Hi Ladies (and gent). It’s another round of Girl’s Night In. Just in case y’all dont know the drill, thought I’d fill y’all in…
What time? 7pm Pacific (that’s 10PM Eastern and 9PM centeral) *sorry Atlanta folks. It *is* late there.
How? Sign in to Yahoo messenger. Then click on this to IM me and let me know your Yahoo IM name. I?ll invite you in to the partay. yup. It’s that easy.
*I’m here. Ignore the offline thing.
Sorry if the offline thing threw some of you off. I don’t know why it wasn’t showing up as online. Hrm. I’ll have to fix that before the next meeting.
We had a lovely time! Sorry to anyone who didn’t get to make it tongiht. Don’t fret! We have another meeting on the last Thursday of the month: July 27th! You’ll just need a Yahoo IM screen name and Yahoo Messenger.
THanks to everyone who was able to attend! Topics included, but were not limited to: handbags, penises, shoes, babysitters, weddings, colors, conception and much more. Special shout out to (in no particular order):
Rbelle of Bellechats
Nicole of Sitting Still
Raybelle of Not So Southern Belle
Bree of Buhtafly Wings
Sonia of The Pursuit Of Happines
Marjorie of mmpoff
Charla of Southern Mom
Traci of JellyBelly
Melissa of Space and Time
Oma of Oma’s Place
Canadian Sadie of My Big Fat Mess
Jamie of Blonde Mom Blog
Mari of Mommy-Brain.
Denise of Dees Den
*If I forgot you PLEASE let me know.
**IF you couldn’t make it, please try next time! I"m so sorry if you missed out. We’ll do it again and you’re MORE than invited. Consider it a summons.
***Could someone pelase pass the caffeine? I have to go to work tomorrow. Yes, work. ANd you thought this was summer vacation. PSHAW!
Sometimes I love my husband so so so much. And other times, I get so damn frustrated… well… I blog about him.
This morning we rented a little car because his had to get the timing belt replaced. Now, let me preface what I’m going to say by telling you I’m a wee bit on the emotional side and very tired from the pollen and dust and whateverthehellese is making me sneeze and be generally miserable. In fact, during the thirty minute drive home after dropping him off near work, I just about fell asleep. (thank god for Dora blaring “Backpack! Backpack! and my two coffees still coursing through my veins.) So it should be no surprise that I had a minor panic attack when we almost got hit by a logging truck and visions of Mr. Flinger’s tiny mobile not surviving that kind of accident popped in my head. I had to talk myself out of attending his funeral in my brain, raising our daughter alone and being pregnant and having a baby who never would know his father (I’m not, but you see how this whole imaginary widow thing spirals out of control quickly). Next thing I know I’m crying and calling his cell phone half expecting him not to answer. When he doesn’t answer my fears get out of control and I just know he’s crushed under a truck somewhere.
I get home, a complete mess, and call one more time, both his office phone and his cell. When I get no answer I call the front desk. Yes, people, I called the front desk and told another woman that I’m having a freakish wife moment and did Mr. Flinger show up to work in a very tiny silver car? She laughs, says yes, and she’s done the same thing. I think I love her for saying that, even if it’s not true. He called a few minutes later, no doubt after the secretary said, “Hey, arsehole, your poor wife is wondering if you’re dead. You might want to call her.” Or, rather, “Hey, your psycho wife called. You might want to get her a prescription to something strong” (which is more likely).
I know they drive these cars in Europe, but they don’t share the road with three trailer trucks and logging trucks the size of Dallas. And if he thinks this is bad, you should see me when he gets a motorcycle.
Mr. Flinger and I don’t argue about much and when we do it’s usually nit-picky crap like the dishes or the finances or the child’s napping schedule. However, as of late, we’ve been arguing, quite intensely, over the laundry.
Now that I’m home with LB full time, I understand that I would have more time to do laundry than he would. I also understand there is an unspoken rule that the person home all day should clean up, do the dishes and laundry and take care of the bills. It’s nothing we’ve stated as fact, I just think it probably makes more sense. However, when you begin telling me you don’t like the way I do the dishes, pick up, do the laundry or pay the bills, don’t be surprised when I stop.
See, I don’t iron. I actually think I own an iron, somewhere, but I’ve ironed a total of six shirts in ten years. I just don’t do it. There’s this wonderful method I like to call “dewrinkle while you blog” and it involves a small wet towel and the dryer. I figure it’s good enough for dry cleaning, it’s good enough for me. So usually after I leave the laundry in the dryer too long, I’ll just put it on the dewrinkle cycle and get ten extra minutes before I have to fold it all.
With a child, things get muddled. I barely remember to bring my keys most places let alone when the dryer should be finished. And those times that I do remember when it’s done, I’m often pulled into other directions by, say, our child running into on coming traffic or lunging herself off the fireplace. So see, it’s not just that I’m stupid, it’s that I have a toddler. Maybe it’s one and the same. Having a toddler does eat away at my brain cells. So when Mr. Flinger comes home and his pants are wrinkly and in the dryer? He looses it. I have no clue why, but he looses it. We’ve had this discussion a total of four million times about the dryer and getting the clothes out right away. It pisses me off every time just as much as it pisses him off. It’s dumb, but we get flaming mad at each other.
Last week, after I did three loads of laundry and PROMPTLY took them out of the dryer, LB and I met Mr. Flinger at the puddle park after work. The dryer was working on the last load of the day and had about thirty minutes left to go when we took off. We got home, fed LB as a family and went to put her down. Mr. Flinger looked in the dryer for some blanket for LB and just flipped his top about his pants. I started crying. LB didn’t know what the hell was going on. I mean, looksy, the dryer was going and we met you at the park. I seriously lost it there, folks. You would’ve done the same. I know you would. See? I’m not alone here.
This week I was doing laundry and just happened to know I won’t get to the dryer in time to do his shirts. I left them in the hamper. I also know there is never a really good time that I can get to his clothing as promptly as he’d like me to. And, as it turns out, our laundry fairy quit last week so it’s just me and Mr. flinger left to do the dirty work.
We’ll see how this goes. Something tells me Mr. Flinger will be doing laundry in about two weeks when all of his clothes are dirty. Didn’t he learn never to piss off the wifey?
I just found this poem a wrote a year or two ago:
I love you
I love my mac, too
But I hate NTFS and FAT32
Gui is my world
That and my baby girl
Everyone outta give Powerbooks a whirl
It’s all bad luck
Too bad it costs too many bucks
Obviously having a bad Windows day at the time. (When is it a good window’s day?) And now I hide in my geeky shame…
Stop your blogging and feed me. Also? I’m poopy.
Before we had kids, we had sex, (if I’m being honest here and I’m never anything but) about 3 times a week. On average. And by average I mean some weeks we were rooting around like pigs in a McDonalds dumpster and other weeks we were trying just to get enough energy to actually talk to one another.
In a recent attempt to start “trying” I’ve been marking down times I ovulate. “Ok, we have three days a month to do it?” says the mister. “Yup! Just three days! We can do that.”
Last week I ovulated on a Wednesday. We thought this “getting down to business” would be an easy thing to get done. By the time we got around to being “together”, nearly a whole week past. Afterward he says, “So? Did we do it?” I had to break the news that, no, indeed, we probably did not make a baby. When I said three days, I meant only those three days, not any three days of the month we actually get around to it. Which, of course, is what our current sex life is like. So we’ll just say we’re trying to prevent the strain on the world population we’d be adding by actually having sex multiple times a month in any given week. And next month we’ll have to review our Sex Ed manuals. Because for the life of me, I don?t know how we made the first child.
You know how I said I wanted to drive to San Fran? And you know how you keep seeing all those blogHer buttons and talk? And you know how it’s in California at the end of July? I had this brilliant idea. I will DRIVE to BLOGHER! Yes! I’ll grab my mason jar, pack up my pride and head out. I’ll just be brave and not mind that some people think I (and/or my blog) suck. I won’t mind that there are writers so much more worthy of meeting other people in the real world or that I’m a blip on the blog screen. I’ll go! I’m compulsive like that.
So, anyway, I email Mari and say, “Yo! You live in California, right? Wanna get together?” And then I think of all the people I know in California. We could meet up! OH MAH GAH.. we could all crash Blogher with our witty ways and zits and non-prom-queenlike-ness.
Then I can get a call on the phone. Our SUV (damn the SUV) needs a timer belt. Are you aware that these are not cheap? And it also needs another 500 dollars of maintence because we neglected it in the wake of moving and whatnot. The first thing I think is, “Oh, crap, there goes my road trip.” The second thing I think is, “DAMNIT. I’ll NEVER get to meet my bloggy bitches [insert sad sob like 5 year old here].” It’s really all drama and tears, isn’t it?
If I *ever* have a chance to meet you bitches, I’m there.
And this time I promise to bring my wallet. (But can I borrow a five? I seem to be short….)
You know how you get a super neat sticker (pretend you’re five) and you have to share it with everyone? Then, you know how they want a sticker so you’re excited and you get them a sticker, too? Then, you know how you lose your sticker in the water and their sticker is pretty damn nice sitting in their hand all new and not wet, mushed and muddy? Then, pretend you’re thirty and the sticker is a flickr account and you talk all of your friends and family into blogging and using flickr because it’s what you do.
Then, pretend you take a picture and find it on the internet and realize you actually, honest to god, look like this:
Note to self: This is what happens when you get your friends stickers.
Not all children. Just your children. (Not *your* children, but “YOUR” children.)
See, lately whenever we go to the park here at our “classy” neighborhood, there is some child(ren) left to just play. I understand that this child(ren) have been annoying the total shit out of the parents (:: cough :: nanny) for the past six hours but now? (S)he is annoying me. And that’s not ok.
There are kids of all ages, but usually it’s the five - seven year old left to play with, and annoy, the other families at the park. Usually one of these kids will come up and a) put their face in my daughter’s face and speak to her in babyspeak and then 2) push her down. I can handle the babyspeak. Hell, I can handle a little pushing. But when your child start annoying the crap out of me, my daughter, and demanding attention from us because you are on the phone… still.. well, I have issues.
The other night we went to the park, as a family, to enjoy some time together. We were having a lot of fun chasing each other and running up the hill and prentending we were drunk like the white trash apartment people we are. Then we meet “the others”. You know the ones? The people who take their children to the park so they can talk on the phone while ignoring the “Mommy!” Mommy! Look what I can do” just before dive-bombing off the top of the slide, to which I feel obliged to catch said child, only to get a look from the parent with a very “please do not touch my child” kind of a way. Those are the people of whome I speak and we’ve seen entirely too much of them lately.
In fact, at one point at the park, a girl actually pulled down her pants, panties, and sat down on the curb to pee. The mom, as moms here are wont to do, was on the phone and had no idea her child was using the potty ON THE CURB. Not that my child wouldn’t do this, because let’s face it, should she ever decide to attempt to USE the potty and not just laugh at me when I mention the large porcelain bowl we have access to for our poopoo and not just the floor, say, then I’m sure my child would be right next to her on the curb. And it’s not that my child doesn’t push, because let’s face it, she does, but it’s that I’m there to
witness these things and somewhere I parent and teach her not to do the pooping on the curb. Or something.
The most annoying thing, I think, is the absent parent who’s child is doing all of this without even so much as an authority figure in sight. I’ve had children literally glob on to LB and I because we’re paying attention and they obviously don’t get that at home. I’ve seen what neglect does to a child’s mind and it’s just the saddest thing ever. They can have food, toys, a nanny, friends, anything they want, but what they really want is your attention. That’s it. Just you. It’s so simple.
So why do I hate children? Maybe I don’t. Maybe I really like children. But you, I don’t like as much. (Well, not *you* but “you”.) And if you could please get off your cell phone and try talking to the little face looking up at you, maybe she won’t feel the need to pee on the curb to get your attention.
It’s a thought.
It’s not just the granny panties, it’s not that I told everyone my mom was a virgin when I was little, it’s not that I’d like to pretend that I didn’t walk in on my parents doing it when I was fourteen, no, it’s actually possible, you can revirginate yourself in Japan. That’s right, it’s actually possible.
I don’t think I’d be up for this. I mean, barring any necessary medical procedures that I can’t foresee happening, actually replacing the “virgin” pieces? Really? No thank you. But having LB be able to tell her friends her mom is a virgin.. now THAT might be worth something. (I’m thinking roughly 40K in psychiatric bills.)
Would you do it?
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