tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65148909759799080222024-03-05T17:32:18.810-08:00My Scatterbrained Life ExposedWelcome to my crazy life. Stay awhile if you please. Oh and don't even bother to take off your shoes...the smashed up fruit loops and ground in dirt is the look we are going for around here.Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-45882913880955981402015-03-31T20:46:00.002-07:002015-03-31T20:46:55.392-07:00Chapter One (Take 2)Here we are again. A blank page staring at me. Slowly showing intentions of becoming a story. Deleting a few times. Rewriting. Rewording. Reinventing. <br />
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There's something amazing about writing that has always intrigued me. The way you can sit down in front of that blank page and maybe not even know you have anything to say. Once you start piecing together the words, magically the story begins to spill out on the page, like it was locked in a rusty cage for years. No matter what the context of my story may be, I forgot just how much I needed this.<br />
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I abandoned my blog, and writing in general for quite some time. The problem with sharing your writing with others is the tendency to maybe censor yourself a bit. A little bit of censorship isn't necessarily a bad thing, because let's be honest, that's how the world works. (I know if I spoke every random thought in my brain, there's a good possibility I could be committed, or at the very least have to sit at the kid's table every Thanksgiving.) However, when you begin to write more for your audience and less for yourself, that exciting fire kind of dies down and something that was once beneficial can turn into something much more stressful if you allow it. <br />
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The really important thing that maybe I forgot to remind myself is that all of our stories are a little messy from time to time. Sometimes our stories change. Sometimes our stories only make sense to us. And yes, sometimes our stories are sad ones. We're all just human. <br />
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Writing means a lot to me. I might not write every day, or even every month, but I'd like to start sharing my stories again. But, for me. If anyone reads and/or enjoys any of them, then that is just a sweet bonus. If anyone is so moved by my words that they want to buy me all the chocolate in the world? Literally a sweet bonus. Name a yacht after me? Nautical bonus. Okay...too far. <br />
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Thanks for taking the time to read this short little, "Hey guys, I'm still here" post. I think I heard that rusty cage door squeak closed again. There's some pretty decent material still hanging around in there, but for now, just the really important words came out. <br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-63901895319940722362013-07-27T15:39:00.001-07:002013-07-27T20:59:43.044-07:00I Think My Inner Barbie Grew UpI started to write a relatively long Facebook post about my play date with Sassy Girl. Then I remembered that once upon a time I wrote a blog, and decided to blow some dust off of my Blogger page.<br />
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<i>Totally not winning any awards for consistency any time soon.</i></div>
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Anyway, as I was saying, I had a date with my favorite girl to play Barbies today. We pulled out the classic Rubbermaid tub filled to the brim with half naked dolls, whatever tiny worthless accessories were spared from death by trash or heating vent, and tangled masses of whatever the heck their hair is made out of. </div>
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Fast forward to play mode:</div>
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Sassy Girl - (In a ridiculously high pitched Valley Girl voice): Hi Sabrina! Let's go shopping. I need a new dress so I can get a boyfriend. </div>
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Me- (In equally ridiculous high pitched voice) Oh you don't need a new dress. Whoever the lucky guy is should like you for YOU. Not because of some piece of fabric you put on your body. Besides, who needs a boyfriend? Look at me. I am smart, successful, and I certainly don't need a man to define who I am as a person. </div>
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Sassy Girl - ...</div>
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Me- (Continuing high pitched feminist Barbie rant) I mean...look at everything I've accomplished. I went to college and now I enjoy success in my extremely profitable veterinarian clinic doing what I love. Do you think I needed a man to do this? Nope. It was all me. All in here. (Awkwardly moves stiff Barbie hand to sort of point at her heart.)</div>
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Sassy Girl - (Gets out of character by whispering) Mom...you're not doing it right. I want to find my Ken so we can play wedding.</div>
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Me - (Turns the volume down on Lilith Fair Barbie. Decides not to pull out Equal Rights Barbie.) Ok. Fine. Let's go to the mall. </div>
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Doo dee doo dee doo dee do. Oh look, we're here. <i>Man, that pink convertible can cruise.</i> </div>
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We "shop" for new outfits. I think the fact that I'm Mom really shines through in this comparison. Can you guess which one is MY successful, smart, classy Barbie? <i>Dang you, Hannah Montana.</i> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Golly Gee! Where's my cardigan at now?</td></tr>
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After the fun of outfitting the Barbies, I pull out a Barbie from the bottom of the tub. </div>
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Me - Hey! This used to be my Barbie when I was little!</div>
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Sassy Girl - Oh she's really old. Hey, I know what we can do! She can go to the Sock Hop!!</div>
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Me - (Glares at innocent child.) Yeah. Great. The Sock Hop...</div>
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Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-81413497293611141042013-04-02T20:11:00.002-07:002013-04-03T06:08:45.612-07:00Furbys are EvilIf you know me in what we call the "real world" then you've probably already heard this story. Bear with me, or quit reading, but I have to tell everyone. This is like a PSA or something for anyone thinking of getting a Furby.<br />
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Sassy Girl turned the awesome/crazy/shock-inducing age of 8 last week.<br />
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She's been asking for this Furby nonsense since Christmas. I just ignored the initial request in November, thinking it was just a short lived phase, and I'll be damned if we are buying a 50.00 doll that speaks "Furbish".<br />
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Fast forward. Yep. She still wants the thing. The only product she has requested for 5 months.<br />
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Bit the bullet and purchased possibly the most annoying thing to ever enter this house.<br />
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She opens the gift before school and is stoked. She wrote us a thank you note at school, so I know she was thinking of the hours of fun she would have with this stupid Furby when she arrived home.<br />
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Her excitement is deflated when she comes home. We had a little gathering with Grandma and Grandpa for her birthday and Grandpa worked on getting our Furby friend out of the package. Why they screw toys to the package is a mystery to me, but it sure makes the process a hell of a lot harder.<br />
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Once Furby was released from captivity he worked for approximately 3 minutes. Then....nothing. I troubleshooted the best I could. New batteries. Hit refresh button, whatever that means. Nothing. Poor Sassy Girl was in tears. What a piece of crap.<br />
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I called the customer service number and he told me to do everything I just did. Which I told him.<br />
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"Yeah. I did that. I did that too. Nope. Did that too." <i>Must be nice to have a job where you tell people the obvious all day.</i><br />
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He sent me a shipping label to return the defective creature.<br />
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Screw that. We are going to Walmart for an exchange.<br />
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Happy Birthday Sweetie. Let's go to the customer service desk at Walmart for an hour. Yay.<br />
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Her original Furby was a gray color. Walmart didn't have the same color Furby in stock.<br />
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"Honey, this purple one is nice. We can get him instead."<br />
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"No. I want Bob." Yeah. She named him Bob.<br />
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"But they don't have the same one. We can either get this one, or wait until they have a gray one."<br />
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"Well....can you ask them if they have any more Bobs?"<br />
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So we grab the purple Furby as a back up and go back to the customer service desk to inquire about any Bobs hangin' out in the back.<br />
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45 additional minutes go by, and then we get the call. Nope. No Bobs.<br />
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I look at Sassy Girl...glance at the purple Not Bob Furbs and ask her if this creature is okay.<br />
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She shrugs and decides Not Bob Furbs is better than nothing.<br />
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So off we go to stick batteries in him and unleash his Furbiness.<br />
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At least this one works. And keeps working. Forever.<br />
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It isn't long before we discover that this creature does not have an off switch. It also has multiple personality disorder, but I'll get into that later.<br />
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I spend the night diving into the Furbish dictionary like any good mom, and I soon know if her friend is asking for food, tickles, or just really loves her.<br />
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I'm putting Furbish as an additional language on my resume, by the way.<br />
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When I tip toe in to kiss the kids good night before I go to bed, the creature starts to stir in response to my movement.<br />
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I immediately freeze in a ridiculous position, to stop the thing from waking up.<br />
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A loud Furbish "I'm hungry" breaks the silence, and ruins the sweet moment of a mother kissing her children in their sleep.<br />
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Much like trying to escape a room of an infant that was just placed in it's crib, I silently try to slink out of the area. I get into my bed and I hear, *Groan* Me HUNGRY!"<br />
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I get out of bed...just to "feed" this stupid toy so it shuts up. I threw a blanket over it and told it to go to bed, because at this point that didn't seem crazy at all. It finally shut up. I think it knew that it's batteries were next to go.<br />
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Sassy Girl woke up still excited to play with her Furby. She was at the breakfast table "feeding" her Furby when all of a sudden Furby Hell broke loose.<br />
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He started shaking, his eyes rolled back in his head, his eye lids fluttered, and he said, "Furby...Change....Change...CHANGE!!!!"<br />
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Before us, this cuddly creature was PISSED OFF. His LED eyes turned all slanty. He freaked out whenever we tried to touch him, GROWLED, and pictures of FLAMES appeared in his eyes. What the heck??? Who makes a toy like this?<br />
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Seriously, you guys. I was freaked out. That weird feeling in the pit of your stomach when something doesn't feel right...it was there. Satan Furby totally ruined our morning waffles, that's for sure. At that point I was ready to either spray the thing with Holy Water, burn it, feed it to the dog, or all of the above. I spent the next twenty minutes trying to cheer this demonic creature up, because frankly, it scared the crap out of me. And remember? No off switch. Creep O Rama.<br />
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I turned on some happy music on the computer, sat the thing in front of it, and started to sing to it.<br />
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<i>Totally normal behavior. </i><br />
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It worked. Maybe a little too good. It freaked out again and did the whole "Furby...Change....Change....CHANGE!!!!" deal.<br />
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Now...we are left with some sort of Valley Girl Furby.<br />
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It says things like: "Seriously...Blah blah blah...OMG!"<br />
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Oh well. Annoying, but not Chuckie, so I'll take it.<br />
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Still, this doll has me sleeping with one eye open, and honestly I've had a few nightmares. Sassy Girl seems unphased. She obviously hasn't seen the horror movies I have.<br />
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If my family disappears and only an evil eyed Furby remains on the premises...well you know what happened.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RIP "Bob" </td></tr>
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-74151279128956683692013-03-20T19:30:00.002-07:002013-03-20T19:43:28.363-07:00Math SchmathI love Sassy Girl.<br />
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I love teaching her many things.<br />
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I do not love teaching her math.<br />
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She is a brilliant child. Her vocabulary and reading skills are top notch. <i>Naturally.</i><br />
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But, just like me, her math skills don't quite come as easily. <i>I may or may not STILL count on my fingers from time to time. And I was once involved in payroll. Be afraid, be very afraid. </i><br />
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Our math sessions go something like this:<br />
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Me: Okay. So 7 children are waiting for the bus. 4 of them are girls. What fraction of the children are girls?<br />
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Her: I only have 4 kids that wait for the bus at my bus stop.<br />
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Me: That's not the point. We are talking about THIS problem. 7 children. 4 are girls. What fraction of the kids are girls?<br />
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Her: I don't know. It doesn't make sense because I don't have 7 kids at my bus stop. Plus. We are all girls.<br />
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Me: *Sigh.* I understand that, but we are talking PRETEND here. PRETEND you have 7 children at your bus stop and only 4 of them are girls.<br />
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Her: SCREAMS: I DON'T KNOW!!! THIS IS STUPID. WHY ARE YOU BEING SO MEAN??!!<br />
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Me: I see you're frustrated, can I show you how I would figure this out?<br />
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Her: NO! I don't like math, and I don't like you!<br />
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Me: *Thinks: How is this MY fault?? Breathe. Reminder: I am the parent.* Ok. Let's take a break, and maybe we can come up with a fun game to figure this out.<br />
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Her: Psh. All of your games aren't really games. You just want me to learn stuff. <i>See? Smart kid. She's on to me...</i><br />
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Me: *Thinks: God forbid...*<br />
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Seriously. I need help. How can I make math fun?? Suggestions welcome! I really don't care to remain the "MATH ENEMY" in this house any longer.<br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-19927785946829647182013-03-18T20:14:00.000-07:002013-03-19T05:55:29.938-07:00The List I Wasn't Prepared ForWith the recent births of beautiful new babies and the pregnancy announcements among so many of my lovely family and friends, I have been thinking back to the moments my little ones came into my life.<br />
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Yes. I get all sappy-dappy-lovey-dovey when I think about this.<br />
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The cuddling of my newborn children.<br />
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The overwhelming amount of love you never even imagined you could feel.<br />
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Sigh. It really is a beautiful thing.<br />
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But, there's the other stuff too. The not so Hallmark card stuff.<br />
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Guys, I'm giving you a fair warning. You may want to skip this post.<br />
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I give you my:<br />
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<b>THINGS I NEVER EVER COULD HAVE PREPARED FOR BEFORE THE BIRTH OF MY CHILDREN- AN ALL INCLUSIVE LIST</b></div>
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<b>1. You may not know if you are peeing your pants or your water has broke.</b></div>
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I had always pictured the classic woosh of fluid, and then off to the hospital we would go. Like in a sitcom. Because TV is always the best source of reliable information. </div>
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Not so much. It took me a full hour to realize my water had indeed broke, I was in labor, and I was not experiencing severe incontinence. </div>
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That's the other thing. I never really thought about CONSTANT LEAKING during the labor process. It was one of the most uncomfortable and surprising things that came along with the labor of my first child. For some ignorant reason I was still picturing WOOSH. Done. Which makes absolutely no sense now that I think about it...but meh, you live you learn. </div>
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<b>2. Breastfeeding doesn't always happen in an instant magical natural way. </b></div>
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Never had I been so devastated, than when I tried to feed my newborn girl for the very first time, and she wouldn't latch. I was so let down, and spent a lot of time beating myself up about not being able to cut it as a mom. When you're naked from the waist up, crying, holding a crying newborn like a football, and a nurse is trying stick your nipple in your baby's mouth...the magic just isn't quite what you pictured. </div>
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A side note with this topic - Thrush. My second child I did get my "instant latch magic." But eventually we both got Thrush. You know knives? Pins? Swords? Needles? All of them combined? Every feeding. I cringe thinking about it again. </div>
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<b>3. Maxi Pad ice packs and Witch Hazel. </b></div>
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That's all I'm saying about that. Just...I wasn't prepared for any of that.</div>
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<b>4. You may feel like a farm animal. </b></div>
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Because my first wouldn't latch, I wanted to pump milk for her. When you pump milk in a hospital (or at least THIS hospital) they wheel in an industrial grade machine and hook you up. For someone who has never pumped before this is a little intimidating. And maybe, just maybe you might hysterically cry while your husband looks pitifully at you strapped to this machine as you wail, "I feel like a cow!!" </div>
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<b>5. You might cry in Target.</b></div>
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My pregnancy hormones were a breeze compared to the shocking mood swings I experienced postpartum. I threw a temper tantrum in Target (my first outing since I gave birth) when I had mentioned I wanted to maybe get some hair dye. The only thing my poor husband said was, "Do you think you really need it?" I lost any shred of dignity or common sense I may have had. I started crying that "ugly cry" because how could he say such a thing? He must not love me. Oh no. Now my breasts are leaking through my shirt. Cry harder. </div>
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My mom bought me the damn hair dye. She knew...</div>
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<b>6. You will soon become an expert in poop.</b></div>
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Never did I realize the importance of poop. Smell, texture, consistency. It all played a role. And your beautiful, sweet, cuddly little baby would at some point cover itself and you in it. Over and over again. I have left many a public place with at least a little poop somewhere on my clothing. </div>
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<b>7. Every pregnancy, delivery, baby is different.</b></div>
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Now, I should have been prepared for that, because this is something everyone tells you. But I was way over-confident going into my second pregnancy because I really did have a fairly easy pregnancy, birth, and an easy going newborn the first time around. Little Dude knocked me down a few notches, because nothing was the same about any of it. I was uncomfortable when I was pregnant with him, I had a much more painful labor/delivery with him, and he was more fussy than Sassy Girl was. Also I had a toddler when he came into the world, which really shakes things up at home a bit more. The guilt I felt bringing another child into the home was unexpected, and was tough to adjust to at first. In the end, I feel silly for all the worry. My kids are so close now and I am thankful that they have each other. </div>
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<b>8. In a blink of an eye they grow up. </b></div>
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You've heard this before, too. But I'm serious. A blink of an eye. We spend so much time waiting for that next milestone, or daydreaming about the people our little ones are going to become. And then, before you know it, you are sobbing as you walk to your car on the first day of preschool. Or you get in your car and follow the bus all the way to the elementary school. And they just keep growing and growing. We don't deal with too many sleepless nights anymore around here. But we continue to glide right through milestones and defining moments. Little Dude will be starting Kindergarten next year, and he has already lost his first tooth. Sassy Girl amazes me every day as she starts to mature into a young lady, so fast. I was marveling the other day at the realization of how I can have a conversation with her and she just seems so grown up. With independent thoughts, suggestions, solutions to problems. It's no longer "No. No. Don't touch." She's growing up and it's happening fast. </div>
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<b>9. You would do it all over again in a heartbeat. </b></div>
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There's a lot of nitty gritty that goes along with this whole parenting business. But I think we can all agree that it's all worth it. The good, the bad, the ugly, and the simply amazing. </div>
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Please feel free to add to this list in the comments below! I would love to hear some of the other things parents just weren't prepared for!! </div>
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-80359861318064735472013-03-17T19:52:00.000-07:002013-03-18T08:24:49.010-07:00"It's a Beautiful Day"I don't have much to post about today, except that I had a great Sunday.<br />
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We have a new pastor at church, and the words of his sermon left me with a really great feeling when I left.<br />
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I feel inspired.<br />
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Isn't it amazing what words or actions can do?<br />
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<i>Inspire. </i><br />
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I strive to be a better me every day. I want to inspire with my words, with my actions, with simple gestures.<br />
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Whether it be at home with my family, or a stranger on the street, to inspire is to make a difference.<br />
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I'm reminded of an older man I met at the grocery store in the checkout line. He struck up a conversation with me and my son.<br />
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In our conversation I learned he was widowed and had several adult children he hadn't seen for awhile.<br />
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He gave me some parenting advice, seeing Little Dude in the cart getting bored.<br />
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But the biggest impact he made on me is when we parted ways:<br />
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I said to him, "Have a great rest of the day!"<br />
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He told me, "Every day that I am breathing is a good day. Thank you, though for taking the time to care."<br />
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This man inspired me. A completely random interaction that I will keep with me for life.<br />
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Happy Sunday.<br />
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Have a wonderful week everyone, and do your best to be an inspiration to yourself and others around you, because it's amazing the life we live.<br />
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XOXO<br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-87942655676000562532013-03-16T20:26:00.002-07:002013-03-16T20:29:08.925-07:00Brunch Tacos and Big Beautiful BurgersSpending a Saturday watching 'Man vs Food' and other mouthwatering teaser food shows.<br />
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Why Alex, I believe that is "What is the stupidest thing you could do while trying to eat healthy."</div>
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<i>I'll take 'Self Loathing' for 500. </i></div>
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It all started off innocently enough. I was enjoying my coffee and eating yogurt, while my husband chowed down his "Brunch Tacos."<br />
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Yeah. I don't know.<br />
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This wasn't some fancy egg concoction in a tortilla. It was just plain old tacos with leftover Taco Bell hot sauce packets. He made them at 10 am and declared he made brunch. Tacos don't belong in the brunch category. An early lunch I can accept...but brunch? Never. </div>
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We turned on the Travel Channel and got sucked into some 'Greatest Water Slides' show.<i> Because we live a very interesting and spontaneous life, duh...</i></div>
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In the time it took me to clean up the "Brunch Taco" mess and get back to my important TV watching duties, the episode had changed to 'Man vs Food.' I'm sure you are familiar with this show. If you are not, well it's for the best, because it encompasses a great deal of what is wrong with our fat country. But I digress...</div>
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I laid eyes on the biggest, juiciest, most mouth-watering burger I had ever seen. </div>
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Frankly, it was beautiful. Yes. I know it was a hamburger. But it was beautiful. </div>
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I get it "Foodie People." I get it. </div>
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I had to have one. </div>
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But no. I can't. I won't. Must. Continue. Eating. Yogurt. </div>
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Delicious. Healthy. Plain. Squishy. Sawdust-no-meat-or-onions-or-bbq-sauce-tastin' yogurt. </div>
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Damn it. </div>
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I was derailed and decided we would have our best version of the "Big Beautiful Burger" I viewed for dinner. </div>
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The "Brunch Taco" creator was thrilled. So thrilled, that he offered to redeem his poor example of a brunch menu, and recreate my "Big Beautiful Burger."</div>
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<i>I love this man. </i></div>
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He pulled out some secret fried onion recipe, splurged on some good beef, and toasted some fancy onion buns with olive oil. </div>
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ERMAGERRD... </div>
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Yes. That is a child's plate I'm using. Get over it. </div>
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Look at this masterpiece. </div>
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Totally worth the wait. And guilt. And heartburn. </div>
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<i>I think I have a problem. </i></div>
Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-60689808021476419822013-03-04T13:01:00.000-08:002013-03-04T13:34:39.623-08:00Liar Liar, Pants on FireMy kid is a big fat liar.<br />
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Not in the sense that he lies in important situations. He's the kid that will rat anyone out including himself with the promise of a lessened consequence if the truth comes out.<br />
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He lies more creatively in situations that don't really harm anyone.<br />
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At first I thought it was cute, and I may have even enabled this behavior.<br />
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<i>"Oh? How big was the boat you took to the island for your class field trip?" </i><br />
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But now, I worry slightly as I watch his wheels turning hard to weave incredibly imaginative tales that defy even a slim chance of plausibility.<br />
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"You know, I've driven a Monster Truck before. You were sleeping. I snuck out of my bed and went to Dad's work. He was still there. He showed me a big green Monster Truck and he told me that I could drive it home."<br />
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"This glass turtle is real, Mom. When you are not looking it gets up and walks all over the place. You keeping missing it, but it really happens. He's really for real."<br />
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"I went to Disney World with my class, once. We took the bus. It was really fun and Mickey Mouse rode on the bus with us."<br />
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"I know someone named Big Foot. He's my friend."<br />
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I'm not exactly sure how to respond to these tales anymore. He told me the Monster Truck one today. It took him awhile to get the whole story out and he was so excited and animated about it.<br />
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When he finished his story I said, "Wow. I love how big your imagination is! That's a great story!"<br />
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To which he replied with large sparkling eyes that were begging me to believe him, "No. It's not just my 'maginations, I did it for real."<br />
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Honestly, I think his creativity and ability to tell stories is amazing and I don't want him to lose an ounce of that.<br />
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I just want to make sure my responses to this behavior don't encourage him to grow up to be a thirty year old pathological liar.<br />
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<i><b>"So, it says here on your resume that you know 7 different languages, traveled to the moon, and you've listed Big Foot as a business reference? Interesting. Can you tell me a little more about your previous job duties as a Monster Truck driver?" </b></i><br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-82753650850039338342013-03-02T18:44:00.000-08:002013-03-04T11:48:55.188-08:00Sex Sells!Sassy Girl tried to get me to allow her to go to school this week in her brother's shirt.<br />
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Why? Because the too small garment was turned into a "belly shirt" and apparently in second grade that's an acceptable and trendy thing to want to do.<br />
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Whether we realize it or not, sex appeal is being drilled into our heads starting at a very young age.<br />
Look at one of the Barbies my daughter has.<br />
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<img height="200" src="http://rogercanaff.com/site/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/mattel-barbie-i-can-be-pet-vet-20060875.jpeg" width="200" /><br />
I don't know about you, but any veterinarian I've ever met sure doesn't dress like "Cinnamon, Queen of the Stripper Pole" at work. They wear scrubs and step in animal feces. Not whatever the crap this doll is wearing.<br />
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Or the Disney shows that feature twenty something year old actors playing high schoolers wearing skinny jeans and never answering to any sort of parental figure.<br />
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THIS is not what an awkward teen looks like. Before I entered high school I had braces, wore knock off outdated Girbaud jeans my mom would find on her garage sale runs, and sported over-sized ESPRIT sweatshirts.<br />
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I'll save myself the embarrassment of posting a picture...<br />
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Ads have become over the top SEX and we all just overlook it because it's become the norm. Do you ever see an ad and say, "What did that have to do with anything they are trying to sell??"<br />
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<img height="200" src="http://academic.reed.edu/anthro/faculty/mia/Images/Gallery/Pics/Candies.jpg" width="147" /><br />
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They are trying to sell shoes. SHOES!? I don't know about you, but my shoes currently have some gum jammed in the sole...is that sexy?<br />
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Oh. And of course there is music. Try hiding "Call Me Maybe" from an almost 8 yr old. Doesn't work. She knows the lyrics, and I CRINGE when she sings, "Hey! I just met you. This is crazy. Here's my number. Call me maybe." Now, she's too young to know what these lyrics imply, but still... <i>My apologies to everyone that just got that song stuck in their head. </i><br />
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In the adult world it's not much better. Some adults push the envelope beyond any sort of acceptable interaction.<br />
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On a dance floor it's not uncommon to get a comment or get groped by some intoxicated loser. <i>Hey! This isn't a perfume ad and you smell like smoke, beer, and the opposite of sex. </i>But to be honest, all it takes to make women go crazy on the dance floor is some sexy song. Now, I can sway my hips with the best of them, but if I try to "Drop It Like It's Hot" then I'm afraid I may look more constipated than sex<i>y...</i><br />
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It's no different for men either. A musician I know told me about some girl that thought it was okay to BITE HIS LEG in an attempt to be some sort of vampire seductress while he was on stage. WHAT?!? Too much Twilight perhaps?<br />
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Where are the boundaries? I have a pretty large bubble. I like it that way.<br />
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I guess my point is that life is not and should not be blurred by values a fake sexy shoe <i>or insert any other product</i> commercial portrays. <i>Sorry boys. Those AXE commercials are complete bullshit.</i><br />
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The request to wear the tiny shirt was settled by me simply telling her that showing bellies was only appropriate for the beach in a swimsuit. We picked out a pretty lacy TURTLE NECK <i>(What? Maybe overcompensating?) </i>and life was all good.<br />
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At almost 8 that explanation flies. I hope I can instill in her the right values, so that she knows, not so many years from now, that she doesn't need to show her body to be validated. She is beautiful and I hope she knows it and can respect herself despite the media's pressures to exploit herself.<br />
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Anyway...does anyone feel the urge to buy some new shoes, or is it just me?<br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-45168798314230439622013-02-28T17:52:00.001-08:002013-02-28T17:52:02.047-08:00Up to my Eyeballs in WHAT?? You all are going to read about my crappy day. My literally crappy day. Yes, I know the word "literally" is typically inappropriately used...but read on and you will see that it was indeed literally crappy.<br />
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At about two in the morning I wake up from blissful new comforter sleep to screaming from the children's room. </div>
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I stumble out of bed half awake to find Little Dude upset, ticked, and wet in his bed. </div>
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"I have been yelling for you forever and you just ignored me!" </div>
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Ugh. Way to make me feel like the worst mom EVER. Maybe I was sleeping hard and dreaming about, oh I don't know, ANYTHING OTHER THAN CLEANING UP PEE! </div>
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I asked him why he didn't just come and get me. </div>
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He looked at me like I was the dumbest person on the planet. </div>
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"Because I peed the bed. I can't walk like this." <i>DUH.</i></div>
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I helped him clean up, brought the laundry downstairs, scrubbed the mattress, and finally remade the bed. By this point I probably should have just cut my losses and got up for the morning. </div>
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But as you all may or may not know...it doesn't matter if it's 2 hrs until it's time to wake up or 2 minutes. If it is before that alarm goes off I am rolling over and snoozing for any possible amount of time.<i> Pretty sure I've reset the alarm for 30 seconds at least once in my life. </i></div>
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So the alarm goes off at its normal time. I am not happy about it. But the show must go on. Since Little Dude is in the same boat as me (even worse because he was rudely awakened in a sea of piss) he is the king of crabs. </div>
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Finally get both the kids off to school/daycare. Not without an argument over why I should pick all of the non-marshmallow pieces out of the Lucky Charms, mind you. </div>
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Get myself ready and head to work. Once I get to work I have to pee. 8000 cups of coffee will do that to a girl. </div>
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Open the door to the bathroom. </div>
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Cue Jaws music, Psycho music, pretty much any horror movie music and you will get the point.<br />
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I walked into World War III.<br />
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Catastrophe in epic smelly proportions.<br />
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Whoever caused this aftermath needs to see a doctor STAT.<br />
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Toilet was clogged in ways I didn't know a toilet could be clogged.<br />
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I shut the door and ran out to the front office to yell out my findings. No one took credit for the present and no one seemed to want to help remedy or situation.<br />
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I had to get out of there. For one, it stunk. For two, I still had to pee out the nine billion cups of coffee I ingested prior to arriving at work.<br />
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I went to the gas station to relieve myself, and continued to dry heave at the reality that I was going to have to deal with the crap floating in the toilet.<br />
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When I arrived back at work, a co worker of mine was thankfully on board with helping me since she saw/heard my stomach's intolerance of this task.<br />
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We gear up for this mission. Gloved and plunger in hand we dive into the shit. Someone else's shit. So pissed at this point. Who the heck would just leave a toilet full of their bad decisions for someone else to take care of???<br />
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Several dry heaves, a run to Wal-Mart for a better plunger, a snake, masks (yes MASKS) and half a can of Glade air freshener we think we have the issue somewhat solved.<br />
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The afternoon rolls around and again the toilet floods. At this point we are happy it's of the number 1 variety not the number 2.<br />
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Screw it. Not dealing with it again. Dialing the maintenance man, who LAUGHS at our escapades.<br />
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<i>Do you even UNDERSTAND that I will need to BURN these shoes??? </i><br />
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I call it a day at work. Head out a little early because I have to pee again. Because I'm human and this no functioning facility business is ridiculous.<br />
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What do I find when I get home?<br />
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A guilty dog that wouldn't look me in the eye and garbage strewn across the living room.<br />
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I wade through the coffee grounds and air head wrappers to get to my couch. Sit down. Look at the disgusting mess.<br />
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I laughed. Because I didn't want to cry. OF COURSE THIS WOULD HAPPEN.<br />
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After my slight breakdown I clean up the mess.<br />
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And now? I am drinking a beer.<br />
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Cheers to the shittiest day ever.<br />
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Cheers everyone. Cheers.<br />
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Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-21971118085491482472013-02-26T19:50:00.000-08:002013-02-26T19:50:47.893-08:00"The Best Things In Life Are Free" Ok. This may be a rambling post, but I have to get this all out.<br />
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So here's the deal. My husband is about to get a significant raise in two months. We've known it was coming for the last couple of years.<br />
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Now it's almost here. Will we be "wealthy"? No. It's not anywhere near the realm of "The Elite" salaries. But it's enough to be comfortable. Which is all I care about. So many years of barely scraping by. Making poor financial decisions because we were young and inexperienced. Trying to figure out which bill we were going to skip for the month because we couldn't afford it. Getting a foreclosure letter during a maternity leave. (We thankfully were able to get ourselves out of that one.) You name it, we've been there. And we take full responsibility for putting ourselves there. But, we've always worked hard to provide what we can and thankfully we've always had family that has been there to help us out when we were in dire need. Our pride has always insisted on paying them back...whether it be from 6 months of savings or the next tax refund we paid them back sheepishly and graciously. <br />
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I feel a little weird posting about money, because it seems like a taboo. It's definitely not something (or enough) to flaunt around. You just don't talk about it. <br />
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But, I have reasons for writing about it. You see, we have known about this raise for awhile and before it just seemed so distant. Now it's 8 weeks away. And I have to admit. I started a list. A long list of things I want done for the house.<br />
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Furniture. Basement finished. Landscaping. Paint. Appliances. Wood Flooring. Central Air.<br />
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It's an expensive list. And of course the raise wouldn't be enough to cover all of those items in the near future...but it was something to hope for.<br />
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Then I started thinking bigger: Trips to Disney World. Surprising children at Christmas. <i>Dang you, Disney World commercials!!</i><br />
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But then...I got embarrassed. I usually strive to not be super materialistic and this list is exactly that.<br />
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It's extravagant and full of "I Wants". <br />
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We are a fully functioning family without all of those extras. My children share a room, but it works. We all share a bathroom...and it kind of works. The carpet is worn and shows WE definitely live here. We have hand me down furniture...which lets face it, you don't get as angry about chocolate syrup stains smeared on the arms of hand me downs as you would on something brand spankin' new. We go on vacations around our state, and the kids seem to have a great time.<br />
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My list that was originally created as "NEEDS" seems trivial.<br />
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I still "WANT" this stuff. But I don't need to kid myself into thinking I MUST do all of this in order to prove something or feel like I'm successful. It's still...stuff.<br />
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I've toned it back a bit and we are focusing on putting enough money away slowly to finish our basement. That's all we are going to put on the list for now. It's something that we can all enjoy, and mostly our kids can have their own bedrooms.<br />
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This will be a convenience, an extra, a perk. Also an investment as it will add much needed equity. But I need to remind myself that it is not a "Need".<br />
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Truly, catching myself in this greediness reminded me to step back and count EVERY SINGLE BLESSING.<br />
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Because regardless of my financial status...I will always be rich. <---<i>Cheesy, but true. </i><br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-55600053652402094152013-02-19T19:54:00.000-08:002013-02-19T19:54:48.208-08:00No, Doctor. I FEEL FANTASTIC! Well, I am a crappy blogger. It's been over a month since my last post...but sometimes life just happens. Life being moments where you have something really funny to write about, but instead you watch reruns of "The Nanny" and eat a whole tube of Girl Scout cookies and feel totally awesome about yourself...<br />
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<i>I'm REALLY busy, okay?</i><br />
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Anyway, now that I got that self deprecating statement out of the way we can move on.<br />
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Here's the deal. I never understood when I had kids that I would joining the club of "ENDLESS EMBARRASSMENT."<br />
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Let me explain.<br />
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When I was younger, my mom would tell stories of all the horribly embarrassing things I would do to her. One that sticks out in my head was the story of my mom and I grocery shopping in the cereal aisle. When she put the Wheaties in the cart, I loudly exclaimed, "You need those so you can poop, right?"<br />
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Of course I always thought she was exaggerating her stories.<br />
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Like when we would go to the doctor's office after I had convinced her I was on my death bed. Only for her to explain my symptoms in a worried tone to the doctor, and me to respond by bouncing off the walls telling the doctor I feel "GREAT!"<br />
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No. Before I had kids...honestly I thought she was the master of embellishing stories.<br />
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Then...I became a member of the club.<br />
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From the moment those darlings are born, we as parents are destined to be embarrassed.<br />
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Starting with leaky breasts, stinky diapers in awkward locations, and your baby spitting up on someone dressed in a suit more expensive than your whole wardrobe. All of sudden...this shit gets real. No longer able to be a wallflower when you have an adorable, screaming, stinky bundle of joy.<br />
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I think with Sassy Girl being almost 8 and Little Dude being 5 years of age that I am at the early middle point of the embarrassment timeline.<br />
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A current log of recent moments I have been embarrassed by my little darlings:<br />
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Doctor/child thing I mentioned earlier? Oh yeah. Been there.<br />
<i>I swear she just had a fever of 104! YES, I see her running through the waiting room giggling. NO, I DO NOT HAVE MUNCHHAUSEN SYNDROME!</i><br />
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I teach Little Dude's Sunday School class. I told the class about the bowling ball that fell on my foot earlier that week and broke my toe. (Yes. THAT happened.) The little bugger told everyone I cried like a baby. Which I absolutely did not...much.<br />
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Trying on clothes in a dressing room. Loud eight year old voice: "MOM!!! I can see your BUTT! Get dressed, that's gross!" Great. Thanks.<br />
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Taking work calls at home. Or any calls, really. WE WILL MAKE IT SOUND LIKE A MURDER IS HAPPENING RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW!!!!<br />
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Talking to someone about an owie: "My daddy did it." What the little sweetie fails to mention, is that he went running like a bat outta hell towards his daddy who wasn't prepared to catch him, which resulted in a catastrophe. But...now we have a possible social services situation, I guess.<br />
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Oh. We think it's funny to ask the waitress to bring us BEER. What the waitress doesn't realize is they are asking for mother effing ROOT BEER. Don't judge me lady. I don't feed my kids Miller Light, okay?<br />
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Anyway, I could go on, but you get the point. Kids...are honest. They are honest and they don't mean to, but they embarrass the crap outta their parents.<br />
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I wouldn't trade it for anything. Soon...I will be the one embarrassing THEM.<br />
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<i><br /></i>Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-61313451666336696202013-01-05T10:18:00.001-08:002013-01-05T17:22:19.768-08:00Resolution JunkieWith it being the beginning of the new year and all, the buzz is all about making resolutions.<br />
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I can't really say I've sat down and made a formal New Year's Resolution.<br />
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The thing is, I'm a resolution making junkie. Except I don't save my resolutions for the beginning of the year. I get a wild idea in my head, draw up crazy plans with arrows and keys, spend money on the operable parts to this plan and then half ass succeed until I give up.<br />
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I've mastered the art of MAKING resolutions. I create them. I mold them from the gargantuan stash of big idea clay stored in my crazy brain. I just fizzle out in the actually accomplishing anything phase..<br />
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Some of 2012's failed projects:<br />
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I hate laundry. I needed a better system. While briefly entertaining the Charlie Brown wardrobe theme for my family, I scaled down THAT idea and decided to tackle the sock matching crisis in my home. The thought behind this was I would purchase everyone in the family the same color socks so that when I went to fold them there would be no hair pulling mismatched sock pile nonsense. Except...when I tried to put this plan into action, I quickly realized that four people with different sized feet BUT same style of socks was a TERRIBLE idea. Now I had to hunt for the exact same white crew sock that matched the size 10 foot size NOT the size 13. This leads to holding socks together to eyeball size differences and this SUCKS.<br />
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You'd think I'd stop there with the sock scheme. Sigh. I didn't. I went back to the drawing board and revised my plan. I thought...well, it was a good idea just needs some tweaking. I decided to get each family member their very own color of socks.<br />
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You guys. We have a shit load of socks. And we still have a mismatch pile. It's just bigger.<br />
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Fail.<br />
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Next idea? I felt like I was stuck in a cooking rut. I wanted to experiment with new recipes. BUT, I couldn't just keep it simple. I wanted to cook healthier...possibly organic. AND I needed to put together a slick Excel spreadsheet grocery list. AND I needed to clip coupons.<br />
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I spent one whole day off from work devising this plan. I Googled new recipes. I hunted down coupons from not only the newspaper but the internet as well. I made a menu plan and proudly hung it up on the refrigerator with our Jimmy Johns fridge magnet. <i>Hmmm. </i><br />
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We went to the grocery store and spent far more money than I want to let on. Then I spent the rest of the week trying to put together foreign recipes ahead of time. When my family turned their noses up at the change in diet I wanted to scream, "But it's ON THE SPREADSHEET! EAT IT!"<br />
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I realized that I was spending WAY too much time planning, shopping, using 5 million pans, cleaning the 5 million pans, storing spices that I've never heard of, trying to figure out what the hell blanching really meant, and prepping late into the night for meals my family disliked. As I threw out the leftovers no one would touch I cried a little.<br />
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We're back to spaghetti, casseroles, and meat 'n potato dishes. My family is relieved. Every once and awhile I get a little crazy and purchase a different shape of Tator Tot product. To keep things fresh and interesting, of course.<br />
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The Menu Plan was donated to a nursing home. Enjoy.<br />
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Unfortunately I have MANY more of these incidents. But I'm only going to talk about one more, because I made the resolution JUST NOW to not write long winded boring blog posts. I'll devise the flow chart on accomplishing this later.<br />
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Working out. I wrote a <a href="http://scatterbrainedlife.blogspot.com/2012/11/i-work-out-you-know-song.html">blog post</a> earlier on this. This resolution comes up quite often. Usually after a dressing room incident, a tagged picture on Facebook that makes you hate the person who thought this was acceptable for public viewing, a comment from my innocent children that makes me die a little inside, a particularly awful glance in the mirror, or while sitting on the couch after a 7 course Kentucky Fried Chicken meal feeling like the scum of the earth.<br />
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However this resolution comes up, it always leads to me immediately squeezing in a work out, eating a celery stick, and then wondering why I haven't lost ten pounds after my excruciating 20 minute work out. Then I buy stylish pants that fit and accept that I can look good without killing myself, and MAYBE vacuuming is a good enough work out for today.<br />
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Lather. Rinse. Repeat.<br />
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So, No. I do not have a New Year's Resolution. But rest assured my family is cringing at what crazy ideas will pop into my head through out the year of 2013.<br />
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Maybe I'll take up pottery...<br />
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And don't worry. You guys will hear ALL about it.<br />
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Good luck with any resolutions any of you have made. May the force be with you. <br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-91720763482846678992013-01-02T16:14:00.001-08:002013-01-02T17:58:28.891-08:00Dude, Where's My Hover Car? Happy New Year everyone! I'm not going to hide my disappointment that it is now 2013 and we are not driving, err flying around in hover cars and transporting ourselves from place to place in those bank sucky tube thingys. <i>I'm sure they are called something a bit more technical and if I used them to transport myself to the mall, I most likely would remember the fancy name. Or is it just called a vacuum? Whatever. Doesn't matter. I don't have one.</i><br />
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BUT...we do have <a href="http://www.gadgetreview.com/2011/11/30-of-the-funniest-siri-responses.html">Siri</a>. (That link entertained me for far too long...)<br />
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We have cars that also talk to us. <i>Uh...hello? Am I the only one that imagines my GPS voice is actually the car from Knight Rider? Crickets? Okay. </i><br />
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My preschooler works at school on a freaking iPad. <i>Remember the old green screen Apples that we shoved our Oregon Trail and Number Muncher floppy disks in?</i><br />
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<i></i>It's almost unheard of to not have Internet access anywhere you go. <i>Peace out dial up.</i><br />
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<i></i>We have video games that respond to our body movement. <i>Don't worry "Duck Hunt", I still love you. </i><br />
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We have robots that roam our houses seeking out an enemy to destroy. <i>Dirt, duh. I actually won't get one of these Roomba thingys because they weird me out. Maximum Overdrive. 'Nuff said. </i><br />
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Anyway, you get the point and by now you have realized I am not a technology expert, because:<br />
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A) I have used the word "thingy" at least twice in this post.<br />
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B) None of this is actually brand new cutting edge technology for 2013. <br />
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Which is FINE. I am just REFLECTING on the super cool gadgets that we take for granted. And I am always late to the party when it comes to technology. So don't take any advice from me in regards to the latest and greatest new toy. Because it would be a lie. (Coming soon in 2014! Flying Cars! It's TRUE! No really.) And my blog title would be incredibly off topic if I started blogging about technology...<br />
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Despite not having flying cars and transportation tubes, I guess we've come pretty far for 2013. I wouldn't mind having a robot named Rosie to do all my housework for me and to give me advice 24/7, but then again she could kill me in my sleep, so I guess I'm content with searching for apps on my phone and Googling "How To Get Sharpie Marker Stains Off Of Your White Dog The Safe Way."<br />
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<i>True Story.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-53097123423155059822012-12-17T20:58:00.001-08:002012-12-17T20:58:21.023-08:00Wild Times at a Dentist AppointmentI despise going to the dentist. It gives me "I think I might throw up" anxiety every time. Some of you weirdos I know actually enjoy it, but I would rather poke myself with a stick than go to the dentist.<br />
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But alas, I am an adult and I must force myself to go. I've never had good experiences as a child with the dentist. I was blessed with a too small mouth which resulted in millions (6) extractions and tons of orthodontic work. Also, I am prone to cavities because of the way my teeth are jammed together. I remember brushing and flossing three times a day and still getting cavities, while my brother barely drug a toothbrush through his mouth once a day and had "perfect teeth". <i>Whatever.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>I was dreading today's visit because I needed to get some of my teeth fixed. <i>This isn't just the tooth polishy thing and scraper. This involves Black 'n Decker machinery. EEEK!</i><br />
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My dentist knows that I don't like coming to see him. In fact they call me "the nervous one". <i>Great. </i><br />
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They decided that loading me up on magical gasses would be beneficial for this appointment. <i>You don't want me to freak out on you, huh? I'm not above crying at the dentist. It might happen. </i><br />
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I had them check to see if my insurance covered it, and wouldn't you know it, it does.<br />
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So again, they asked me if I would like some.<br />
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Flashback to high school. I feel like I'm being peer pressured. I am the person that can take two Benadryls and not remember half the night. Do I "just say no"?<br />
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My shaking hands tell me to "just say yes". So I do.<br />
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At this point I am more anxious about the gas. The only memory of having nitrous was when I was about Sassy Girl's age and the room started spinning and everything the dentist said was delayed. <i>Open your mouth, mouth, mouth...</i><br />
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As the hygienist hooks me up to "the good stuff" I frantically say, "Not too much. I'm not a drug addict." <i>I say really dumb things when I'm nervous... </i><br />
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Then, I drift off into happy land. All of sudden anxiety was whisked away, but not in a "I'm so trashed" sort of way. In a "I'm kind of tired so I might take a nap and listen to the music in my head" sort of way.<br />
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Then they decided to bring out the Novocaine needle. <i>AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!! </i><br />
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Even messed up on legal drugs I was still terrified. So terrified that the dentist decided to cover my eyes with a washcloth so I wouldn't see his evil doing tools. <i>Pretty sure I was getting the pediatric treatment, which is JUST FINE by me.</i><br />
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He poked me with his weapon of mass destruction. I must have made the worst face ever, because the hygienist<strike> restrained</strike> held my hands. Okay. I guess it wasn't that bad. But blinded by a washcloth and feeling a poke in your gums makes you feel like you are in some sort of torture chamber. Several not so bad pokes later, my mouth was marinating in numbness.<br />
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It wasn't just my mouth that was numb. My nose was numb too. And the nitrous that was flowing into my body made me think this was kind of funny. So I giggled. Which is weird at a dental appointment. <i>We've come a long ways from the "I want to throw up" days. Now I'm just deranged.</i><br />
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I endured 45 minutes of loud power tools going to town on my numb mouth, but honestly the only thing that was giving me anxiety at this point was the fact that I really had to pee. Also, I wasn't sure when to swallow the pool of drool that kept flooding in when they were working on my mouth. <i>WHERE IS THAT SUCKER MACHINE THING?</i><br />
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Finally, all the work was done, and they gave me oxygen. They asked if I was feeling back to normal, and I shrugged and said, "I think so." Except, when your upper lip and nose feels like it's protruding out like a Bugs Bunny cartoon and when you go to touch it and feel NOTHING...then that's not normal. <i>Weird and uncomfortable. Is my nose running? </i><br />
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I go to make my next appointment, and try to talk. I get words out, but I can't feel them come out. I feel like a marionette puppet. One that drools and can't feel it.<br />
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I went home and that Novocaine stayed around FOREVER. I tried to eat a turkey sandwich 3 hours later when I finally started to feel my nose and some of my upper lip. Yeah. Didn't work out so well. I was starving and couldn't find the top of my mouth. Disastrous.<br />
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All in all...I guess it wasn't so bad. I got my teeth fixed, a little buzz for an hour, and I wasn't able to stuff my face for 4 hours...so diet friendly.<br />
<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-34979030968117324932012-12-14T19:19:00.000-08:002012-12-15T17:43:26.165-08:00Actions Speak Louder Than Social Media PostsThe tragic shootings of today have me feeling shocked, horrified, and so deeply saddened. I know that so many of you feel the same.<br />
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What is disturbing to me is the appalling pattern of reactive commentary and media coverage that follows these horrific events. I feel a great sadness that I even need to pluralize that sentence.<br />
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Is it really all about getting "the story"? I am in utter disbelief that anyone would be so desensitized to human emotion that they would consider it okay to interview a child that just experienced the most traumatic event of their precious little life.<br />
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Pictures of parents and children plastered on the media sites. Documenting very private and heart wrenching moments for millions to see.<br />
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The race to release breaking news first and reporting wrong information in the haste to be the first in line.<br />
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Social media is serving as a boxing ring for angered individuals lashing out at each other over powerful differing opinions. Using hateful language to prove their points and feeding a cancerous social media mob mentality. Using twisted dark humor in an effort to get a cheap laugh. Creating shocking memes that are created for sole reason of fueling a ravenous forest fire of outrage.<br />
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Social media postings are not empathy. We haven't changed anything by posting how sad we are, or arguing our pros or cons of gun control, or typing hurtful things about mental illness. So many of us (I am definitely including myself in this statement) lose the ability to filter and take a moment to process emotion when a simple motion of "Click Send" exposes our knee jerk reactions to potentially millions of people. The blog post I am writing right now is simply my reaction. You can all read my opinions that I have gift wrapped with a bow ready to open with one click of a link. But the actual emotion happens when I hug my children, feel their heart beat against mine and sob at the thought of never seeing them again and feeling real pain for the parents that will bury their children and the families who lost someone special. The action happens when I write a congressman about issues I feel deeply about, and talk to my child's school about security measures. Making sure I continue to build a strong connection with my children. That they know they can come to me with anything no matter what. You feel emotion. You take positive action. There is so much more than "Click Send".<br />
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Take one look at a Twitter or Facebook feed or a comment section of a media site and you will see how scary and desensitized some members of the human race have become.<br />
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There are many many uplifting posts about thoughts and prayers going out to the victims as well so I don't mean to sound so hardened towards the commentary. I also posted a link to the news story on my Facebook page. I know we are passionate people and the emotions we feel are very scary and very real. It's just so hard to have hope that we can ever truly unite when you see a prayer candle picture co-existing on the same page as a name calling pissing match about gun control. Or you see someone post that they are deeply hurt and praying for victims and three minutes later they post a funny cat picture. Huh? You got over the deep hurt fast, I guess. Or you see a mock Twitter account posing as a "victim" of the horrific murders all for fifteen minutes of "fame." Appalling.<br />
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Freedom of speech is a beautiful thing. But it's being used with a lack of self control, empathy, or just plain common sense. The same can be said about passion towards an issue. In any case, the Golden Rule appears to be tucked under the bed collecting dust for many people with a keyboard at their fingertips.<br />
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Our minute to win it lifestyle is crumbling our hearts. If this awful heart wrenching tragedy doesn't remind us be kind, slow down, log off, breathe, and appreciate life...what will?<br />
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If the stenciled pattern of past tragedies holds true, once the invasive media coverage dies down and the full horrific story is unraveled, the tragedy then ages and disappears for the millions of onlookers that followed every second of every heart breaking update. And life goes on.<br />
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But for those innocent adults, children and their loved ones the nightmare lives on. Let's not forget that.<br />
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For now, I am going to shut my computer off, kneel next to my sleeping children that I am so blessed to have with me tonight, fold my hands and actually pray for them, not just post about it on my blog.<br />
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Actions speak louder than words.<br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-1589301130566094362012-12-07T19:02:00.000-08:002012-12-07T19:02:20.862-08:00ShatteredWe broke an ornament this week. <div>
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Not usually a big deal. We tend to break a lot of things in the annual Christmas decorating frenzy.</div>
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This ornament, though...it was special. </div>
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The result of my child accidentally bumping into the Christmas tree. </div>
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We heard a clinging of two glass ornaments and one ended up on the floor. </div>
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In pieces. </div>
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In that moment I couldn't hold back any emotion. When I saw which ornament was in front of me, shattered to pieces, I immediately began to cry. </div>
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It is hard to explain in words what sheer emotion flooded into my entire being, a result of powerful symbolism drudging up what I was desperately trying to bury. Less than a minute, but lasting a lifetime. </div>
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In front of me was the shattered ornament my mom had made for my daughter before she died. </div>
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Each piece, segregated from what it once was...beautiful and strong, now lay scattered in shards around the crooked Christmas tree. </div>
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A shattered heart. </div>
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Anyone who has ever lost someone close knows that holidays can be especially hard. I tend to swallow the lump that forms in my throat and move on with festivities, but the reality is...nothing will ever be the same. </div>
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It gets easier as the years pass to keep it together, but it will always hurt. We can mend this ornament, but it will never be restored completely. </div>
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My heart and my family can never be what it once was. We all are in our homes. Scattered. Miles away from each other. And when we come together...there is a void. A missing piece. </div>
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We all hold pieces of a beautiful shattered heart. </div>
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Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-70453926601580259902012-11-28T20:52:00.000-08:002012-11-28T20:56:35.983-08:00Black Friday MadnessIt's that time of year again. With the holidays upon us, shopping becomes the norm in our traditional gift giving realm. I decided to scoop up some deals that the national event "Black Friday" had to offer.<br />
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Black Friday, indeed. <i>I'll get to that in a minute.</i><br />
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First, I want to say that the idea to go out shopping appealed to me because of the sheer spontaneous thrill of going out shopping PAST MY BEDTIME with my awesome sister-in-law and mother-in-law. There is just something so crazy about chugging a coffee at 10 pm to go shopping. Not just any kind of shopping. Shopping that will most likely make you experience every kind of emotion you can imagine.<br />
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Excitement: OOOO! It's so late out! I wonder if I will get everything on my list. I wonder if any brawls will take place? Can't believe I'm doing this!<br />
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Anxiety: Holy crap. The roads are seriously bad. Is this worth it? Are we going to die? Seriously. If I am going to die I wish I hadn't just gorged on two turkey dinners. I need to be trim in the after life. Oh? We made it to the store. Sweet. Where are we going to park? Why does everyone coming out of the store look like they bought every single item x 7 in the store? Crap. My Tupperware and comforter sets better still be available. Oh what? There is an alarm going off in the store? What's going on? Shit. This would be a perfect arena for some crazy shooter. We're doomed.<br />
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Anger: Those jerks think they are so great buying up eleventeen items of the same damn thing. Well guess what? THAT'S NOT FAIR. You can't see a good deal and just buy up the whole stock of them! I don't like you and you don't like me. It's on. <i>More about this anger later...</i><br />
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Uncomfortable: It's cold. Really cold. And none of us are wearing coats...because extra crud to carry. Really smart. Or extremely dumb.<br />
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Insecurity: Holy cow...some of you REALLY seem to know what you are doing. Like, incredibly intense strategic game plans. I am wandering aimlessly and asking every store representative to point me in the direction of the items on my list. All the while using my manners. If there is a world record for the amount of times, "Pardon me" has been used...I think I topped it.<br />
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Pride: I DID IT! I got everything on my list, didn't act like a jerk, and saved a bunch of money. SAWEET!<br />
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Okay. There's the condensed version of the emotional narrative Black Friday had to offer me. Here's one of the highlighted episodes of the night:<br />
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I set out to get my kiddos a duel DVD player for the car. Currently we use just one old portable DVD player on car trips. It usually causes fights over who gets to hold it, and when we rigged up an awesome bungee cord to hold the player between two seats, there are complaints of, "I CAN'T SEE IT VERY WELL!" So...yeah. Somewhat of a selfish Christmas gift, but I think they will enjoy it, and it's an AWESOME PRICE.<br />
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So...I do what I have never done. I stand among a mob of other interested people waiting for the clock to turn that magic hour when the price becomes valid.<br />
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Standing here, I am definitely anxious. Quick count of the items on the palette and glance of the mob standing around it...crud. People to item ratio is not in my favor.<br />
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I feel like I bit off more than I can chew. I am a courteous person. I don't push or shove or put myself over others. I usually take my time with things and when it's my turn it's my turn. Rules apparently change for others on Black Friday. Shit's about to go down in several minutes. <br />
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We have about ten minutes to go and I am right behind some lady that has her cart IN FRONT of the palette of desired discounted items. So literally blocking everything. She has other people in her group, one lady who is right by the palette of items with her hand on it. Really?? Their banter with the store representative is starting to piss me off. They are talking about previous Black Fridays like they were vets of 'Nam. WHY IS A CART BLOCKAGE DEVICE ALLOWED??? I don't say that of course, because passive aggressive, ya know? I just grit my teeth and await the designated hour and hope for the best. I engage in comedic exchanges with a girl standing next to me, basically exposing the absolute ridiculousness that we have put ourselves in.<br />
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The hands turn on the clock to the moment we were all waiting for. Dude. I was frightened. I stood there and watched the cart lady and her accomplices load up dvd player after dvd player into their strategically placed cart. At this moment, I did not care for this group of Black Friday vets. I went into this gig thinking, well if I get one, I get one...but this display made me want to get this item more than ever. My sister-in-law had found me in the mob earlier. I decided to cash in on the strategic moves and asked her if she would stand on the other side of the mob. She's awesome so she did it.<br />
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In this frenzy, I couldn't quite get to the product. Mostly because there was a freaking cart in my way. There was man that was standing close to the palette and had already retrieved his DVD player. He took the opportunity to grab another one and hand it to me. I was floored. THANK YOU KIND SIR! He must have taken pity on me and my handful of $4.00 Spider-Man pajamas. I grabbed my prize, said my thanks, and tried to yell out to my sister-in-law who was in the trenches trying to do her part to get my desired item. She actually got one...so we ended up with two and she gave hers to some random person walking aimlessly.<br />
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Holy crap. The thoughts going through my brain. I am actually taking part in this madness. People are effin' NUTS! They have plans drawn up 'n shit. No mercy for whomever may get in their way. Yikes. I don't ever want to be that efficient at Black Friday shopping. Participating somewhat in the mob was shameful enough for me.<br />
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In the end, I did get everything I set out to get. Without violence...imagine that! I had more fun just hanging out with my family and cracking jokes about all the other crazies. And in the end, I got my kiddos some pretty cool things for Christmas.<br />
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It's the experience, you guys. Try not to take it too seriously...<br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-33995880743563091582012-11-15T18:55:00.001-08:002012-11-15T18:56:33.144-08:00Growly McGrowlerson - Weird Things Our Bodies Do To Embarrass Us...I have this awesome cough right now that makes me sound like a wrinkled up smoking bar fly. It's pretty gross, I'm not going to lie. Other than the cough and feeling a bit run down, I'm fine. So hi ho hi ho it's off to work I go. <i>Mamma needs a new pair of shoes, but should probably just pay the electric bill...</i><br />
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Part of my job is answering the phone. Which means I need to carry on a full conversation without sounding like I'm minutes from death. <br />
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Fail.<br />
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I received a phone call at work from a company that wanted to talk to us about ad space. It didn't come off as a hum drum run of the mill telemarketing call.<i> "Is *turns business name into a personal name* home?" </i>So I decided to stay on the line. I ask her for more information...and then it happens. I feel the tickle in my throat. We've all been there. At church. A funeral. A wedding. A presentation. Anywhere you are supposed to be quiet. Crap. It's coming. <i>I might commit murder for a lozenge at this point...</i><br />
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I let out a little cough and a "Pardon me." But my body goes. Oh heck no. We're not done yet. Silly girl.<br />
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Now comes that critical point where you either let it all out or you do the dumb thing and try to stifle the inevitable.<br />
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I did the dumb thing.<br />
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The lady is going on with her spiel and I'm making throat clearing noises and guzzling my coffee (probably the only time I've ever "guzzled" coffee) to try and suppress the avalanche of what was coming.<br />
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It doesn't take long and I am coughing. Never try to stifle. It comes out like tuberculosis mated with bronchitis and that is just not cool. Trying to utter apologies between breaths. The thing is...she just kept going. I'm trying to act like I'm listening and not, oh I don't know, DYING...and she just ignores the fact that she is talking to a plague ridden monster.<br />
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I managed to squeak out, "Do you have a website?" before the raging coughing starts up again. This is horrible. She gives me the website, but since I can't breathe, I scribble half of it down. Screw it. Google should direct me with half the info, right?<br />
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I'm trying to get off the phone, so I can escape somewhere private and finish what my lungs seem to think I need to do...AND SHE KEEPS TALKING!! Lady, I'm going to pass out or throw up. Please for the LOVE OF GAWD release me from your sales call.<br />
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Since I didn't learn the first time, I'm trying to stifle the rest of the coughs that NEED to come out. My co worker comes into my office, undoubtedly after hearing the miserable exchange I was having, and looks at my red, twisted, teary eyed face...and laughs. NOT FUNNY. Kind of. BUT NOT THEN IT WASN'T. He turns around chuckling. AGAIN. NOT FUNNY.<br />
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Finally, I get off the phone with a phone number I *think* is right, half of a website on a Post It note and a first impression that our business employs extras from "Ma's Roadhouse."<br />
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After running to the sink and downing water like I was stuck in the desert for days, I did recover.<br />
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Man.<br />
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This got me thinking about all of the times that your body does inappropriate things when you are supposed to be quiet or engaged.<br />
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I remember one presentation I went to. It was an hour away and I didn't have anything in my stomach but coffee.<br />
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Thirty minutes into the presentation my stomach let out a little "Grrowl."<br />
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Oh my. What was that?<br />
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5 minutes later another growl that had turned into a menacing howl. <i>FEED ME NOW!!!</i><br />
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Sometimes you can't even believe that the noises you are making are even possible.<br />
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Now my stomach probably growls like this all the time, but I just don't notice it when I am not in a quiet setting. When you are in a quiet setting a tiny growl sounds like a building fell down. I'm sure my stomach whines all of the time because for some reason breakfast isn't something I care to partake in. <i>CoffeeCoffeeCoffee!!!</i><br />
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Now I'm fully aware of the power my stomach possess. I feel another growl coming and I clutch my stomach in a firm grasp to show it who's boss.<br />
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I'm not even paying attention to the presentation. I'm inside my head locked in a battle between my body and the prospect of calling embarrassing attention to myself. "<i>Who's that girl in the second row? Oh, don't mind her. That's just Growly McGrowlerson." </i><br />
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A lady across the room started eating a banana. I hated her. If only I could have one BITE I could stop the war inside my belly.<br />
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I learned my lesson that day. Any presentation/class I had in the morning I made darn sure I had something in my gullet. Because no one needs stomach growling anxiety.<br />
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Our bodies our weird.<br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-88378219695552994412012-11-12T20:00:00.000-08:002012-11-13T19:09:29.327-08:00"I work out!" (You know the song...)Well, it's a little late in the game for New Year's resolutions. Screw it. Maybe I'm just proactive in my resolution for next year. The fact of the matter is I decided today I need to start working out again.<br />
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Perhaps it was the image of the hippopotamus in an oversized spaghetti sauced stained sweatshirt that breezed past a poorly located hallway mirror that did me in.<br />
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Stop. Back up. Good golly. Who ARE you?<br />
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That's IT! Hippo no more. Time to think big and make mediocre attempts towards success.<br />
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Feeling inspired by my desire to rid of the hideousness, I decide I am going to bring the sexy back. Via clearanced at home workout videos from my dusty home library. <i>OH YEAH. </i><br />
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I'm already feeling like I have a head start, seeing as though I didn't even finish my lunch.<i> Truth time. Not because I wasn't starving. Because I found a freaking bone in my tuna sandwich, spit it all out, and gagged to the point of teary eyes. Disgusting. But weight loss friendly. </i><br />
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I ask Little Dude if he wants to work out with mommy. He's all for it. Sweet. Let's do this.<br />
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First things first. Gotta look the part. I dive into the depths of my dresser drawer and resurrect some spandex attire.<br />
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I squeeze into my attire. I realize at this very moment that the reason exercise attire is made out of spandex is because you look at yourself busting out of it and see that you have no choice BUT to exercise.<br />
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I'm ready to go. Pop in the DVD called, "Cardio Dance Express".<br />
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It starts up and I'm half getting the routine down. Okay. Not even half. But ALMOST getting it. <i>Not even close...</i><br />
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I realize the shades are up in my living room. PAUSE. Close all shades. No one I live near needs to see this business. Spandex is enough. Uncoordinated movements creating sweat? I wish that visual on no one.<br />
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Start the DVD back up again. I'm diving into the dance routine all clumsy like. I'm getting angry that the instructor is going too fast for my incompetent brain. I raise my arms and hit the ceiling fan above me. The dog thinks I am initiating some playful man's best friend action. He starts barking and circling me inviting me to play. No idiot. I'm feelin' the burn. GO AWAY. Little Dude rapidly gets bored with watching mommy pump up the jam, and he grabs a flashlight and starts shining it in my eyes.<br />
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Seriously? This is what a true-life-mom-at-home-workout looks like. Not sexy. Painful spandex. Uncoordinated. Dog-Child-Ceiling-Fan interferences.<br />
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I have to stop half way through because Little Dude has a tummy ache and doesn't quite make it to the bathroom. I assist him and 30 minutes later my heart rate is down and I half ass attempt to start the work out again.<br />
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My heart just isn't in it now. I'm getting irritated at the skinny cheerful instructor that tells me the Mambo is super easy and that I will be strutting my skinny self on the dance floor before I know it.<br />
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Screw you lady. I just cleaned up crap. While you're "Mamboing" your skinny butt all over the place, I'm making Spaghettios and wiping butts. Let's stick to baby steps, shall we? <br />
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I get through 20 more minutes miraculously and then decide I need to quit. Why?<br />
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A) I'm red faced, out of breath, and the spandex is starting to chafe my skin.<br />
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B) The dog won't give up this idea that my uncoordinated movements mean I want to engage in a dog/owner play session.<br />
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C) Little Dude is providing unsupportive commentary on my less than awesome performance. <i>"Mom, you're not doing it right..."</i><br />
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Whatever. I did enough.<br />
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We will see how I feel tomorrow. Hopefully I'll get back on the horse and give it another try. However these "at home workout videos" were not made to cater to mothers with children, dogs, and a living room arrangement with ceiling fans directly above them. So, I call handicap. I should automatically just get 5 lbs taken off.<br />
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Maybe I could tap into this market. Workout really intense for 5 minutes then stop the tape to allow any interruptions that need to be taken care of. <i>Welcome back! Undoubtedly you were dealing with crap, sibling rivalry, or a burning dinner item. Let's get back to getting "Un-Fat". </i><br />
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Oh well. I am giving it a go. Ultimately, the experience pretty much sucked, though.<br />
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Here's my reaction, just after shutting off the video:<br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-24112164407547247242012-11-10T09:11:00.000-08:002012-11-10T12:18:10.562-08:00The Hitchhiking BirdSo, that one time, when I got a bird stuck in my car...<br />
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Yeah. You heard me right. I got a bird stuck in my car last month. I am just now getting the chance to write about it, because of course something of that quirky nature would happen when I didn't have a computer to siphon the details of this epic event into.</div>
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The kids were out in the driveway with the car door wide open searching for a lost treasure that became victim of the Aztek's voracious appetite for small items and stale french fries. I hear two shrieks and frantic feet pounding the pavement towards the house. </div>
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"MOM!! A BIRD FLEW IN THE CAR!!!!" </div>
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This caught me off guard as I was expecting this shrieking to be the result of a sibling battle I would have to put to rest. </div>
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My reaction was something like: Silence. Laugh. "WHAT?" </div>
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"A BIRD IS IN THE CAR!!!" </div>
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I venture outside, laughing at this off the wall predicament. </div>
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Sure enough, flapping inside my car is the Cletus Jones of the sparrow world. </div>
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I open all the doors and the hatch, ducking and wincing at the possibility of a bird beak coming in contact with my face. </div>
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After circling the car a few times and doing a few rounds of kicking the interior and then running like a wuss, I SWORE I saw a bird fly out the back. </div>
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Thinking this whole mess was behind us, we went back inside the house and went on with our day. </div>
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Fast forward to evening. My niece came over and I was getting ready to bring the girls to Girl Scouts. I tell the kids to go get in the car. </div>
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As I'm heading outside I hear shrieks again. <i>Crap. </i></div>
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<i>"</i>IT'S STILL IN THERE!!!" </div>
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What the heck?? What do I do? I've never had to trouble shoot bird invasions before. </div>
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The dang bird ups the ante by performing a disappearing act. </div>
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"Did he fly out?? Did anyone see him fly out??"</div>
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My niece points to the spot underneath my steering wheel where there is a little hole that goes to the inside of the car. </div>
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"I'm pretty sure I saw him fly in there..."</div>
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"WHAT??!!!" Okay. Panic. </div>
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We are already late to Girl Scouts. I send a message to our troop leader that we are running a little late due to a "situation" and we will be there as soon as we can. How do you explain a bird invasion over text without sounding crazy? <i>Too much Hitchcock??</i></div>
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Now I am too afraid to even stick my head inside the car. Instead of productive problem solving, I proceed to pace around the driveway hoping the bird just decides to leave. </div>
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That doesn't happen. </div>
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I am elated to see my husband come home from work. I frantically bombard him with my bird story and tell him it's his job to get the thing out. </div>
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He gets a long pipe and a flashlight. Bird flushing tools, I guess. I can tell he doesn't believe me at first. Partially because of my intuitive sense, and partially because he said, "It probably flew out already." </div>
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He hits the part of the car underneath the steering wheel. I see him suddenly back up. <i>Yeah. Told you. Bird. In my car. Not crazy. </i></div>
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About 10 minutes of this tapping and ducking dance goes on and suddenly I hear a curse word and running. </div>
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"Got it!" </div>
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VICTORY DANCE!!!!! </div>
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<i>Pretty sure my neighbors think we are nuts. </i></div>
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Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-50041545462480902192012-11-03T18:54:00.001-07:002012-11-03T19:04:52.158-07:00French WHAAA??? Remember the day I got blasted with the inquiry of how a <a href="http://scatterbrainedlife.blogspot.com/2012/06/getting-babies-out-of-bellies.html">baby gets out of a tummy</a>? Yeah. That was a cake walk compared to this bombshell that Sassy Girl threw at me.<br />
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"Hey Mom. I know what French Kissing is." </div>
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She leans back in her chair with a smirk on her face that is way beyond her years. </div>
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I silently curse my decision to let my innocent 7 year old ride the bus. </div>
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Not really wanting to hear her answer, I go ahead and ask her what she thinks it is. </div>
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"It's touching tongues, Mom."<br />
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<i>This is where I lock her in her room until she's 30, right?</i></div>
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I die a little inside. WHY are we having this discussion? You still sleep with stuffed animals and I read you bedtime stories.You have tantrums in the toy department every once in a while. You pronounce spaghetti, "sketty". You dress in the same clothes as your American Girl doll. You believe in Santa Claus and Leprechauns...</div>
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Yet, you know about French Kissing?? </div>
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I clear my throat and ask her where she heard this. She is reluctant to give up the name of her informant. </div>
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Fine. </div>
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We have the discussion about it being something that grown ups do if they are in love. </div>
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If I'm this squirmish about discussing French Kissing with my daughter...good golly. I'm in for a bumpy ride when the teen years hit. </div>
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I just don't want to see my kids grow up too fast. I blink and they are another year older. </div>
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Luckily, Little Dude was in the kitchen impersonating a camel by spitting on the floor, so I think I have a little while before he is interested in these "beyond his age" topics. </div>
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Sassy Girl seemed satisfied with the talk we had and scooped up her stuffed animal and I tucked her into bed. </div>
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One day I might be the idiot that doesn't know ANYTHING about ANYTHING, in my kids' eyes. At least now I can make an impact from time to time...even if it makes me want to run away and pee my pants while in the process. </div>
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I guess we will see how often this "French Kissing" topic gets slid into conversation now that Sassy Girl is in the elite grown up club of "in-the-know". </div>
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Pray it doesn't come up on Thanksgiving with all of the extended family for me, will ya? </div>
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"I am thankful for God, and my family, and French Kissing..." </div>
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Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-74487988891595153602012-10-22T19:55:00.001-07:002012-10-23T15:28:07.529-07:00Invasion Of The SpiderSince I'm revealing all of my ridiculous fears, here's another one. First, let's run down the roster: Afraid of heights in a severely debilitating manner. Afraid of meeting new people in an awkward sweaty palmed sort of way. And now...<br />
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Afraid of spiders. Heart racing, hyperventilating, weak kneed, curse-wording phobia of mine.<br />
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The more information about myself I divulge, the more I start to compare myself to the stereotypical nerd that's allergic to and afraid of everything. Somewhat of a Milhouse from the Simpsons. <i>Whatever. Milhouse is pretty cool in his own way. Ack. My glasses. </i><br />
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Anywho, I am deathly afraid of spiders. Let me give you a little history to explain my fear.<br />
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<i>Let the wavy flashback imagery commence...</i><br />
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7 years old. Little Leia Marie all tucked in ready for bed in my awesome bunk bed. My little bro had his own room, but I had a bunk bed that housed all 47 of my super cool stuffed animal friends on the top bunk. <i>I was a pretty big deal to have all of them friends. </i><br />
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Picture me, slowly drifting off to sleep in my room, on the bottom bunk, windows open, wind gently blowing the silky white lace curtains back and forth above my bed, like a youngster swinging in the yard.<br />
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A tickling sensation interrupts this peaceful moment just before sleep sets in. I stir a bit and the tickling continues. I put my hand up to brush what I think is a piece of my wispy blonde hair...and immediately feel a - get ready for it...SMOOSH.<br />
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Aww shit. What just happened? I look at my little hand, and the aftermath of the smooshing is: A CRAPLOAD OF SPIDER GUTS AND BLOOD.<br />
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Oh my freaking GAWD!! It was huge. From what I gather from the leftover bits and pieces...IT WAS GIGANTIC.<br />
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This huge disgusting thing was crawling on my head AND DIED ON MY FACE, PEOPLE!!!<br />
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Upon my mother's further inspection the next day, it appears that the effing spiders decided to set up a freaking kingdom in my Barbie house, and were just chillin' in there like it was a nasty ass spider hotel.<br />
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I guess they bought some Raid or other crap to get rid of them, but the memory still haunts me.<br />
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Needless to say, I've been terrified of the creatures ever since.<br />
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Fast forward to adulthood.<br />
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I'm doing some laundry, and I hear Sassy Girl scream. I run upstairs at mach speed and I ask her what is wrong.<br />
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"MOM!! THERE'S A HUGE SPIDER ON THE CEILING!!"<br />
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Aww crap. Why couldn't it have been something...anything else?? An overflowing toilet. Ghost. Sasquatch in the backyard. No. Huge freaking spider on the ceiling.<br />
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Ok. Sassy Girl is freaking. She points to it again. I look in it's direction. Ok. Maybe I can just let this spider chill. It's cool as long as it hangs up there on the ceiling.<br />
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But what if it gets the crazy idea to swing down on it's crazy spider web and land smack dab on my face??!!<br />
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No thank you Mr. Spider. You must die now.<br />
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I grab a shoe and a Bounty paper towel. (Super thick quilted action, ya know?)<br />
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I think I have gathered up the courage to take this spider out.<br />
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I step up onto the couch and inch up closer to the spider...<br />
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I chicken out. I'm cursing my husband for wasting the day away at work and leaving me to matters of spider assassinations. I get the quivers so bad and shriek like a little girl. Then my kids scream. I'm sure the neighbors thought there was a murder taking place.<br />
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I'm hyperventilating as Mr. Spider crawls carelessly across MY ceiling. All black and gross. How dare you.<br />
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Sassy Girl really steps up as the strong one in family. She's not quite tall enough to reach him with just a quilted Bounty paper towel.<br />
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I swallow my pride, and get my 7 year old the broom. She's such a rock star.<br />
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She swipes at the invader. It falls. Loud screams. Mostly from me. Little Dude had the job of grabbing the spider with the paper towel. He fails. Like Mother, like Son.<br />
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Sassy Girl takes another one for the team and picks that spider up with the paper towel and disposes of him.<br />
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My seven year old is my freaking hero.<br />
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She rocks pretty hard.<br />
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<i><br /></i>Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-39611032014568568272012-10-20T14:02:00.002-07:002012-10-20T17:27:00.786-07:00We've been "Glueped"! Geez Louise, I've been a horrible blogger. I do have an excuse though. Seriously, it's not laziness this time. <i>This time...</i><br />
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I JUST got my laptop back from being repaired. Got an awesome friend who is a genius at fixin' broken computer stuff. Totally sucking up, cuz he's nice to have on speed dial for those brilliant moments when I have exhausted all of my fixing abilities. <i>As in...restart computer. Nope. Still broken. </i><br />
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This time though, we had a serious problem. Really it was a case of the computer being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Possibly a tiny bit my fault, but we are not here to point fingers. <i>Sometimes I don't think stuff through very well. I should probably attend a workshop or something on "Thinking Stuff Through - The Key to Success." It probably exists. </i><br />
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So, I was being an AWESOME mom and getting all "Bill Nye the Science Guy" with Little Dude. Courtesy of Google. You can impress the heck out of preschoolers by your massive amount of knowledge gained by the internet. Anyway, the afternoon kicked off with attempting an experiment to make "Gluep". The old Borax, glue, water trick. Supplies were all laid out on the table ready to go. Little Dude measures out some water in a cup. So far so good. We mix up our concoction and the end result was a rubbery silly putty lump. Sounds lame...but we MADE it, so it was pretty sweet. So sweet, in fact, that it caused a little ruckus in the preschooler excitement factory and some jittery moves were the culprit in tipping over the leftover "Gluep" ingredients directly on the keyboard of my laptop. <i>Crap. Remember that thinking stuff through comment? Yeah. I now know that computers, almost 5 yr olds, and liquid experiments definitely don't mix. Pretty sure I should have known that before we started...but I'm letting the past stay in the past. </i><br />
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Cue cliche slow motion clip. "Nnnnnnoooooo!!!!" And then being the quick thinker I am, I grab a towel. The screen turns into a psychedelic acid hallucination. <i>Oh man. This is not good. What do I do??</i> Slight panicky thoughts. <i>Maybe I should pour some Minute Rice on it? No. Probably not going to help...and seems messy. Plus we only have enough for dinner. </i><br />
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Okay. Got it. Restart. Always works.<br />
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Hit restart and the computer acts like it's going to start up all normal...then in total jerk fashion it goes blank and makes an alarming beeping noise. Nope. This is not good at all. My "professional" diagnosis...we have a one broken computer.<br />
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One broken computer and a lump of smelly "Gluep". <i>Perfect. </i><br />
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In the end it all worked out. I survived weeks without a computer. How? I don't know. My phone is a poor substitute for a computer but it took the edge off. <i>So spoiled by technology. Slightly ashamed...but it is what it is. </i><br />
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The computer is home, and the "Gluep" went in the trash after collecting a coat of dog hair and cracker crumbs.<br />
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Little Dude wants to make more. I'm putting the computer in the hall closet. Just to be safe....<br />
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<br />Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6514890975979908022.post-42477555315471760832012-09-11T18:36:00.005-07:002012-09-11T20:05:45.573-07:00Why are you crying, Mommy? "Why are you crying, Mommy?"<br />
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A blurred image of an innocent, yet concerned face was staring back at me. I had tried to hold my composure, but sometimes emotions have a way of sneaking through the tiniest cracks. </div>
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"Mommy feels sad today."</div>
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The steady murmur of now infamous news clips are narrating my somber demeanor, much like I'd imagine the drone of helicopter propellers in a war zone. </div>
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My bones are chilled and my knees are weak, as I am consumed by memories of the initial stabbing shock and terror. Memories of the day 9/11 became more than just a date on a calendar. Memories of the day we learned just how vulnerable we are. All American social classes, races, religions shared the horror together. Feeling human. Attacked. Bonded by grief. Together as one. Heroes, victims, and helpless bystanders. United, raw bleeding emotion fused us together as we all asked why...and we all knew how. </div>
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How do you explain such a terrifying event to a child? A child you are put here on earth to protect. How do you make them feel safe, while teaching them the gruesome history? A product of an evil I do not understand. </div>
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Perhaps I struggle, because my own security and remaining innocence was stolen this day. I was 17 and still, for the most part, shielded from such terror and panic that this incident created. Many of us grew a million years older in an instant. And for some, that instant grew them wings. </div>
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"Mommy, but why are you crying?" </div>
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"A lot of people went to Heaven on this day because of a horrible thing, sweetie."</div>
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"Why?"</div>
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"Mommy doesn't know why. It makes me sad, and that's why I cry." </div>
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She looks at the TV and sees images of the WTC just after impact. Those images that are burned into our brain for a lifetime. </div>
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"Is that what happened?"</div>
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"Yes, honey."</div>
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"Were there kids in there?"</div>
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Tearing up again. </div>
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"Yes baby. There were kids. It was a very sad day." </div>
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My daughter looks deep into my watery eyes and I can tell she feels my sadness. I see tears forming in her young, pure, inquisitive eyes, reflecting the pain I am feeling. </div>
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I held her close and we shared a moment of understanding and prayer. </div>
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In that moment, I didn't want to let go.<br />
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<b><i>"...for those of us who lived through these events, the only marker we'll ever need is the tick of a clock at the 46th minute of the eighth hour of the 11th day."</i></b><br />
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<b><i>President George W. Bush </div>
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Leia Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17156085866442888487noreply@blogger.com3