox.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-26310805272014636992008-10-09T14:00:00.000-07:002008-10-09T14:06:25.422-07:00Law and Order: SVU<i>In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories.</i><br /><br />Kelly and I were watching an old episode of SVU last night. During the opening credits (as above) she turned to me and said, "Isn't heinous a bad word?"<br /><br />I said no, it means horrible. She paused for a moment digesting this information. Then she said, "Well isn't the word like heinous a bad word?" <br /><br />I'm sitting there trying to puzzle out a synonymn for heinous that could be a bad word and getting no where so I ask her what word she means.<br /><br />She says, "Like heinous but without the h".<br /><br />I'll give you a minute to sound it out in my head like I did last night.<br /><br /><br />**cue the Jepoardy music**<br /><br />Did you come up with anus? Did you laugh? <br /><br />Apparently Frank, who's really smart, told Kelly that anus was a bad word. I disagree with Frank's level of smartness since he thought anus was a bad word. Once I explained to Kelly that anus was the anatomically correct way to say poop chute, I think she wishes she'd stayed in the dark and never asked....Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-91109399679551980562008-10-08T17:39:00.001-07:002008-10-08T17:48:02.201-07:00Abby the ExplorerAbby is addicted to a few shows - Onder Pets, Ongebob, Ora, Boos Clues to name a few (Let me know if anyone needs the translations to those titles as they are in Abbaese). As a matter of fact, she's behind me now, buck ass naked, singing about Eam Ork (Teamwork) as she watches the Wonder Pets. <br /><br />This weekend, I found out just how much she's addicted to these shows. She was sitting on her potty (don't ask how that's going...she'll sit on it until she has to go then gets up and shits or pees on the floor) and I was talking to Kelly. I was listening to Abby with half an ear when I though I heard uno. Thinking that she babbles a lot and I wasn't paying total attention to her, I just assumed I misunderstood. <br /><br />Then, I heard tres, cinqo, ocho. After I picked my jaw up from the shock, I shushed Kelly and told her to listen. I'll be damned if she didn't count to 8 in Spanish. All of the numbers correct. My favorite is ocho because of the way she says it, OOOOOOOCHO.<br /><br />On a side note, anyone have any tips on potty training? She won't keep a diaper on (especially if she poops in it) yet, short of superglueing her ass to the potty, she won't stay on that either. What's worse is, she makes sure to tell us as soon as she goes on the floor. I'm thinking she'll be in diapers til she's 21 at this rate....Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-38726603935111027422008-10-06T12:24:00.001-07:002008-10-06T12:35:36.942-07:00Houston....We Have a ProblemHubby and I have been tossing around when would be the right time to convert Abby's crib into a toddler bed. We've been in no rush to do it since the crib has kept her nice and contained. As a matter of fact, I threw her in there about 11 am on Saturday because she was being real whiney and difficult. I figured it was close enough to nap time. Somehow, when I left the room, I shut the door all the way. After about 5 minutes of her screaming, I told Kelly to go and get her up as she obviously wasn't ready to nap.<br /><br />Kelly opens her door and I hear, "How did you get out?". I knew it was trouble right then and there. I go down to the Demon's room and sure enough, she is free from her cage. I put her back in and told her to show Mommy how she got out and she sure did!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYfKc6osnFL2BKxs0-YHsCz1nnjFVxSbIH4b4fy9VVJeP9sPpjDfHfeZc9J6Nz03NRr61BZ0QDsSJaMJJGEx0zmp3j0y9zVBKNJ2SqS613vIqCp7CmRh3o_5IAHWmIXPeuVpbg_QGsf2uc/s1600-h/l_e1ac0bf3b85f4c2bacff005eb5babb41.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYfKc6osnFL2BKxs0-YHsCz1nnjFVxSbIH4b4fy9VVJeP9sPpjDfHfeZc9J6Nz03NRr61BZ0QDsSJaMJJGEx0zmp3j0y9zVBKNJ2SqS613vIqCp7CmRh3o_5IAHWmIXPeuVpbg_QGsf2uc/s400/l_e1ac0bf3b85f4c2bacff005eb5babb41.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254124622220610498" /></a><br /><br />Please excuse the Wal-Martz look of a diaper and a t-shirt, we are also working on potty training. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Th5EDL-bEIVZ52DWg0i4EWItfs3dH4tbED2uVFYpI5LxgOEsEidqx0di0NhFFzU1ORX6WjmX_8sabKG7JrEI-6fZM3cpg0BAi7vwa7qePBNItElNFRwBUOk0BQrSViloaEyYbh0XU_ls/s1600-h/l_63e7c4b4667c470a9e703a930f2931cf.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Th5EDL-bEIVZ52DWg0i4EWItfs3dH4tbED2uVFYpI5LxgOEsEidqx0di0NhFFzU1ORX6WjmX_8sabKG7JrEI-6fZM3cpg0BAi7vwa7qePBNItElNFRwBUOk0BQrSViloaEyYbh0XU_ls/s400/l_63e7c4b4667c470a9e703a930f2931cf.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254124885900260322" /></a><br /><br />Almost over....Just a bit further<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWZdUMM2NqU9istPivv274Z_nAr597fH_zw77lAElydIghp2CA5NW5si6mxFbuPvp2vW_fSTphniepB4n-bqyAAlrns5U4wzluXxK29fhZlSCSCFep9FYSNIcdrbA1PNWSNpNrztsVx3r/s1600-h/l_f406b7c902bf40a5a528272b7e1b572b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWZdUMM2NqU9istPivv274Z_nAr597fH_zw77lAElydIghp2CA5NW5si6mxFbuPvp2vW_fSTphniepB4n-bqyAAlrns5U4wzluXxK29fhZlSCSCFep9FYSNIcdrbA1PNWSNpNrztsVx3r/s400/l_f406b7c902bf40a5a528272b7e1b572b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254125655914387106" /></a><br /><br />"Ha Ha! Thought you could keep me in here did you???"<br /><br />I imagine that we'll be on the news shortly about some wild looking child wearing only a diaper and a t-shirt found wandering up and down our street.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-38804081106594200132008-09-29T18:44:00.000-07:002008-09-30T11:34:11.781-07:00Deep ThoughtsI know I've mentioned that I'm an Air Force Brat and that I attended High School in England. For the record, I have no idea why brat and high school are capitalized. Moving on....<br /><br />Children of parents in the Armed Services have a unique bond. Perhaps its because we know our time together is limited until our parent receives their next assignment. Perhaps its because we all understand what the life if like. I'm not sure exactly why but I do know that I can recall names, faces, memories of the friends I made at every base we were stationed at. I may not have kept in touch but each of those friends left their imprint on my life. However, being stationed overseas changed that bond. It made the bond you had with others more concrete. We had the added bond of knowing we were strangers in a foreign country. This caused us to cling to each other even more so. <br /><br />When we moved to England in 1984, the base my dad was stationed at was in the process of building a new school. It was a lovely $20 million dollar project that would house all of us Air Force kids grades K-12. In the meantime, grades K-3 attended one school that was an old firestation and grades 4-9 attended school in these building that we guess were old offices. After 9th grade, we were bussed off to attend school on another base just outside of London. <br /><br />At this school, there were day students (student's who's parents were stationed at that base), 5 day dormies (me - kids who's parents were stationed close enough to make it financially feasible to send us home on weekends), and 7 day dormies (kids who were too far away to spend weekends at home). This type of existence created a huge bond between all of us. I attended this school for 10th grade only before our new school opened. In spite of the fact that I was only there for one year, if a name is mentioned to me, it usually will conjur up a face to go with it. We were tight. <br /><br />Both of these schools are now closed. Both bases have fallen victim to the Ballistic Missles Treaty between the US and Russia in the early 90's. Our brand new school graduated only three classes - class of 1989, class of 1990 (that was me) and class of 1991. These were small classes, there were only 45 kids in my graduating class. Perhaps a total of 50 in the class of 1989 and less than 40 for the class of 1991. <br /><br />I had been living over there since 7th grade. I was a long timer, with my parents signing on for an extra tour of duty so that I could complete high school in one location. Even though our school was small, I felt that I was pretty well known by most people simply by the fact that I had been there forever. <br /><br />In about the last 4 years, there have been some attempts to locate all the alumni. Most of us scattered all over the globe at graduation, breaking the promises that were penned in numerous yearbooks about keeping in touch. It was different for us, we didn't all live in the same town - we weren't likely to run into each other. We all began to live our lives and while the memories we had of those years faded, they were never completely erased. <br /><br />With the advent of MySpace and Facebook, the reconnection effort has exploded. We are all finding each other again after 20 odd years. The odd thing is, the faces I hold in my memories, the faces that are conjured up to match a name, are the faces I saw last in the early 90's. I've forgotten that all of us have aged - most with families of our own and some of us with children the same ages we all were when meeting. Its such a shock to the system to see these adults. I guess in some corner of my mind, I was still expecting the pegged jeans, the Iron Maiden t-shirts, the flannel overshirts, the big hair, the blue eyeshadow, and the many other compenents that made up the fashion disasters of the 80's and early 90's. <br /><br />I've discovered that a few people actually live in cornland with me. One of them was a girl I wasn't particularly close to in high school who has continually offered to meet up for lunches, dinners, etc. I keep blowing her off. Why? I don't really know. I guess some of the other people I've come in contact with over the years seem to be stuck in high school. They seem to want to live in the past. I know I'm not the same person I was 20 years ago. I guess the other part is being afraid. My life after high school didn't quite turn out as I expected and I know I was perceived as one of those who was going to "go places". I'm sure as hell not the skinny kid I was 20 years ago. Fear of being a disappointment - fear of being judged - fear of finding out those you were closest too 20 years ago are no longer people you'd chose to associate with. That's what's holding me back. <br /><br />So, next June is the 20th reunion of the class of 1989 being celebrated with a reunion in Kansas City. I've been toying with it in my mind trying to decide if I want to go. Do I have the balls to face all these people and say, "This is me now - no college degree, a shitload of kids, a mouth like a sailor, and an ass the size of Australia". If I don't go, will I be missing a great opportunity to relive some crazy and outlandish moments with those I shared them with (bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 and Nightrain were probably involved with most of those memories)? Will I be missing the opportunity to discover people I wasn't close to? Will I be missing the opportunity to discover that most of us attending have the same extra pounds? Will these people "get me"? <br /><br />Is it really fear holding me back or am I as judgmental as I'm afraid these people will be of me. All of the people sharing cornland with me aren't people I hung with. There might have even been a couple I really didn't like. Am I holding back because I didn't like someone 20 years ago? What if they've changed just as I've changed? Am I missing the opportunity make some new lifelong friends - friends who happen to share an experience with me? <br /><br />I guess the important question to ask is: Will there be booze there?Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-66205324821473863442008-09-15T11:44:00.000-07:002008-09-15T12:09:06.027-07:00Happy Birthday, Crabigail!!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7TLDN7aFOqk2UoXKK8RYwXr2uSv3BR4ZvVKZSRIoxDUm9j6dbcpALWE1gPF_oY6R7kEdDSzyI539IfBYozwK4cejbfSpq44gRrnZZXEm_MrMPMnByaeazMJnci5OP4cjNMj_KjuVOCK4f/s1600-h/9-1-08+006.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7TLDN7aFOqk2UoXKK8RYwXr2uSv3BR4ZvVKZSRIoxDUm9j6dbcpALWE1gPF_oY6R7kEdDSzyI539IfBYozwK4cejbfSpq44gRrnZZXEm_MrMPMnByaeazMJnci5OP4cjNMj_KjuVOCK4f/s400/9-1-08+006.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246327209174132722" /></a><br />Today marks the day, 2 years ago, that you came into our lives. While unexpected, I feel that you have enriched our lives beyond measure. You are the cement that binds our blended family together. <br /><br />I'll be honest with you, little one, I wasn't all that excited about the prospect of another child. I was happy with the way things were, your dad and I finally had a little bit of financial freedom. We were both comfortable with the idea that I had my children and he had his children and we wouldn't have our child. Apparently, someone had bigger and definitely better ideas. You beat the odds - the odds of birth control pills and a low sperm count due to testicular cancer - to be conceived. Somebody much smarter than daddy and I obviously saw that there was something missing from our lives.<br /><br />I started getting a little more excited once we found out that you were a girl. You see, daddy already had two boys and truly believed that he didn't have the girl gene. His voice cracked with emotion on the way home from the ultrasound. It's the closest to crying I've ever seen your daddy come. Even then, I was really more happy for him than I was about this whole baby thing. <br /><br />You were born in a flurry of activity early on a Friday morning. My water broke in true dramatic fashion about 4 am on the 15th. I was still more excited at the prospect of getting my body back than your birth. Well, especially after since Mommy was really sick after the c-section. <br /><br />We brought you home, we fed you and cuddled you, we marvelled over you. Yet, still a dark cloud persisted. You see, you had a bent up ear, a hemangioma birthmark, and a mild form of spina bifida (a sacral dimple, or what mommy likes to call - your extra butthole). Each new issue brought a new wave of guilt over mommy. It was all mommy's fault that you had these issues because of how I felt. Mommy distanced herself even more. <br /><br />There were even issues with mommy and daddy's marriage. Mommy was pretty resentful over all the changes going on. Daddy was so in love with you that sometimes it didn't seem like he had any love left over for mommy. You and daddy just didn't seem to need mommy around.<br /><br />Then one day, it happened. Mommy went and fell head over heels in love with you. It wasn't the same instantaneous reaction mommy had with Sean and Kelly, but somehow, someway, you snuck in and grabbed hold. It wasn't that mommy didn't love you before, because she did. It was just different. You never seemed to need me the way that Sean or Kelly did. You often seemed to prefer daddy over me. Oh that stung. But again, mommy figured it must be her fault in some way. <br /><br />Now, no matter how difficult it can be at times, I wouldn't change it. When you run through the front door and wrap yourself around me and say "mommmmmmmy" like you haven't seen me in a month, my heart melts. When you look up at me and say, "I wanna biss (kiss)" I would give you the moon. When you sit and have conversations with me, even when I can't understand it all, I want to freeze time and treasure every syllable. When you cuddle up to me and want me to read to you, I will put aside anything I'm doing so as to enjoy the feel of your baby fat body in my arms. When you want to sit and sing songs with me, you have my undivided attention - and totally off key voice - for as long as you want it. <br /><br />You, my perfect little surprise, have taught me not to take anything for granted. Motherhood is a gift, one to be valued, treasured, and protected. It is not my right simply because you grew in my body. So, with more love today than 2 years ago, mommy wishes you a happy birthday and asks you not to grow up too fast!<br /><br />PS - reading this back, mommy suspects she might have had some PPD that she wasn't willing to admit to before, hiding and burying it all under a smile. <br /><br />PPS - This was one of the hardest things I've ever written...talk about stripping yourself raw!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-69841363682633268392008-08-22T07:11:00.000-07:002008-08-22T07:22:31.006-07:00I Wanna Be An Airborne Ranger...<i><b>March along, sing our song, with the Army of the free<br />Count the brave, count the true, who have fought to victory<br />We're the Army and proud of our name<br />We're the Army and proudly proclaim......</b></i><br /><br />Oy Vey! I came home last night to find an Army recruiter sitting in my house talking to my son. Apparently, my son neglected to inform me that he was coming over to discuss the Reserves. <br /><br />My Son....<br /><br />In<br /><br />The <br /><br />Army?!?!?!?!?!?!?!<br /><br />We aren't Army people in our house...my dad was Air Force and Hubby was Navy...there is no Army. <br /><br />My Son.....<br /><br />A <br /><br />Grunt?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!<br /><br />So, of course, the recruiter gave us the happy song and dance about how wonderful the reserves are. How happy he would be. What a great opportunity to pay for his education. It was all sunshine and roses. It was all love and kisses. It was all...<br /><br />A load of smoke being blown up my ass. <br /><br />I flat out asked him what his chances were at getting deployed to Iraq. He danced around the issue. He tried to tell me that the jobs Shaggy professed interest in were safe. I told him he was full of shit. This is MY baby we are talking about and I know military life. Jackass.<br /><br />I promptly called my dad after the recruiter left fully expecting him to tell me to hide Shaggy in a closet and not to ever ever ever let the Evil Empire (aka the Army) get their hooks into him. <br /><br />Did I get that? Of course......NOT. My dad's only response was that Shaggy should look into it as active duty (heehee I said doody) instead of the reserves. <br /><br />I guess on the plus side, I do love a man in uniform.....but ewwwwww Army green is not attractive on anyone. The recruiter did have one of those cute little beret hats though.....NO NO NO Army. Not my baby! <br /><br />Has anyone had any experiences with the Army reserves (good, bad, otherwise) that they'd like to share with me? It sure would help me be able to steer my baby in the right direction!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-4911526307815684802008-08-18T08:49:00.000-07:002008-08-18T08:58:07.757-07:00Shaggy Gets No More Red Sox Gear - EVER!I've determined that Shaggy is bad luck to my Red Sox. Everytime we get him any Red Sox gear with names on it, the player leaves. With that being said, he no longer gets any player specific gear unless it is a player we wanted traded!!!<br /><br />Case in point 1: My sister lovingly orders Shaggy a Johnny Damon T-shirt for Christmas. She does this ohhh in about October. By the time December rolls around, Johnny Damon has been traded to the Yankees. The t-shirt is now a rag shirt.<br /><br />Case in point 2: In April, Shaggy begs for a Manny Ramirez jersey. (Actually he's been begging for one for a few years but they are ridiculously expensive and Manny always seems to want to be traded). I managed to find a jersey on e-bay for $40.00. Cha and Ching, Shaggy's birthday done! Fast forward to now, and who's no longer with the team? That's right, Manny. That great bargain jersey? Now sitting in the closet collecting dust, never to be worn. <br /><br />So, now we have one size XL Manny Ramirez Red Sox road jersey for sale.....anybody? Bueller?Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-89630934757944417352008-08-16T07:32:00.001-07:002008-08-16T07:49:21.187-07:00Holy Vicodin BatmanDid you know that dentist prescribe Vicodin? No? Neither did I - until yesterday that is.<br /><br />Let me set the scene - <br /><br />3:30 pm: Grown woman who looks like she is about to cry and beg for her mama is sitting in the waiting room of the oral surgeon's office.<br /><br />3:45 pm: Grown woman is contemplating making a break for it but seems to notice the receptionist eyeing her and sending the message that if she moves she will be taken down WWE style.<br /><br />4:00 pm: Grown woman finally called back. Takes the long walk and imagines the dental assistant shouting, "Dead Woman Walking" as they make their way back to the office. Palms are now sweating and face is dead white.<br /><br />4:05 pm: Grown woman sits in the chair...imagines this is what the electric chair feels like.<br /><br />4:10 pm: Injections begin. Injections hurt. A tear or two might slip from grown woman's eye. Dentist discusses also using a long lasting local anesthic. Grown woman heartily agrees.<br /><br />4:20 pm: Dentist injects the long lasting local. Injections still hurt. Grown woman begins to worry even more. Current blood pressure reading at 165/105 (Her normal is 112/67)<br /><br />4:30 pm: Dentist begins. Grown woman winces and makes ouchie noises. Dentist asks what she feels. After debating kicking him in the crotch, grown woman answers, PAIN. More local anesthetic is applied. Whole bottom of woman's face is now numb.<br /><br />4:40 pm: Mild discomfort as left bottom wisdom tooth is removed. Deep breaths.<br /><br />4:50 pm: Definite pain and more tears as bottom right wisdom tooth is removed. Just as grown woman is ready to start yelling like a bitch, dentist announces tooth is out. Grown woman is very happy.<br /><br />5:00 pm: Stiches and gauze applied. Teeth are examined. YUCK. Dentist asks grown woman if she wants her teeth to which grown woman replies that she might be a little old for the tooth fairy.<br /><br />6:00 pm: Quick trip to Wal-Mart for soft food and soup and Vicodin. <br /><br />7:00 pm: Back home. Grown woman gets into pajamas and makes soup. Discovers that it hurts to eat. Decides to take a Vicodin as pain is getting pretty bad.<br /><br />8:00 pm: Woman out cold in bed. Does not see the light of day again until this morning.<br /><br />Now, I feel like a chipmunk and my whole lower jaw hurts. I did wake up to find that my wonderful Hubby had cleaned the bathroom and kitchen so he's kinda my favorite person right now.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-33744667564243729672008-07-07T18:28:00.000-07:002008-07-07T18:56:11.166-07:00Crapplebees Part DeuxAwhile back, I made this post about a family visit to <a href="http://eastcoastgirlinthemidwest.blogspot.com/2007/10/crapplebees.html">Crapplebees</a>. For some reason this post has recently attracted some "interesting" comments.<br /><br />The first one was received on 5/28 (and this is a direct copy and past from the comment - those are NOT my misspellings):<br /><br /><blockquote>then stop feeding your kids processed junk and stop bothering people by eating out by leaving yoru crying children home. something tells me none of you have owrked in miserable casual dining.<br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br />I read it and thought, well that's interesting. I debated responding to it and then thought, what's the point? Due to the tone and grammatical errors, not to mention the misspellings, I thought it might well be hard to respond on that level.<br /><br />Then, on 7/5, I received this comment (and this is a direct copy and past from the comment - those are NOT my misspellings):<br /><br /><blockquote>don't go out stay home and eat meatloaf and complain about it you stupid cow<br />Now piss off<br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br />Once I was done laughing that a post about Applebees would inspire this kind of ire, I figured I'd respond to both comments. Then I started wondering would I sound angry? Even if I tried to be funny, would it still come across as angry? I figured that I was more than likely going to come off bitchy, which wouldn't take rocket science to figure that's exactly what the infamous Anonymous commenter wanted. <br /><br />To me, the purpose of blogging is a place to share with people who usually don't know you a chance to view your life through whatever window you choose to open. You are putting yourself out there. Opening yourself up to whatever comments - supportive and otherwise - are left for you. I choose to share pretty much whatever is on my mind. I have a don't hold back mentality and enjoy hearing that the ups and downs of my life amuse people. Its a creative outlet for me to vent, bitch, or share whatever I feel is worth writing about. <br /><br />So, to the infamous Anonymous, let me respond to your comments:<br /><br />1. I don't feed my children processed junk BUT if I did, what difference does it make to you? Do you get a sense of superiority by telling me not to feed them processed junk? If so, you're welcome for the cheap thrill! Now, I must go open a can of spaghetti-o's for the baby.<br /><br />2. I can assure you that we do often leave our children, crying and otherwise, at home and go out. I can also assure you that I have taken children, crying and otherwise, out. My children are not perfect - they sometimes act up when out in public - but unless something in our civil rights have changed, I'm pretty sure I have the right to go where ever I chose with or without crying children. I'm also pretty sure that I have the right to say whatever the fuck I want about it, just as your have the right to leave an unintelligible and poorly written comment about it. Next time - continue your education past the 7th grade!<br /><br />3. I have never worked in any food service business. However, I do know what my philosophy is when out: If I get good service, I compensate accordingly. Good service isn't about me not liking the meal or having a problem with the meal. Good service is about not being a moron and putting a steak knife in front of a baby. Good service is not about being a moron and asking if I want my dinner, that contained a hair, boxed up to go. Take these tips with you when you go to work tomorrow - wait, you don't get tips at McDonald's do you?<br /><br />4. If I were to stay home and eat meatloaf, I guarandamntee you I wouldn't be complaining about it since I would have made it. <br /><br />5. Stupid cow? You could have made a better insult if you just said fat cow. I've blogged publicly about having a fat ass. I've also made mention of the fact that I'm pretty fucking smart. <br /><br />I've often said that I'll take whatever comments I get and be glad for them. Do not mistake this post - I'm taking the comments, and I'm glad for them since it gave me some blog material. If you are going to leave uneducated anonymous comments, be prepared to be called out for them! Also, next time I go through the Mickey D's drive thru - I don't want that supersized, mmmmm'kay?Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9035925829118885229.post-23192561521793060172008-06-26T13:07:00.001-07:002008-06-26T13:25:17.635-07:00For SaleOne slightly used child. <br /><br />You can pick out the newest model as seen here:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_MH24FZ-rfMjzyhNgRmGdF6UcK7Kbz4X9a41QoqW-8Lkq0ZNcgT6zwMZFXp3TnCe45t0VeNtC4CLXPPsZTP_FVvup7EaxgMTl6CcCiHplmS-uXyPZIpWgzVu51_ApDI8-eeq0hHspQsr/s1600-h/PDR_0695.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_MH24FZ-rfMjzyhNgRmGdF6UcK7Kbz4X9a41QoqW-8Lkq0ZNcgT6zwMZFXp3TnCe45t0VeNtC4CLXPPsZTP_FVvup7EaxgMTl6CcCiHplmS-uXyPZIpWgzVu51_ApDI8-eeq0hHspQsr/s400/PDR_0695.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216284745451169266" /></a><br />AKA Demon Spawn, Devil's Child, Seed of Satan<br />Pros: She's really cute and smart<br />Cons: She's bad. <br /><br />You can go with the middle model as seen here:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVCpxYeMt8MRjbuGXi_T3Z503WPxBQjA2iKxKueG_vgaSNU-UsnHu8ju4ZD7iB_tqZiT0qsLmyexnr0lJH4hdbmPbV-5y7ECCfnbMjjIN_yRa9v0ahmBRk7zZJmMIf3YjIjsUHU8JyELl/s1600-h/DSC00018.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVCpxYeMt8MRjbuGXi_T3Z503WPxBQjA2iKxKueG_vgaSNU-UsnHu8ju4ZD7iB_tqZiT0qsLmyexnr0lJH4hdbmPbV-5y7ECCfnbMjjIN_yRa9v0ahmBRk7zZJmMIf3YjIjsUHU8JyELl/s400/DSC00018.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216285536552680226" /></a><br />AKA Drama Queen, Monkey Wailer, Tiny Dancer<br />Pros: She's beautiful - just look at that picture!! She's a lot of help (with the right incentive)<br />Cons: Everything's a battle, the tears are copious.<br /><br />You can go with the oldest model as seen here:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtD9ShuhixuNG7PL1Hl9posbYDdHdgny6tC3JGqM3Zmp7s5jz2k7ZGCBhHcryB5vgxtvKt45QTTCw4LhlCVwIvZc2cru91exidoQnp2EEkO0QlfO11-UMJVLPy79fSrVgTqd-eeD0KypP_/s1600-h/Pig+Pen.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtD9ShuhixuNG7PL1Hl9posbYDdHdgny6tC3JGqM3Zmp7s5jz2k7ZGCBhHcryB5vgxtvKt45QTTCw4LhlCVwIvZc2cru91exidoQnp2EEkO0QlfO11-UMJVLPy79fSrVgTqd-eeD0KypP_/s400/Pig+Pen.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216285781301306642" /></a><br />AKA Shaggy, You Smell, You're Gross<br />Pros: He's a hardworker, good with yard work, pretty funny<br />Cons: He likes to be dirty....really really dirty<br /><br />Why am I selling off one or all of my kids? I have several reasons:<br /><br />1. The economy freaking sucks and I just can't freaking afford them anymore.<br />2. They sometimes get on my nerves.<br />3. Momma needs to get some more dental love.<br /><br />That's right folks, the women who hates/loathes/fears the dentist is smack in the middle of a major reconstructive project on my mouth and its fucking expensive.<br /><br />The tally to date includes 1 crack ho extraction, 1 full mouth debridement (yeahh to year's of tartar build up), 1 filling done on the front of a tooth extending below the gumline, 1 crown.<br /><br />Still to be completed?? Extraction of two lower wisdom teeth, 3 more crowns on the lower molars, and 1 more filling. That will just take care of the lower jaw. <br /><br />Total cost to me - $960 give or take a couple of bucks. Oh God, I'm pretty sure I just puked a little. Bottom jaw only. Fuck me!<br /><br />Now I'm scared to death of the top jaw because due to a couple of accidents, I have some nice chipped teeth right in the front. My dentist muttered something about the top teeth to his assistant. I couldn't hear it real clearly but I'm pretty sure it was something along the lines of a new BMW thanks to my mouth. We're talking about some more crowns and some veneers and probably an implant to fill my crack ho spot. <br /><br />I told Kelly that braces were off the table for her until....well until she can pay for them herself. <br /><br />The only good news out of this is, with all the restorative (nice use of a dental term!) work to be done, I won't have any need for bleaching since they will all be white anyway.<br /><br />Along these same lines, what's everyone doing to stay afloat with the economy what its like. Damn we were barely scraping along before now with all the rising costs, we are starting to sink.<br /><br />Maybe I should leave that crack ho hole alone and start earning money the old fashioned way......Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03447905804174563374noreply@blogger.com7