My husband’s parents have been married for 33 years now. Meanwhile, my parents have both been through what seems like a plethora of relationships. While Adam was raised learning what you do in a relationship, I was raised learning what you do not do (by example). And somehow, this combination works for us.

My parents divorced when I was a very little girl. I believe I was at the tail end of 3, nearing 4. Even at that age, it was so difficult.
At some point during the split, my father accepted a job some distance away. Prior to the divorce, I remember my father being my main caretaker. My mother worked full time and was a full times student with classes at night. So my father took care of me at night while my mother was in class.

So the new arrangements which involved my father living separately from us were very difficult for me.
Within a short amount of time, my father was offered a very important promotion an hour and half away from where we lived. He took the promotion and made the move. The move began the first of many shuffled road trips.
Since I am, and was, very prone to car sickness the rides were increasingly difficult to me. The ride there was always exciting because it had usually been about two weeks since I had last seen my father. However, the rides back were quite arduous.
When they would meet, my parents always exchanged me in the parking lot of a local Shoney’s. While they generally got along, they needed neutral ground for them and the parking lot there seemed to work. So after a long weekend with my father, usually filled with dinner at Showbiz Pizza and other fun activities, I was ushered back to the parking lot and exchanged from car to car again outside of what is possibly the shittiest buffet restaurant in the world.
For years my mother drove an older Oldsmobile with velor upholstery on the seats, said upholstery held heat like a kitchen in July. I always felt it cooking my legs.My mother knew that the ride was difficult for my brother and I. After all, it was difficult for her too. So she tried her best to cheer us up with enthusiastic cassette tapes that played children’s songs and stories.
The songs were sang by chipper children with voices so high pitched dogs would howl from miles away. I usually ended up crying long, lonely tears. Because there I was, stuck in the back seat of a two-door car, roasting on the velor seats, body aching from nausea induced from a combination of car sickness and broken-family syndrome, and forced to listen to ‘The Little Engine That Could’.
Can I please tell you how much I hate that story? How much I hate the moral of the story? And not because it lacks meaning. More so, because to me, it represents that trip back home as child, after being exchanged from parent to parent like a shared commodity.

I had to listen to that damn cassette tape for years. Mostly because my younger brother loved it. The narrator was a lady with a voice that could have cut through the strongest of titanium. It was raspy and sharp. And I swear, she would draw the story out for what seemed like hours. And the whole time, I would attempt to hold back tears and vomit, hoping the damn cassette tape would spontaneously combust or be eaten by the tape deck. All I knew was that if I had to hear that damn engine complain ONE more time, I was done.
Why is this significant? I’m not entirely sure that it is. To you, anyway. But I had sort of blocked these trips out of my head. A few days ago, Allie brought me a book from her many piles and asked me to read it to her.
Of course, it was The Little Engine That Could. And I couldn’t read it.
I just threw the damn thing away (when she wasn’t watching), and asked her to pick out a new book.
It’s so stupid. But it’s almost as if the story represents that period in my childhood for me. And I can’t hear about it or read it without feeling like my legs are on velor seats and my body is wrecked with nausea. And how did I ever forget memories so vivid? And why does that stupid book trigger it for me?
To top this off, I can’t eat at Shoney’s restaurant. Aside from being scared that I’ll come down with food poisoning, it just represents something else for me. I feel like if I go to Shoney’s I’m going to be exited out of my car and put into another for my visit. No Shoney’s for me.
Tonight my husband wanted to eat at Shoney’s, and it was total no-go for me. (And seriously, Shoney’s? how nasty.)
Things like this are sometimes hard to explain to him. Not because he doesn’t listen, but because he doesn’t understand what it was like.

Luckily, I tell very humorous recounts of random encounters with the counterparts of my parents and their families. I have thousands of funny stories about meeting a new person one of my parents was dating and how strange they were or what they were wearing. Or I have a funny outlook on most things of that nature. For him, it’s like a set of stories to hear about. But for me, it was reality.
I suppose it’s just funny when you think about it. How two people from completely different background and families can fall in love and it just works.
I’m so grateful for that.

(also, I tried to fix the spacing on this entry like 8 times.  But Wordpress would not allow it. Sorry it runs together.)

Let’s discuss self-esteem. Okay, that was possibly the lamest introductory sentence ever, but still. Let’s discuss it. I’m happy to say that aside from those awkward middle school days, I feel as my self-esteem has been at a healthy level. I know when to pat myself on the back, and more importantly, I know when I need slapped in the face. Though lately, when I’m drowning in duties that I mostly created for myself, I often doubt what I’m capable of doing. I sometimes doubt myself.

Truthfully, it’s when I’m either most busy or not busy at all that I find myself questioning who I am or what I am doing. In my humble opinion, questioning yourself is just a part of life. And while I hate to sound like an 80’s movie when I say this, it really can be a bummer.

Really, I think there will always be times in my life, short period of time or long, that I question these sorts of things. In all roles that I hold, wife,mother,daughter,sister,friend, and beholder of awesomeness, it is possible to doubt my own worth. It’s also possible to feel a bit too high on myself.

Either way, I don’t think I’m alone in this. I think most people sometimes get down on themselves. I know I’m not t he first person who has ever woken up one morning, and been all, "what the hell? go back to bed. you suck today."

Maybe I’m wrong, maybe you love yourself all of the time. Maybe you are perfection and drink liquid awesomeness for breakfast, and if so, who am I to tell you any different? Right or wrong, when I found this Self-Esteem Mad Lib here , I thought it was interesting and helpful:

Face it, (insert your name), you are about the greatest thing since (favorite food). No one else can (verb) like you can. Your best friend says you are the (adjective)-est person in the world. Sure, you once (embarassing thing you did), but you also (honorable thing you did). S0, (favorite endearment), today is the day you’re going to stop beating up on yourself for being (negative adjective) and start loving yourself for being (positive adjective), (positive adjective), and (positive adjective. ANd if people give you a (adjective) time, just tell’em they can take their (noun) and (verb) it up their (body part)!

So, maybe you are down on yourself for something today or maybe you are feeling fabulous about yourself. Either way, I think it’d be fun to fill this out. So if you want, you should fill this out in the comment section with your inserted terms. It’s fun, and hopefully, it’s helpful.

Here’s mine:

Face it, Amanda, you are about the greatest thing since caesar salads. No one else can rock it like you can. Your best friend says you are the awesome-est person in the world. Sure, you once busted your ass in your middle school gym walking into school, but you also spend a lot of time on philanthropy. S0, Pentunia (my new favorite term of endearment), today is the day you’re going to stop beating up on yourself for being forgetful and slightly negligent and start loving yourself for being dedicated, witty, and intelligent. ANd if people give you a rough time, just tell’em they can take their left arm and shove it up their right nostril!

PS. for the less computer savy, the easiest way to do this would be to copy and paste it, and then type your terms in the spaces.

For some reason, Allie thinks that part of going to eat at a restaurant is using their restroom. It’s a MUST to her. If we go out to eat, she absolutely has to use their restroom. Call it toddler bladder or call it a form of torture. It’s up to you.

Anyway, when we ventured into the first stall of the two-stall restroom it was quite obvious the second stall was occupied. However, the occupant decided to make it more obvious with obscenely loud flatulence. Now, I realize that it’s normally to hear such noises in a restroom. I also realize that it is the silent bathroom code that under no condition do yout comment on the loud noises coming from the stall next door.

Do you know who doesn’t realize this?

Allie.

As the noises escalated, I began to worry about the person in the stall next door. Were they okay? Could they possibly be okay when their body was producing noises of that nature?

Allie decided to cut to the chase, and as she yelled, " MOM? DO YOU HEAR THAT?? I BET THEY ARE POOPING!! THOSE ARE LOUD POOTS!! LOUD ONES!"

I shushed her and whispered to her that it wasn’t nice to call people out in public restrooms. But you can’t really reason with toddlers in situations like that. And well, who could blame her.

So she yelled again, "BUT IT’S SO LOUD MOM! THOSE ARE THE LOUDEST POOTS EVER! HEY! HEY PERSON! ARE YOU POOPING?? I POOP! I CAN POOP TOO!"

Of course, there was still no answer from the stall next door, and I decided that it was in my best interest to exit the restroom as quickly as possible. So we washed our hands. And as we were approaching the door Allie deemed it necessary to get in one more jab to the stall occupant, and yelled again, "I STILL HEAR YOU POOPING! I KNOW YOU ARE POOPING, BUT MY MOM SAID I’M NOT APPOSED TO SAY THAT!"

As I opened the door, I heard the stall occupant mumble, "sorry."

Well, baseball has begun for many teams today including the team for which my husband cheers, the Cincinnati Reds. I’m not a huge sports fan. The only time I really enjoy a game of any sort is if I am actually there. For some reason, I cannot do the pseudo-spectator thing and watch them on television.

My husband is an avid sports fan. He always has been. I knew this from day one. So it’s not as if I expect his love for sports to transform into something more fantastic (like a an obsession with giving me massages). But sometimes, I do wish he could cut down his enthusiasm for random statistics and methods of putting some ball somewhere in order for someone to feel victorious.

I know what you’re probably thinking something along the lines of, “why don’t you just walk into the other room and watch television?? HUH, LADY? calm down! It’s not the end of the world.”

But, I will tell you why it is the end of the world in this household. My husband happens to enjoy my company. very simple, I know, but true. If I am not in the room with him while he participates in this pseudo-spectatorism, he will call me into the room every few minutes to watch plays that I not only wish not to see, but refuse to understand.

Example:

” COME WATCH THIS! *giant pause*What’s-his-face just did a random-sports-move! It was so awesome! Watch the replay! Only two other people in the history of whatever-sport-is-on-TV have ever done that before! It’s amazing!! *more pausing* DID YOU SEE THAT? DID YOU SEE IT?”

I’m all “YEAH! IT WAS AWESOME! *insert giant, double eye roll and smile*”

I love my husband. I love his sometimes child-like enthusiasm for grown men tossing and chasing balls around. But sometimes, it drives me a little batty.

And so with the love clarification set in stone, the baseball induced nervous breakdown I undergo every year carries out in this order:

April: It’s new again, and I just sort of nod my head and smile. I have somehow managed to forget the major interference it plays in my life for nearly half of the year due to the comatose-like break it takes from September to March.

May: Sick of it. Give me the damn remote. If I could shoot lasers out of my eyeballs, I’d destroy all baseballs.

June: Summer is here, and we might go watch a few games which will be nice, because YAY to drinking beers at the baseball field while watching a game. Meanwhile, at the home front, still pissed off it’s taking over my tv.

July: IRATE. GET THIS SHIT OFF MY TV. PRONTO! I DON’T CARE WHO HIT WHAT OR CAUGHT WHAT! Zippity freakin’ doo-dah!

August: thoughts are much too x-rated for this blog.

September: As if. ( I realize quoting the movie Clueless is not mature. It ranks right up there with using wikipedia as a source of information, but baseball brings out the worst in me.)

Now, since all of my favorite shows start coming on again this month, let us hope that my husband’s love for the Reds does not attempt to interfere with them. Which it probably won’t, since we love all of the same shows. Thanks to tivo, there is now some compromise about what is playing on our television, because if I have to miss my favorite shows for this bullshit, I become a little angry. (I’m sure if my husband had a blog, he would write an entry today about Grey’s Anatomy interfering with Reds games. More power to him.)

All I know is that if House, Grey’s Anatomy, ER, or the Office is interrupted by a “COME WATCH THIS” for me to run into the living room to watch some grown-ass man slide into a white diamond like that it’s glorified, I will scream.

My husband and I both have very dark hair, and as you’ve seen, our daughter has brilliant red locks. For some reason, the following visible equation has always been a difficult concept for many:
+=

Some of you with twins have posted about all of the insane things you get asked, and I thought I should share with you some of the crazy things I get asked as a brunette with a redheaded daughter.

One question we usually get asked is, “how did she get red hair?” And well, obviously, it just grew right out of her head. She got it the same way that all of the rest of us got our hair. It just sprung right out. Granted it was about two years before she got hair, but it grew just like anyone elses. I’m not sure if they want me to explain the genetics of it or what?

Next, we are generally questions about red hair in our families. And yes, we both have several redheaded relatives.

Then, some jokester always throws in the redheaded milk/mailman joke. Truth be told, our mail person really does have red hair. But she’s a a lady, and not a gentleman. So unless my husband was rendez-vousing with her and somehow managed to secretly implant the resulting zygote into my uterus–then no, that isn’t how it happened.

The worst encounter like this of all of them is when some wise guy looks Adam and says, “you sure she’s yours?” And the proceeds to wink in the most obnoxiously way possible. ugh. The wink is way creepier than the joking implication of her paternity.

(Winkers gross me out, which is another post entirely.)

Finally, the best answer to the posed question is the one Allie gives people. When people ask her where she got her red hair, she answers by simply telling them, “Kroger”.

Do you get any annoying questions about your child? Or yourself?

Ugh. I suppose I’ve never mentioned my hatred for Daylight Saving(s) Time. I mean, why would I? It’s not like it occurs everyday. It isn’t like my neighbor’s dog in that it feels the need to do its business in my yard daily.

You see, the problem is that every spring Daylight Savings Time comes to shit on me. I don’t mind it so much in the Fall. Then, I gain an hour which for some odd reason makes me feel like I am pulling one over on the man, making the me to the man ratio 1:0. Until the Spring, when the man feels the need take that hour back. Me 0 The Man 1.

How rude.

I know it’s just one measly hour. But I swear, it throws my life off for about two weeks.

The underlying problem is the fact that the hour is generally stolen while I am sleeping. How dare the man rob me of one hour of sleep! I normally get up around 5:30 a.m. or 6:00 a.m. Now, due to Daylight Savings Time, my body will be getting up at 4:30 or 5, while my mind wakes at the new time.

(I will not even discuss the fact that an hour of my weekend is being robbed.)

I will be a slug Monday. I’m not sure why, but I just have a hard time internalizing all of this.

The only person who hates this more than I do is Adam. Mostly because he has to listen to me go off about it.

My reasoning here is that theft of time is pretty significant. Even if it’s just a sleeping hour, even I’m gaining it back, it still drives me nuts.

At 2 a.m., we are getting robbed. It doesn’t matter that I’m getting the hour back in the fall, just like if someone robbed your toaster it wouldn’t matter if you got it back in the fall. You were still a victim of theft.

What about you guys? Do you hate Daylight Savings Time or am I just a nut? (Note: If the diagnosis is that I’m just a nut, leave it as a pleasant smiley face. You know, for my feelings and all. )

Also, in case you missed the addition of more hyphenated last names gone wrong make sure to check the post below.

Before Allie’s birthday party began yesterday, she was feeling slightly under the weather. It wasn’t the sort of under the weather you would halt a party for, but it seemed more like the beginnings of another illness.

So the party began. Guests were eating, children were playing, 80’s Lady was outside chain smoking Marlboro Reds, and the table was covered with gifts (*cough* *snort* *cough*).

Then, I noticed that Allie had decided to sit down on the couch. This is the part where I tell you that Allie NEVER sits; particularly, when in the company of masses of rambunctious children. She is all about running around like that she has a 24 hour caffeine IV stuck in her arm.

So I approached Allie to see why she was sitting, because natural phenomenons such as this should be asked about. My questions were answered with,

*grunt*

” I can’t breeve right now. It hurts so bad.”

*more grunting to breathe*

We sat for a while, because I was under the seemingly false impression that perhaps her slight illness was aggravated by all of the running and playing, and probably, she just needed to rest for a while. So she rested. But after a while, she was still only going downhill-rapidly.So the pediatrician was called, and he insisted she be taken to the ER.

And off we went. The trip to hell adventure began.

Thankfully, our doctor had called the ER, and we were ushered to the back as soon as we got there. I was very grateful, because I doubt Allie would have appreciated being whisked off from her third birthday party to hang out with the six crackheads sitting in the white walled/tiled waiting room that stunk of hospital, and held silence filled with the consistent hum of the vending machines.

When Allie awoke from her sick-nap, she looked up at me and wimpered, “where–are–we? are we lost?? where’s my party?” followed by more grunting to breathe.

She cried for a while, and I cried for a while. Because hey, who wants to be at the hospital on their birthday? Let alone their third birthday? And hearing her whimper in between grunts about how she wanted a piece of birthday cake was terribly sad.

As a favor to you, I won’t go into detail about encountering the national winner of the world’s most hostile nurse award, the blood drawing, or convincing a three year old that sometimes peeing in a cup is totally logical.

“come on allie, just pee in the cup.”

“you can’t pee in a cup! you have to pee in the toilet bowl!!”

“please, just pee in the cup.”

“NO! YOU ARE NOT APPOSED TO!” (apposed=supposed.)

I couldn’t argue with her, because we both knew that she was right, though she did eventually pee in the cup. I can’t remember how expensive my bribing techniques became, but I’m not above bribery when healthy is involved.

After a few breathing treatments and a bundle of prescriptions, we were dismissed.

Then, what should have been a glorious release was marred a bit after Adam went to get the car, and it refused to start. Someone who is not familiar with driving my car, I won’t mention Adam’s name, had accidentally turned the lights off of the automatic setting and onto a setting that I will call ‘on constantly’ since I have no idea what it’s real name is.Anyway, blame placement was not the problem here, but the additional time at the hospital on Allie’s third birthday was.

I don’t have a nice ending to tie this all together, because I am still tired. But know that we did eventually make it home, where we all crawled into bed and called it a night.

Warning: This post is laced with anger, curse words, and insults.  Read at your own risk.  

A while back, a decision was made about Allie’s upcoming third birthday party. (Stay tuned, I promise this post is way more important than balloons and cake.) You see, Allie has more toys than she could ever handle, way more. As the only only grandchild on both sides, this problem will not stop any time soon. So for Allie’s birthday, we decided that at her party we should request that if the guests felt they needed to bring a gift, in lieu of the gift they should donate whatever monetary amount they were going to spend on a gift to one of various causes/charities.

This idea seemed perfect to me. Allie isn’t in need of any gifts that she can’t be provided with, and it only made sense that if people want to give her something–perhaps they should give this something to somebody who needs it.

(bare with me. i’ll get there eventually.)

You see this idea came up because my little girl is very charismatic, and when she told people she wanted a baby doll for Christmas…we received 18 of them. 15 of which we donated to a toy drive and three she kept. This is just one example of her magnetism. While I understand the need to feed into her cuteness, I cannot condone this kind of thing. Particularly, when we have family out the wazzoo and they are gift giving fools. (I’ll admit this is nice. I’m not totally bagging on it.)

Honestly, we debated for a while over the decision. I even debated over posting about the decision. I never wanted to come across as snubbing people’s gifts or falling into the category of what my grandma would’ve called highfalutin’. But when push comes to shove, that kid needs another Barbie doll like I need another damn hole in my head. And to me, it is ridiculous to spend money on toys for a child who does not need them, when the money can be spent on people that do need it.

So I mailed out the invitations with a small insert. (Note: I would never have put the insert in, if it wasn’t for the fact that most people go to parties armed with gifts. I would never flat-out demand one.) The insert simply mentioned that gifts were not necessary, just the presence of the guest. Then, it went on to detail that if they felt compelled to bring a gift, they should instead donate the money to one of the causes listed below. I also added that if they did not want to mail it in themselves, they could write a check to their choice, and I would mail it.

Possible Causes:
Children’s Miracle Network
Shriner’s Hospital for Children
Make A Wish Foundation
Autism Research and Awareness
Ronald McDonald House Charities

Wouldn’t you know that within a few days of mailing the invitation, people were abuzz about it. I had a few phone calls from folks who thought that this was a fabulous idea. A few.

Of course, there were some who thought that this insert was a small act of birthday party terrorism. Because how dare I ask them to not give my child another pair of plastic high heels and instead request they donate their money with children with Cancer.

How fucking selfish of me.

Or the best was that it’s “a shame I’m not letting my child play with toys and receive gifts”. Well, she is getting gifts, and she will be playing with toys. And the only thing that is a fucking shame is the fact that I have to put up with this sort of bullshit from people. At this point, I sort of sick that I have to coexist with some so small of mind and heart.

Another wonderful quote was that I should, “let Allie make her own decision about her birthday party”. Well hell, she’s nearly three years old. She said she just wanted people to come and play. That’s what they’re going to do. It’s at a bounce house. She loves it. She’s (almost) three.

Heaven forbid, a three year old not get to make every single decision about her birthday party. I mean, if that happened, half of us parents would be on the damn moon lighting birthday candles while singing happy birthday while Hannah freakin’ Montana performed a concert in the background, and Mickey Mouse did cartwheels.

(Note to self: calm down.)

Honestly, I had the foresight to see that this could possibly cause a problem for someone. I was hoping it wouldn’t though, because if someone had asked me to do this…I would be thrilled.

But I didn’t really think anyone would get this worked up over being asked to donate money to Autism Research instead of giving my daughter a slutty Bratz doll donned in hooker clothes looking like she was ready to go for a ride.

Where were my priorities?

Sometimes, people just make me sick. Not you guys, you’re fabulous. But some of these other people walking around on this planet, they are tools of the worst design.

A couple of weeks ago my beloved blackberry decided to stop working. Following it’s spontaneous hiatus, I also misplaced the phone. I hate to admit when I adore material items. I’m serious. Materialism is so not what I am selling here. (Not that I’m selling anything, but you get my drift. or do you?)

It makes me feel all base and nasty inside. But really, I loved that phone. I tried not to like it.

I really did.

In the end, it won me over–which I suppose doesn’t matter because it is missing in action.

When I lost the phone, my SIM card was also gone. This means that every phone number I had in my address book was also gone. I wasn’t upset over the loss of the phone numbers  that I  actually call, because there are very few.  However, I was  mad over losing the numbers of all of the numbers for which I need to NOT answer the phone.

I know this sounds crazy. But losing all of the do not answer phone numbers in your phone is a BIG DEAL. Am I the only person that stores the numbers of annoying people as ‘DO NOT ANSWER!!!@#$”? Tell me I’m not the only person who thinks this is a big deal.

Because to me, when I have to now answer calls from the likes of 80’s Lady and other idiots of the like due to having to recensor my calls, I get so pissed.

Either way, I have a new phone again. I will be all dirty again and admit that it is a new version of the blackberry. I will also pretend I hate it.

***PS. I’m sorry for this entry. I’m not sure why I feel compelled to blog about this subject. I realize it’s sort of stupid. But it’d been one of those days. And seriously, you have got to try out storing numbers as ‘DO NOT ANSWER’. **

There are several  raging, rant filled roads that I could take as far as cars, driving, and traffic go. However, my annoyance is not always with the driving capacity of the person behind the wheel. In fact, often it’s due to the person’s exterior car decor.

That’s right, folks.

You see, I live in what most consider the South. And in the South, bumper stickers are the least of the problem.

In fact, while speeding leisurely gunning it down the road I was greeted with the sloppy sight of imitation male genitalia hanging from the back of the pick-up truck in front of me.

Right again, imitation genitalia.

Just when you think driving could not get any worse, some idiot with dangling plastic male privates pulls up in front of you. It was as if it was his job to ensure everyone had seen the grossest part of the male anatomy.

Seriously. Rubber balls adorning a the hitch of a truck. I’ve officially seen it all.

PS. Someone is trying to get them banned in Virginia.