I dare you to correct her. Believe me, G has tried.
At least it seems she has finally comes to terms with not getting an iPad. Sort of.
.jpg)
Showing posts with label Consumerism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Consumerism. Show all posts
Sunday, December 15, 2013
All Olive Wants for Christmas
"Mom! I got to tell Santa two things I want for Christmas! Zoomer and a Kindle Fire HD Does It!"
I dare you to correct her. Believe me, G has tried.
At least it seems she has finally comes to terms with not getting an iPad. Sort of.
.jpg)
I dare you to correct her. Believe me, G has tried.
At least it seems she has finally comes to terms with not getting an iPad. Sort of.
Thursday, September 01, 2011
Friday, April 16, 2010
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Leaving Beta, Going Live
Without really intending to, I started a teeny, tiny side business with my sewing. I did a few craft fairs, completed a few custom orders, and figured out pretty quickly exactly where I want to be, which is....really, really, no, really part-time. All of the fun, none of the pressure. I sew what I want when I want. I have an excuse to buy fabric. Maybe if I'm lucky random strangers continue to occasionally give me money. A creative feast or famine! Just like this blog, actually.
Ta da! I have an empty Etsy store and a new craft blog, Modern Olive.
I think I'm more of a show girl, especially since I have a terrific girlfriend I show with. We split the cost, catch up on gossip, giggle, and get our craft thang on. The Etsy market seems so hopelessly oversaturated that I expect nothing, but with only 20 cent listing fees, why not?
Oh, Etsy! Just the other day I was thinking how unique this dress is, I mean the fabric was discontinued long ago and only one Etsy seller even has it, when I accidentally stumbled upon its big sister. WTF?
So I've come to the conclusion that I've never, ever had a unique idea, but I can still have a new blog. And maybe an empty Etsy store, too.
Ta da! I have an empty Etsy store and a new craft blog, Modern Olive.
I think I'm more of a show girl, especially since I have a terrific girlfriend I show with. We split the cost, catch up on gossip, giggle, and get our craft thang on. The Etsy market seems so hopelessly oversaturated that I expect nothing, but with only 20 cent listing fees, why not?
Oh, Etsy! Just the other day I was thinking how unique this dress is, I mean the fabric was discontinued long ago and only one Etsy seller even has it, when I accidentally stumbled upon its big sister. WTF?
So I've come to the conclusion that I've never, ever had a unique idea, but I can still have a new blog. And maybe an empty Etsy store, too.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Predatory Lending Hits Home
Here are a few words I never imagined stringing together: MY FIVE YEAR OLD NEEDS A BAILOUT.
We get a "final notice" from the school breakfast/lunch program today. Funny, I don't remember seeing a first notice. Seems the Cracker, who, by the way, has breakfast at home every day and takes a sack lunch every day has ***unpaid*** breakfast bills.
It's gotta be a mistake. Right?
"Have you been having a second breakfast at school?"
Mumblemumblemumble.
"What?"
"Nothing." Looks at his feet.
Let me try this again.
Excitedly, "So whadya have?"
"Oh! It's great! They always have toast, and oatmeal...one time we even had pancakes!"
"How did you pay for it?"
"Well, I didn't have any money soooooo Gaige taught me how to charge it."
Excuse for a moment while I choke.
Charge? It?
Face drops, guilt-ridden. "But they don't let me anymore, because I didn't pay my bill."
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
Some details:
He knows now that it was wrong, and he feels bad.
From what I know, it isn't the school directly, but a private contractor that runs the meal programs.
But then again, we've never used these programs before, so what the fuck do I know.
It's definitely breakfast, not lunch. He's not pitching his lunch and playing if you don't give me school lunch I won't eat today.
What if he had food allergies? Like eggs or something? Dairy? Gluten? Wheat?
When this is happening is a mystery to us. He gets on the bus at 8:41. The bus arrives at 8:50. Kindergartners are escorted off by their teachers, who then take them to line up and enter the school no later than 8:55. School officially begins at 9. So...? We'd always assume the breakfast program took place during before care hours, you know, the before school child care program for kids whose parents work. I don't work. But again, what the fuck do I know? Apparently, not a whole lot.
Yes, I am PMSing right now. Thanks for noticing. I am so friggin bloated.
The bottom line: We, his parents, did not authorize it.
I should add right here that we live a cash only lifestyle and have since 2003. We do not charge anything, not for the miles, not for the rewards, not for the cash back. Nothing. Airplane tickets and other higher priced items go on our debit cards. We have extra cash in our easy to get to savings for emergencies. We do not even have charge cards in our names, initially because once paid off we didn't want to be tempted, but now because we haven't found a reason for needing them.
The grand damage is a whopping $3.15, 3 meals at $1.05 a piece. But never before has there been so much principle involved! Principle people!
You can bet your sweet ass I'm going to the school about this. Assuming it is an independent contractor and not his school that would take a loss, the Cracker can fork over $3.15 in previously owned Matchbox cars. You go around allowing kindergartners to open a new charge account without their parent's permission and I think you deserve to be burned.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!
We get a "final notice" from the school breakfast/lunch program today. Funny, I don't remember seeing a first notice. Seems the Cracker, who, by the way, has breakfast at home every day and takes a sack lunch every day has ***unpaid*** breakfast bills.
It's gotta be a mistake. Right?
"Have you been having a second breakfast at school?"
Mumblemumblemumble.
"What?"
"Nothing." Looks at his feet.
Let me try this again.
Excitedly, "So whadya have?"
"Oh! It's great! They always have toast, and oatmeal...one time we even had pancakes!"
"How did you pay for it?"
"Well, I didn't have any money soooooo Gaige taught me how to charge it."
Excuse for a moment while I choke.
Charge? It?
Face drops, guilt-ridden. "But they don't let me anymore, because I didn't pay my bill."
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
Some details:
He knows now that it was wrong, and he feels bad.
From what I know, it isn't the school directly, but a private contractor that runs the meal programs.
But then again, we've never used these programs before, so what the fuck do I know.
It's definitely breakfast, not lunch. He's not pitching his lunch and playing if you don't give me school lunch I won't eat today.
What if he had food allergies? Like eggs or something? Dairy? Gluten? Wheat?
When this is happening is a mystery to us. He gets on the bus at 8:41. The bus arrives at 8:50. Kindergartners are escorted off by their teachers, who then take them to line up and enter the school no later than 8:55. School officially begins at 9. So...? We'd always assume the breakfast program took place during before care hours, you know, the before school child care program for kids whose parents work. I don't work. But again, what the fuck do I know? Apparently, not a whole lot.
Yes, I am PMSing right now. Thanks for noticing. I am so friggin bloated.
The bottom line: We, his parents, did not authorize it.
I should add right here that we live a cash only lifestyle and have since 2003. We do not charge anything, not for the miles, not for the rewards, not for the cash back. Nothing. Airplane tickets and other higher priced items go on our debit cards. We have extra cash in our easy to get to savings for emergencies. We do not even have charge cards in our names, initially because once paid off we didn't want to be tempted, but now because we haven't found a reason for needing them.
The grand damage is a whopping $3.15, 3 meals at $1.05 a piece. But never before has there been so much principle involved! Principle people!
You can bet your sweet ass I'm going to the school about this. Assuming it is an independent contractor and not his school that would take a loss, the Cracker can fork over $3.15 in previously owned Matchbox cars. You go around allowing kindergartners to open a new charge account without their parent's permission and I think you deserve to be burned.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Monday, November 24, 2008
F is For...
Since August I have baked, from scratch, and sent in no less than 5 separate recipes on 5 separate occasions. I could have purchased Walmart bakery crap like the majority of the other parents, but I didn't. Nope, not once. And I even liked doing it.
Last week the Cracker's teacher sent home a family project: "prepare a recipe of bread" that represents your culture to be sent in and shared with the class Turkey Day style. (The kids are making butter -- I sent it heavy whipping cream for that already.) Discuss with your student ahead of time why this bread is important to your heritage, do a little write-up, and make sure your student is prepared to present it to the class.
I'm sorry, but did you just ask me to bake bread? Do you know how much I find active dry yeast a royal pain in the ass? Culture? Heritage? The same week as Thanksgiving? Seriously?
My mom suggested Swedish Limpa bread, which I have made, but it's a Biotch.
My dad suggested I go out and buy a loaf of Wonder Bread. Because, yeah, we're white. (Tee hee hee! Dad!)
Have I mentioned the altitude? That I live a mile above sea level and I assume that all sea-level recipes will fail the first time around because they always do? That standard tweaks need recipe specific tweaking? That every Texan who has ever visited the metro area has a "I went to New Mexico and got altitude sickness from hiking a quarter mile" story? That edible won't happen on the first try? That I'd have to try, like, more than once?
Someone finally suggested (San Francisco) Sourdough: I think it was J, and I think he was joking, but I took it and ran. I ran all the way to the store and bought a loaf of not San Francisco, not generic either, but "Swiss" Sourdough, whatever the fuck that is, sliced for sandwiches by a machine and obviously not homemade.
Now for the write-up = J's problem. He has the Cracker write "Sourdough bread is from San Francisco and so is my mom." Done! J doesn't even remind him to write his name. Grrrr. So I help add that it makes us think of fog and goes nicely with clam chowder, blah blah blah.
F is for FAIL.
Proof I bake! (And a super cute picture of O-Mo as well.)
Last week the Cracker's teacher sent home a family project: "prepare a recipe of bread" that represents your culture to be sent in and shared with the class Turkey Day style. (The kids are making butter -- I sent it heavy whipping cream for that already.) Discuss with your student ahead of time why this bread is important to your heritage, do a little write-up, and make sure your student is prepared to present it to the class.
I'm sorry, but did you just ask me to bake bread? Do you know how much I find active dry yeast a royal pain in the ass? Culture? Heritage? The same week as Thanksgiving? Seriously?
My mom suggested Swedish Limpa bread, which I have made, but it's a Biotch.
My dad suggested I go out and buy a loaf of Wonder Bread. Because, yeah, we're white. (Tee hee hee! Dad!)
Have I mentioned the altitude? That I live a mile above sea level and I assume that all sea-level recipes will fail the first time around because they always do? That standard tweaks need recipe specific tweaking? That every Texan who has ever visited the metro area has a "I went to New Mexico and got altitude sickness from hiking a quarter mile" story? That edible won't happen on the first try? That I'd have to try, like, more than once?
Someone finally suggested (San Francisco) Sourdough: I think it was J, and I think he was joking, but I took it and ran. I ran all the way to the store and bought a loaf of not San Francisco, not generic either, but "Swiss" Sourdough, whatever the fuck that is, sliced for sandwiches by a machine and obviously not homemade.
Now for the write-up = J's problem. He has the Cracker write "Sourdough bread is from San Francisco and so is my mom." Done! J doesn't even remind him to write his name. Grrrr. So I help add that it makes us think of fog and goes nicely with clam chowder, blah blah blah.
F is for FAIL.
Proof I bake! (And a super cute picture of O-Mo as well.)
Monday, November 17, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
How I Get My Kicks
Me, holding up a shipping box that would fit my very large head if it were ever to become detached from my body: "Guess what's in here!"
"What?"
"My DivaCup™! Size 2! Because I'm not only not under 30, but I've birthed you some big-headed babies!"
(Anyone else wondering about the circumference difference?*)
(The box also had these, and this in purple, and finally this, which is what I came for because everyone else is out of ribbit. Must have another ribbit. And maybe a pair of Zutano pants for O in red bird print. I've always been a sucker for birds. Sadly this is what I got for myself with my birthday money, and yes, my birthday is still weeks away, but my mom is weird. And I'm actually going to spend a portion of it this year instead of saving it all, because being in trouble for saving money meant to be blown sucks.)
Anywho, ta da the DivaCup™, a surprisingly thick silicone funnel made in Canada, eh, with gradations to measure your flow in ounces AND milliliters. Jackpoooooot! Also included: a kicky DivaCup™ lapel pin, score, and a purple DivaCup™ pouch that I assume is for storage rather than transport as it is not...um...liquid proof. Yeehaw!
*God bless the internet. A size 1 is 42mm wide vs 45mm, though according to Wikipedia, other brands vary by as much as six gaping millimeters! Crikey!
"What?"
"My DivaCup™! Size 2! Because I'm not only not under 30, but I've birthed you some big-headed babies!"
(Anyone else wondering about the circumference difference?*)
(The box also had these, and this in purple, and finally this, which is what I came for because everyone else is out of ribbit. Must have another ribbit. And maybe a pair of Zutano pants for O in red bird print. I've always been a sucker for birds. Sadly this is what I got for myself with my birthday money, and yes, my birthday is still weeks away, but my mom is weird. And I'm actually going to spend a portion of it this year instead of saving it all, because being in trouble for saving money meant to be blown sucks.)
Anywho, ta da the DivaCup™, a surprisingly thick silicone funnel made in Canada, eh, with gradations to measure your flow in ounces AND milliliters. Jackpoooooot! Also included: a kicky DivaCup™ lapel pin, score, and a purple DivaCup™ pouch that I assume is for storage rather than transport as it is not...um...liquid proof. Yeehaw!
*God bless the internet. A size 1 is 42mm wide vs 45mm, though according to Wikipedia, other brands vary by as much as six gaping millimeters! Crikey!
Thursday, October 16, 2008
The One About My Boobs
I am not a tall woman. I am also not a toothpick. A package of toothpicks? Yes. A single toothpick? Nooo.
What I'm trying to say is that I am not a six foot tall woman who weighs 110 bitching that a size x-small is too short in the torso; I am a 5 foot 6 woman who is not going to tell you her weight but will admit to being a size large, sometimes x-large, and when they fuck with the sizes to make you feel smaller than you actually are, a medium.
Are we clear?
Ahhh...fall! Fall is my favoritest season of all, not only because of the pretty colors, and the pumpkins, and apples and their by-products, and the pumpkins, and the crisp air, and the pumpkins, but because I can begin to hide my body in layers if I so choose. You know, it's not that I'm carrying around a more than a few extra pounds of people, it's the fabric yo! And maybe, just maybe, after some Jazzercise and a little dieting I could emerge in the spring from my black fleece cocoon all skinny and shit.
So I totally splurged on this cute jacket back in early August when it was still 85 degrees that was totally admittedly frivolous because I thought it was sassy and maybe even stylish and it gave me hope that fall was really coming because cold weather clothes had been in the stores here in the desert since June and that this amazing jacket might distract from my ill-fitting frumpy mom jeans and make me feel sexy because it fit ever so nicely over my boobs and elegantly and deceptively made it look like I was wearing a size large not because of my gut flub but because my boobs are bigger than yours and it was so interestingly stylish that you couldn't help but notice it and not my ass and not my thighs and it's brown and I'm trying to infuse some color into my black, white, and gray wardrobe and hot damn was I really excited about this jacket. Now fast forward through the conventions and Sarah Palin and debates and the freakiskly late fall weather finally arrives and I rip off the tags which I had left on just in case I got flu and lost 15 pounds and then kept it off or because the flu had killed me and J could return it for cash and buy formula and have a pizza delivered because he would have no use for a women's sassy brown jacket in size large because he's been such a good husband that I wish for him in such a scenario a new wife two-thirds of my current age and half my current body weight without cellulite that loves to swallow and has big nonleaky boobs. I threw those tags in the trash and washed my sassy jacket which you know means it's not that sassy or that stylish because it isn't dry clean only and then it wasn't returnable because it had been washed and I put it on and fuckity fuck fuck fuck gotcha because if you thought Tina Fey's Palin impression was spot on you haven't seen yet seen her do it in my sassy jacket. (I would send it to her but she's probably a small.) So I immediately started whining to J who assured me that it yes he remembered the jacket and no it wasn't a Sarah Palin jacket and that a jacket is just a jacket which meant jack shit since he is even more clueless about fashion than I am but only because he is a boy. Determined to continue the funk, I went and put it on. "See?" Bahahaha, yes it is a Sarah Palin jacket! OMG! It totally is! You're not going to wear that are you???
This is actually not the story I meant to tell, but it naturally found it's way here, and as you can see it needed to be told.
Going back...me, anxiously awaiting cooler weather because my arm fat looks better when my tank top is covered by sleeves. However, I had conveniently forgotten that last fall I was preggers, and the fall before that I was in a short lived lowish BMI phase. (I will always have hips, thighs and ass at any weight. Yeah me!) So I don't have any clothes that fit. Throw another "fuck" on the pile.
So I try shopping. Because finding pants isn't hard enough, finding tops is even harder. If it fits the breast feeding boobs and doesn't cling like saran wrap to my muffin then the shoulders are about a gazillion times too big and would also fit a 300 pound man. It's hard not to feel like the most disproportioned woman in the world.
My problems became intensified when I went shopping for an off-the-rack (stunned, I know!) and very specific Halloween costume. In retrospect, sewing one would have been easier, even though I'm quite busy these days screening my MIL, writing check after check after check to the PTO instead of selling breakfast burritos at the ass crack of dawn, teething an infant, schlepping to Saturday soccer, Tuesday/Thursday/Saturday swimming, Wednesday hockey, tearing my brain and the house apart looking for kindergarten-worthy sharing that begins with the letter X (seriously, 3rd week! obviously retaliation for 1 week one: the letter O producing a classroom full of Optimi Prime, and week two: the letter M is for Megatron!), running into town to Costco to buy fully cooked just reheat meals that I don't even try to pass off as my own anymore because my husband is just glad that there's food period, Facebook time suckage (which I know I'm supposed to hate and throw virtual tomatoes at since you are not allowed to post breastfeeding pictures for random people you went to high school with, but whatever, honestly I'm okay with that because being friends and exchanging pleasant twitter commentary and (Lil) Green Patch requests with someone I had sex with pre-husband when I was young, horny, experimenty, and a 32A and being all mature about it is enough for me), scrubbing cat barf stains off the carpet because you know how fish-shaped red/yellow/brown dyed food is all they'll eat... Seriously, taking up learning to sew for a Halloween costume would have been totally easy.
Here we go again, this time with the Halloween costumes, with my long ass torso trying to fit a poorly made one piece. And again, my boobs are always in the wrong place. But I've found a costume, and it's not perfect, but I know I will not do better, and the price, while outrageous, is less outrageous as everything else. So I pivot left, and I pivot right, and I'm sucking it in, hoping that somehow I can make it work.
And then my light bulb moment...
I reach in from the top, grab a boob, lift, pull top of dress down, and release. Repeat.
And wouldn't ya know, it's not that I have a long, hard to fit torso, it's that I have sad, super saggy boobs.
I'm guessing that if I go out and buy, like, a bra that it might be easier to find tops. Two years and counting a breastfeeding leads me to believe that the damage is irreversible.
Yeah, I don't feel so much better now.
What I'm trying to say is that I am not a six foot tall woman who weighs 110 bitching that a size x-small is too short in the torso; I am a 5 foot 6 woman who is not going to tell you her weight but will admit to being a size large, sometimes x-large, and when they fuck with the sizes to make you feel smaller than you actually are, a medium.
Are we clear?
Ahhh...fall! Fall is my favoritest season of all, not only because of the pretty colors, and the pumpkins, and apples and their by-products, and the pumpkins, and the crisp air, and the pumpkins, but because I can begin to hide my body in layers if I so choose. You know, it's not that I'm carrying around a more than a few extra pounds of people, it's the fabric yo! And maybe, just maybe, after some Jazzercise and a little dieting I could emerge in the spring from my black fleece cocoon all skinny and shit.
So I totally splurged on this cute jacket back in early August when it was still 85 degrees that was totally admittedly frivolous because I thought it was sassy and maybe even stylish and it gave me hope that fall was really coming because cold weather clothes had been in the stores here in the desert since June and that this amazing jacket might distract from my ill-fitting frumpy mom jeans and make me feel sexy because it fit ever so nicely over my boobs and elegantly and deceptively made it look like I was wearing a size large not because of my gut flub but because my boobs are bigger than yours and it was so interestingly stylish that you couldn't help but notice it and not my ass and not my thighs and it's brown and I'm trying to infuse some color into my black, white, and gray wardrobe and hot damn was I really excited about this jacket. Now fast forward through the conventions and Sarah Palin and debates and the freakiskly late fall weather finally arrives and I rip off the tags which I had left on just in case I got flu and lost 15 pounds and then kept it off or because the flu had killed me and J could return it for cash and buy formula and have a pizza delivered because he would have no use for a women's sassy brown jacket in size large because he's been such a good husband that I wish for him in such a scenario a new wife two-thirds of my current age and half my current body weight without cellulite that loves to swallow and has big nonleaky boobs. I threw those tags in the trash and washed my sassy jacket which you know means it's not that sassy or that stylish because it isn't dry clean only and then it wasn't returnable because it had been washed and I put it on and fuckity fuck fuck fuck gotcha because if you thought Tina Fey's Palin impression was spot on you haven't seen yet seen her do it in my sassy jacket. (I would send it to her but she's probably a small.) So I immediately started whining to J who assured me that it yes he remembered the jacket and no it wasn't a Sarah Palin jacket and that a jacket is just a jacket which meant jack shit since he is even more clueless about fashion than I am but only because he is a boy. Determined to continue the funk, I went and put it on. "See?" Bahahaha, yes it is a Sarah Palin jacket! OMG! It totally is! You're not going to wear that are you???
This is actually not the story I meant to tell, but it naturally found it's way here, and as you can see it needed to be told.
Going back...me, anxiously awaiting cooler weather because my arm fat looks better when my tank top is covered by sleeves. However, I had conveniently forgotten that last fall I was preggers, and the fall before that I was in a short lived lowish BMI phase. (I will always have hips, thighs and ass at any weight. Yeah me!) So I don't have any clothes that fit. Throw another "fuck" on the pile.
So I try shopping. Because finding pants isn't hard enough, finding tops is even harder. If it fits the breast feeding boobs and doesn't cling like saran wrap to my muffin then the shoulders are about a gazillion times too big and would also fit a 300 pound man. It's hard not to feel like the most disproportioned woman in the world.
My problems became intensified when I went shopping for an off-the-rack (stunned, I know!) and very specific Halloween costume. In retrospect, sewing one would have been easier, even though I'm quite busy these days screening my MIL, writing check after check after check to the PTO instead of selling breakfast burritos at the ass crack of dawn, teething an infant, schlepping to Saturday soccer, Tuesday/Thursday/Saturday swimming, Wednesday hockey, tearing my brain and the house apart looking for kindergarten-worthy sharing that begins with the letter X (seriously, 3rd week! obviously retaliation for 1 week one: the letter O producing a classroom full of Optimi Prime, and week two: the letter M is for Megatron!), running into town to Costco to buy fully cooked just reheat meals that I don't even try to pass off as my own anymore because my husband is just glad that there's food period, Facebook time suckage (which I know I'm supposed to hate and throw virtual tomatoes at since you are not allowed to post breastfeeding pictures for random people you went to high school with, but whatever, honestly I'm okay with that because being friends and exchanging pleasant twitter commentary and (Lil) Green Patch requests with someone I had sex with pre-husband when I was young, horny, experimenty, and a 32A and being all mature about it is enough for me), scrubbing cat barf stains off the carpet because you know how fish-shaped red/yellow/brown dyed food is all they'll eat... Seriously, taking up learning to sew for a Halloween costume would have been totally easy.
Here we go again, this time with the Halloween costumes, with my long ass torso trying to fit a poorly made one piece. And again, my boobs are always in the wrong place. But I've found a costume, and it's not perfect, but I know I will not do better, and the price, while outrageous, is less outrageous as everything else. So I pivot left, and I pivot right, and I'm sucking it in, hoping that somehow I can make it work.
And then my light bulb moment...
I reach in from the top, grab a boob, lift, pull top of dress down, and release. Repeat.
And wouldn't ya know, it's not that I have a long, hard to fit torso, it's that I have sad, super saggy boobs.
I'm guessing that if I go out and buy, like, a bra that it might be easier to find tops. Two years and counting a breastfeeding leads me to believe that the damage is irreversible.
Yeah, I don't feel so much better now.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Harder Than You'd Think
I am looking for a Heidi costume that does not include the words ho, wench, sexy, or Playboy-licensed in it's description.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Shoe Whore
Just in case you were wondering, I still really like ugly shoes, and I am in desperate need of new shoes, since my silly feet grew even bigger with Ollie. Seriously, it's not that I want shoes, I need shoes. Ask my husband.
(Okay, yeah don't.)
I wasn't in any hurry, but then there was this 20% coupon with free shipping, including free return shipping, and I accidentally stumbled upon these and I had to go to another site to get my size so there wasn't any coupon and they are back ordered but promised they will send them right off to me as soon as they get them and OMG I will die if they renege because I simply cannot live without these shoes shoes.
Voilà Converse (PRODUCT) RED Chuck Taylor® All Star® Lil' RED Riding Hood
Seriously...little orgasm. The only thing that could make them even better is if they were tax deductible, but the Converse site volunteers that they are not. (Even though I know better the thought had crossed my mind for a split second.)
Oh? Those aren't ugly? Just strange? Maybe even kinda cute? (I know! They're seriously just plain awesome, right?)
Then what about these? They're made in Sweden (sweet!) and we love apples and there was that darn 20% off coupon and I've been looking for the right whimsical clogs ever since I missed out on the Dansko Dalmatians and my son is going to kindergarten on Monday and yes I seriously ordered these.
And our 11th wedding anniversary is coming up in September and I'm pretty sure that the traditional gift is shoes so if you know of any others you think I might need please do drop me a line.
So. Excited.
(Okay, yeah don't.)
I wasn't in any hurry, but then there was this 20% coupon with free shipping, including free return shipping, and I accidentally stumbled upon these and I had to go to another site to get my size so there wasn't any coupon and they are back ordered but promised they will send them right off to me as soon as they get them and OMG I will die if they renege because I simply cannot live without these shoes shoes.
Voilà Converse (PRODUCT) RED Chuck Taylor® All Star® Lil' RED Riding Hood
Seriously...little orgasm. The only thing that could make them even better is if they were tax deductible, but the Converse site volunteers that they are not. (Even though I know better the thought had crossed my mind for a split second.)
Oh? Those aren't ugly? Just strange? Maybe even kinda cute? (I know! They're seriously just plain awesome, right?)
Then what about these? They're made in Sweden (sweet!) and we love apples and there was that darn 20% off coupon and I've been looking for the right whimsical clogs ever since I missed out on the Dansko Dalmatians and my son is going to kindergarten on Monday and yes I seriously ordered these.
And our 11th wedding anniversary is coming up in September and I'm pretty sure that the traditional gift is shoes so if you know of any others you think I might need please do drop me a line.
So. Excited.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Happy Holidays
The Cracker's final (updated) and sent to Santa list for 2007:
1. Barricade (Check!)
2. Pat Pat Rocket (It's a good thing he's got grandparents because, well, it's a $40 Target Exclusive HTF POS that I wouldn't buy. Check.)
3. A drum stick (And then J talks me into *see below)
4. Marble Mania (Check! You gotta love grandparents)
5. Geo Trax (The You-Can't-Have-Everything-And-We-Already-Have-Thomas lesson)
*********************************************************
1. Barricade (Check!)
2. Pat Pat Rocket (It's a good thing he's got grandparents because, well, it's a $40 Target Exclusive HTF POS that I wouldn't buy. Check.)
3. A drum stick (And then J talks me into *see below)
4. Marble Mania (Check! You gotta love grandparents)
5. Geo Trax (The You-Can't-Have-Everything-And-We-Already-Have-Thomas lesson)
*********************************************************
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Five shopping months til Christmas
...and we're being reminded daily of what he wants from Santa.
Oh God.
The list so far:
A red wheelbarrow with blue wheels.
(Uhh...has anyone seen this particular color combo?)
A toy combine with crawler tracks, John Deere or Caterpillar brand.
Another toy motor grader, but this time smaller so as to match the scale of his other construction and farm vehicles.
A Caterpillar movie.
(But maybe I can get away with this if it's still on the list at Christmastime)
A John Deere Gator or Buck with dumper, child sized for his driving pleasure.
(My parents and I actually heavily researched this idea last year, but he was already way too tall for the less expensive 2-4 year old one.)
(And it was a very poorly made piece of crap.)
(And I prefer ride-ons where they have to work for it, not just run off batteries.)
An "actual" (his word for NOT A TOY) excavator with crawler tracks, also John Deere or Caterpillar brand.
(So he can help us finish the back yard.)
A pink dump truck for Baby Elephant, because she's a girl.
(BE has replaced Not Bob as best bed friend.)
A John Deere Gator for J, so he'll help Mommy in the yard.
(No comment.)
At least he's finally stopped asking for a dog.
Oh God.
The list so far:
A red wheelbarrow with blue wheels.
(Uhh...has anyone seen this particular color combo?)
A toy combine with crawler tracks, John Deere or Caterpillar brand.
Another toy motor grader, but this time smaller so as to match the scale of his other construction and farm vehicles.
A Caterpillar movie.
(But maybe I can get away with this if it's still on the list at Christmastime)
A John Deere Gator or Buck with dumper, child sized for his driving pleasure.
(My parents and I actually heavily researched this idea last year, but he was already way too tall for the less expensive 2-4 year old one.)
(And it was a very poorly made piece of crap.)
(And I prefer ride-ons where they have to work for it, not just run off batteries.)
An "actual" (his word for NOT A TOY) excavator with crawler tracks, also John Deere or Caterpillar brand.
(So he can help us finish the back yard.)
A pink dump truck for Baby Elephant, because she's a girl.
(BE has replaced Not Bob as best bed friend.)
A John Deere Gator for J, so he'll help Mommy in the yard.
(No comment.)
At least he's finally stopped asking for a dog.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Oh the Horror!
Want to incite a riot? Let your 2 year old have a pacifier. Even sweet little old ladies will try to kick your ass.
BTDT.
When you're a first time parent, and then you don't have a second child in the socially acceptable amount of time, the number of crazy things with your firstborn that you most likely wouldn't do again the next go 'round increases exponentially. I'm an only child myself, so I get it.
Guilty.
(And let me just take this opportunity to thank all the people over the years who've told me that for an only I am not a freak like the all the rest. Yeah...uh...thanks.)
Here's to hoping the damage isn't permanent.
So here are a few admissions (and justifications):
At 4 years, 1 month and 2 weeks he still eats Yo Baby because he claims to hate all other yogurt. (He can't drink cow's milk and always prefers water over soy milk.) (I actually blame our granola Pediatrician on this one because she insisted that we not introduce other types of milk until he stopped breastfeeding at 19 months.) (And it's not because he's drinking juice, which remains high on his list of the world's evils.)
He still takes the majority of his meals at home in his high chair. (He can't get up while eating, which makes eating faster and cleaning easier.) (And he hasn't used a high chair in a restaurant since he was 2.)
We put on all shoes that aren't slip-ons.
He still wears a diaper at night to catch the occasional accident. (Cheaper than Pull-ups and Overnights.)
He still sits happily in a stroller. (BUT it's a jogger, and we only use it because A) we like to hike and he's too heavy for the backpack and B) after 2 miles under his own steam forward progress comes to a standstill.)
Believe it or not, we have made some progress in the last year:
He now dresses himself.
We no longer let my parents spoon feed him.
Yes, you read that right. Well into 3 the Cracker would insist he couldn't feed himself when the my parents were around. And they'd happily sit there for hours after squabbling over who had won the honor the last time. Hands in his lap, all he had to do was open wide, chew and swallow. Even I admit it made me a little sick.
I like to tell myself it's not all bad. If you're on his top 10 list of favorite people he will ask to "cuddle" with you and his magic blankie no less than a dozen times a day. I like to think his future partner is going to thank me for that one.
Last week at preschool I was making chit chat with one of the teachers and a couple of parents (we have an above average number of metrosexual stay-at-home-dad's in our Co-op) when I stupidly volunteered that the Cracker had only recently moved out of his crib.
Insert the look of horror.
"You mean a toddler bed."
"No, we never converted it. And he slept so well we figured why mess with a good thing?"
"Weren't you worried he'd hurt himself climbing out in the middle of the night?"
"He never climbed out. He climbed in, but never out."
Okay, so maybe we are turning him into a freak.
I had been telling myself we'd convert the crib to a toddler bed by his 4th birthday at the latest, but we were 2 months away and had yet to make a move.
This time the universe intervened.
I was wandering through Costco with my parents when we came across my deal of the year: the last unopened nearly identical evil twin of the Pottery Barn Boat Bed on Costco clearance and priced to move for $199. Yes, the 9 foot long mostly wooden complete with trundle whose coordinating nightstand alone is $299 + shipping + tax. (Ours is the Bayside Furnishings La Jolla Boat Bed also available at Home Depot online if you dare to compare.) And while I like name brands as much as the next gal, the fact that the base price of the PBK one was 4.9967 times more than our first car I was thrilled. G'parents bought the bed as an early birthday gift and we bought the mattress.
(Trundle doubles as storage for all those kid’s clothes we hope to use again. Oh the storage!)
If you're still shaking your head let me tell you that transitioning at 46 months was a breeze compared to stories I'd heard long ago from my colleagues. "This is your big boy bed and you will stay in it until morning" totally worked. Okay, he didn't always remain horizontal, but at least when we would peek in he was always sitting on the edge swinging his legs back and forth in a criss-cross pattern talking to imaginary seahorses.
The mornings went almost as well. We had one "Daddy why aren't you wearing any underwear in bed?" and two apparently not early enough interrupted sex sessions. (Because, of course, the week he got the bed was also the week that I was ovulating.)
On the plus side, we were able to imprison him in his high chair, slap a couple of Yo Baby's down, buying ourselves 10 more minutes of uniterrupted adult time.
Next up: wiping his own ass. With toilet paper.
BTDT.
When you're a first time parent, and then you don't have a second child in the socially acceptable amount of time, the number of crazy things with your firstborn that you most likely wouldn't do again the next go 'round increases exponentially. I'm an only child myself, so I get it.
Guilty.
(And let me just take this opportunity to thank all the people over the years who've told me that for an only I am not a freak like the all the rest. Yeah...uh...thanks.)
Here's to hoping the damage isn't permanent.
So here are a few admissions (and justifications):
At 4 years, 1 month and 2 weeks he still eats Yo Baby because he claims to hate all other yogurt. (He can't drink cow's milk and always prefers water over soy milk.) (I actually blame our granola Pediatrician on this one because she insisted that we not introduce other types of milk until he stopped breastfeeding at 19 months.) (And it's not because he's drinking juice, which remains high on his list of the world's evils.)
He still takes the majority of his meals at home in his high chair. (He can't get up while eating, which makes eating faster and cleaning easier.) (And he hasn't used a high chair in a restaurant since he was 2.)
We put on all shoes that aren't slip-ons.
He still wears a diaper at night to catch the occasional accident. (Cheaper than Pull-ups and Overnights.)
He still sits happily in a stroller. (BUT it's a jogger, and we only use it because A) we like to hike and he's too heavy for the backpack and B) after 2 miles under his own steam forward progress comes to a standstill.)
Believe it or not, we have made some progress in the last year:
He now dresses himself.
We no longer let my parents spoon feed him.
Yes, you read that right. Well into 3 the Cracker would insist he couldn't feed himself when the my parents were around. And they'd happily sit there for hours after squabbling over who had won the honor the last time. Hands in his lap, all he had to do was open wide, chew and swallow. Even I admit it made me a little sick.
I like to tell myself it's not all bad. If you're on his top 10 list of favorite people he will ask to "cuddle" with you and his magic blankie no less than a dozen times a day. I like to think his future partner is going to thank me for that one.
Last week at preschool I was making chit chat with one of the teachers and a couple of parents (we have an above average number of metrosexual stay-at-home-dad's in our Co-op) when I stupidly volunteered that the Cracker had only recently moved out of his crib.
Insert the look of horror.
"You mean a toddler bed."
"No, we never converted it. And he slept so well we figured why mess with a good thing?"
"Weren't you worried he'd hurt himself climbing out in the middle of the night?"
"He never climbed out. He climbed in, but never out."
Okay, so maybe we are turning him into a freak.
I had been telling myself we'd convert the crib to a toddler bed by his 4th birthday at the latest, but we were 2 months away and had yet to make a move.
This time the universe intervened.
I was wandering through Costco with my parents when we came across my deal of the year: the last unopened nearly identical evil twin of the Pottery Barn Boat Bed on Costco clearance and priced to move for $199. Yes, the 9 foot long mostly wooden complete with trundle whose coordinating nightstand alone is $299 + shipping + tax. (Ours is the Bayside Furnishings La Jolla Boat Bed also available at Home Depot online if you dare to compare.) And while I like name brands as much as the next gal, the fact that the base price of the PBK one was 4.9967 times more than our first car I was thrilled. G'parents bought the bed as an early birthday gift and we bought the mattress.
(Trundle doubles as storage for all those kid’s clothes we hope to use again. Oh the storage!)
If you're still shaking your head let me tell you that transitioning at 46 months was a breeze compared to stories I'd heard long ago from my colleagues. "This is your big boy bed and you will stay in it until morning" totally worked. Okay, he didn't always remain horizontal, but at least when we would peek in he was always sitting on the edge swinging his legs back and forth in a criss-cross pattern talking to imaginary seahorses.
The mornings went almost as well. We had one "Daddy why aren't you wearing any underwear in bed?" and two apparently not early enough interrupted sex sessions. (Because, of course, the week he got the bed was also the week that I was ovulating.)
On the plus side, we were able to imprison him in his high chair, slap a couple of Yo Baby's down, buying ourselves 10 more minutes of uniterrupted adult time.
Next up: wiping his own ass. With toilet paper.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
The Bestest Unsolicited Junk Mail Ever
A big thank you to my new friends at Tide/Pampers/Kandoo marketing. The illustrated frog wiping his ass is genius and a delightful treat to unexpectedly find in one's mailbox.
Reward chart and stickers? Oh how you spoil us!
There is just one minor problem: the packet came addressed to yours truly, but my dear husband is insisting on taking it to work where he plans to proudly display it in his cubicle. (Something about checking off everything but "I wiped.")
Reward chart and stickers? Oh how you spoil us!
There is just one minor problem: the packet came addressed to yours truly, but my dear husband is insisting on taking it to work where he plans to proudly display it in his cubicle. (Something about checking off everything but "I wiped.")
Thursday, January 11, 2007
I Demand the Return of My Living Room
Back in early December J and the Cracker hauled out all the Thomas crap and began construction on their biggest project ever. Over a period of weeks I watched the affected area of my living room grow. At first it was really cute to watch them, my two sons, discussing layout changes and playing trains, but as days turned into weeks it the damn thing kept spreading out and the cuteness faded long before their interest.
"Is it okay if I take this down?"
"NOOOOO!" "NO MOMMY NO!"
Arugh.
"Well, couldja kinda rework things a little, maybe move the roundhouse and the engine wash so that there's a path into the bedroom?"
"Uh, no! Do you know how long it took us to come up with this configuration?"
Sadly, I do.
(multiple nights in the preceding weeks)
"I'm going to bed, wink wink."
Picking my way around the above-mentioned obstacles I realize that my loving husband has not made a move.
"You coming?"
"I can't."
"Huh?"
"I think I may have figured out how to fix blah blah blah! You see the way it is now, blah blah blah, you get forced in this direction blah blah blah can't turn around to go back to blah. So I'm thinking that if can rework blah blah then blah blah and blah blah flow!"
(He looks up at me, big ass smile, oh so pleased with the plan.)
"Are you fucking kidding me? Sex! You'd rather play trains by yourself in the dark than have sex?"
"I'll be there in a little while."
"What you're not getting is that this is a limited time offer."
Yesterday I had one of my I've-had-it! moments and I declared (to no one other than myself) the branch lines of Sodor relocated to a more out of the way location where I will not trip over them quite so often.
Compounding my frustration is the fact that we have an actual playroom off our living room. (In the model they called it the formal dining room, but I find I love my family more when I'm not cleaning food off carpet.) When you walk into our home the first thing you see is the living room ahead of you. It isn't until you get halfway down the entry hall that you realize there is a playroom on your left as well. I like it like that: the toys are all in his reach, I can keep track of him from the LR or the kitchen, but you cannot see the chaos from the front door.
So why isn't it in the playroom? Because the configuration spans 8 feet, 2 inches by 7 feet, 1 inch.
Welcome to my nightmare.
Not even daring to take a breath I ever so carefully, section by section, begin moving the land of Sodor from one end of the living room to the other, cursing myself that I did not remember to first take a few digital pictures in case I accidentally rip it all apart and cannot figure out how to get it back together just so. Simultaneously I applaud myself for not buying more track for them at Christmas.
(Even with my 50% any one item at Michael's coupon I just could not bring myself to spend $1/inch for a few curved pieces.) (Most of our track is generic Imaginarium BOGOHO or the retired plastic yet compatible "Interactive Thomas" I bought on clearance 2 years ago at Target and later at Ross for a few pennies an inch.)
I move it to the corner recently vacated by our holiday tree. Crap, it doesn't even really fit there either. Should have measured first.
I spend the next hour wiggling it around the LR, a little to one side then the other, trying to figure out if minor adjustments will suddenly open up a fat path for foot traffic.
No.
Pissed and mentally exhausted, I get up and look around. Hmmm...maybe if I move the couch and the big chair...
Forty-five minutes and no solution later my mind yells out "WFT are you doing rearranging your living room furniture for Thomas and Friends? This is bullshit! You have totally lost your mind woman! (But, on the plus side, maybe I'll leave it this way for the night. Having the couch smack dab in front of the TV like that would give us a much clearer shot for throwing Pirate's Booty at the President during his address. Decisions, decisions...)
"Is it okay if I take this down?"
"NOOOOO!" "NO MOMMY NO!"
Arugh.
"Well, couldja kinda rework things a little, maybe move the roundhouse and the engine wash so that there's a path into the bedroom?"
"Uh, no! Do you know how long it took us to come up with this configuration?"
Sadly, I do.
(multiple nights in the preceding weeks)
"I'm going to bed, wink wink."
Picking my way around the above-mentioned obstacles I realize that my loving husband has not made a move.
"You coming?"
"I can't."
"Huh?"
"I think I may have figured out how to fix blah blah blah! You see the way it is now, blah blah blah, you get forced in this direction blah blah blah can't turn around to go back to blah. So I'm thinking that if can rework blah blah then blah blah and blah blah flow!"
(He looks up at me, big ass smile, oh so pleased with the plan.)
"Are you fucking kidding me? Sex! You'd rather play trains by yourself in the dark than have sex?"
"I'll be there in a little while."
"What you're not getting is that this is a limited time offer."
Yesterday I had one of my I've-had-it! moments and I declared (to no one other than myself) the branch lines of Sodor relocated to a more out of the way location where I will not trip over them quite so often.
Compounding my frustration is the fact that we have an actual playroom off our living room. (In the model they called it the formal dining room, but I find I love my family more when I'm not cleaning food off carpet.) When you walk into our home the first thing you see is the living room ahead of you. It isn't until you get halfway down the entry hall that you realize there is a playroom on your left as well. I like it like that: the toys are all in his reach, I can keep track of him from the LR or the kitchen, but you cannot see the chaos from the front door.
So why isn't it in the playroom? Because the configuration spans 8 feet, 2 inches by 7 feet, 1 inch.
Welcome to my nightmare.
Not even daring to take a breath I ever so carefully, section by section, begin moving the land of Sodor from one end of the living room to the other, cursing myself that I did not remember to first take a few digital pictures in case I accidentally rip it all apart and cannot figure out how to get it back together just so. Simultaneously I applaud myself for not buying more track for them at Christmas.
(Even with my 50% any one item at Michael's coupon I just could not bring myself to spend $1/inch for a few curved pieces.) (Most of our track is generic Imaginarium BOGOHO or the retired plastic yet compatible "Interactive Thomas" I bought on clearance 2 years ago at Target and later at Ross for a few pennies an inch.)
I move it to the corner recently vacated by our holiday tree. Crap, it doesn't even really fit there either. Should have measured first.
I spend the next hour wiggling it around the LR, a little to one side then the other, trying to figure out if minor adjustments will suddenly open up a fat path for foot traffic.
No.
Pissed and mentally exhausted, I get up and look around. Hmmm...maybe if I move the couch and the big chair...
Forty-five minutes and no solution later my mind yells out "WFT are you doing rearranging your living room furniture for Thomas and Friends? This is bullshit! You have totally lost your mind woman! (But, on the plus side, maybe I'll leave it this way for the night. Having the couch smack dab in front of the TV like that would give us a much clearer shot for throwing Pirate's Booty at the President during his address. Decisions, decisions...)
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Presenting my Niece
Due 5.4.07
My SIL M and I think she totally looks like a girl already. I'm off to shop! I've been waiting until the official word which arrived just a few hours ago. M feels very strongly about NO YELLOW! and NO GREEN! just pink or blue. Seeing as M and I both have boys we need to get cracking on wardrobe. Fun!
Thursday, November 30, 2006
I'm sorry but I've had too much wine
and this is really funny.
"Why would anyone stick their penis in a can???"
"Because it's one size fits all!"
(Insert a very pregnant pause) "Still..."
"Why would anyone stick their penis in a can???"
"Because it's one size fits all!"
(Insert a very pregnant pause) "Still..."
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Gay Penguin Dreams and Stranger Things
A few weeks back I was racking my brain trying to come up with a small, inexpensive, nonplastic yet meaningful gift for the Cracker. The last thing he needs is anything more in his toy room, yet he is my baby and dammit I want to get him *something* for Christmas. Finally inspiration struck: a friend for Not-Bob!
(The only thing we planned on getting him was his very own copy of the controversial and banned And Tango Makes Three which I'm pretty sure won't be at our local library. And before you warn us of it's hidden political agenda that's the reason we're buying it.)
For those of you who haven't met him, Not-Bob is a stuffed horse I casually picked when we were visiting Colorado back when the Cracker was a mere 3 months old that has become the Cracker's constant companion. Specifically he's his fav-o-wit "bed fwend" which is what the Cracker has named all the stuffed animals he likes to sleep with. (Seriously, his idea, not ours, but it gives us a good chuckle.)
As far as the origin of the name Not-Bob, after dozens of nope-try-again-Moms I suggested Bob. Shaking his head in you-are-such-an-idiot disgust he informed me "No Mom! Bahb is not a horse! Bahb is a BUILDER!" But Not-Bob? Now that was a hilarious and perfect name in his humble opinion.
Insanely pleased with myself for coming up with the perfect gift, I took off the next day while the Cracker was in school to find a friend in town. (Must have instant gratification. And I don't want to pay shipping.) But to be just right, it couldn't be just any old stuffed horse, it had to be the same company, the same model. We need soft, and we need washable.
Ahh...the thrill of the chase! Just as I was getting started my mom called. When I told her about my quest she reminded me that they sell them at Barnes & Noble. Jackpot! Before I picked him up from school I had found a full-size friend at B&N and a mini-sized friend at our only locally owned toy store. Woo hoo! A family, and for just $14!
But, of course, it was bound to get out of hand. Nothing is ever simple when it comes to my mom and I, but luckily for me my intown shopping resources are very limited. My mom, however, just outside of San Francisco, could simply not help herself and bought two full-sized friends the same day. (No, she doesn't need a life...she has one: buying toys for the Cracker.) But before she could tell me, I was at home on the net where I was searching for more mini horses. Babies! Gotsta have at least one more baby! (And besides, they are only $5.99 = pretty harmless.) And of course I immediately fell in love with this little guy from Not-Bob's former home who we will eventually have to have. The but is that my itchy credit card finger refuses to pay $6.95 shipping (at least for now) for a $5.99 horse that weighs just ounces. And to justify it I start to think that maybe I should just buy two. This guy is awfully cute too, and the Cracker will delight in telling us over and over how he's a horse that looks like a cow, just like our neighbor's black and white spotted cat.
(Small inexpensive token is becoming collector status. But I've been good, so far.)
So I'm resisting and I'm resisting and I am actually able to keep a Christmas surprise a secret for once. (Other secrets = no problem. But if I have a Christmas gift that I am excited to give you? Really bad track record.) (And that would be my mom's fault. My paternal grandmother would send me my gift and my mother would encourage me to carefully slice the tape and open it the second I got home from school. Then she'd retape and remind me to act surprised in front of my Dad, who is no dummy but knew there was no stopping her.)
And then last night, right before bed, a sick little Cracker barfed. And because he was sick and sad and pathetic he had was clutching his best bud ever so tightly when it happened...
Not-Bob was sporting really stinky vomit.
Now really, what was I to do? It was late! And he was sick! And just as much as he needed to go to bed, Not-Bob need a bath or two or three. So I reached into the stash.
"I want Not-Bob!"
"I know you do honey, but he is sick too and he really needs a bath. But before he went into the washing machine he asked if you could do him a favor."
That stopped the crying. "Huh?"
"Not-Bob asked for your help."
"Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"Not-Bob is not a weal horse. He's PRETEND. Oh, and horses don't talk. Horses NEIGH."
Stop being so damn smart and logical and go with me here. "He has a new friend who is very lonely and scared of the dark. Do you think you could let him sleep with you tonight?"
"Not-Bob has a fwend!"
"Of course he does! Would you like to meet him?"
And just as I'd hoped, the Cracker was instantly attached.
I rock.
"He needs a name you know. Can you think of a good name for him?"
"Hmmmm...hmmm.........let's see........ummmm......ummmmmm......ummmmm............NO."
"Okay, well, ummm...how about Charlie?"
"Chaw-wie? Chaw-wie! Yes! I love it!"
So without further ado I present you with Charlie
(And his still-a-secret posse)
The Cracker has now decided he wants more friends for Not-Bob and Charlie.
(Score.)
"Honey, we don't have anymore. Only one friend came to visit." (Hehehe!)
"Dats okay Mommy. I tell San O Cause, and San O Cause will come down! down! down! the fi-place and bwing Not-Bob and Chaw-wie more horse fwends. And San O Cause will eat cookies I make for him and Not-Bob and his lots of fwends will eat hay and apples. Oh, and cawwots too."
Damn I'm having fun.
(The only thing we planned on getting him was his very own copy of the controversial and banned And Tango Makes Three which I'm pretty sure won't be at our local library. And before you warn us of it's hidden political agenda that's the reason we're buying it.)
For those of you who haven't met him, Not-Bob is a stuffed horse I casually picked when we were visiting Colorado back when the Cracker was a mere 3 months old that has become the Cracker's constant companion. Specifically he's his fav-o-wit "bed fwend" which is what the Cracker has named all the stuffed animals he likes to sleep with. (Seriously, his idea, not ours, but it gives us a good chuckle.)
As far as the origin of the name Not-Bob, after dozens of nope-try-again-Moms I suggested Bob. Shaking his head in you-are-such-an-idiot disgust he informed me "No Mom! Bahb is not a horse! Bahb is a BUILDER!" But Not-Bob? Now that was a hilarious and perfect name in his humble opinion.
Insanely pleased with myself for coming up with the perfect gift, I took off the next day while the Cracker was in school to find a friend in town. (Must have instant gratification. And I don't want to pay shipping.) But to be just right, it couldn't be just any old stuffed horse, it had to be the same company, the same model. We need soft, and we need washable.
Ahh...the thrill of the chase! Just as I was getting started my mom called. When I told her about my quest she reminded me that they sell them at Barnes & Noble. Jackpot! Before I picked him up from school I had found a full-size friend at B&N and a mini-sized friend at our only locally owned toy store. Woo hoo! A family, and for just $14!
But, of course, it was bound to get out of hand. Nothing is ever simple when it comes to my mom and I, but luckily for me my intown shopping resources are very limited. My mom, however, just outside of San Francisco, could simply not help herself and bought two full-sized friends the same day. (No, she doesn't need a life...she has one: buying toys for the Cracker.) But before she could tell me, I was at home on the net where I was searching for more mini horses. Babies! Gotsta have at least one more baby! (And besides, they are only $5.99 = pretty harmless.) And of course I immediately fell in love with this little guy from Not-Bob's former home who we will eventually have to have. The but is that my itchy credit card finger refuses to pay $6.95 shipping (at least for now) for a $5.99 horse that weighs just ounces. And to justify it I start to think that maybe I should just buy two. This guy is awfully cute too, and the Cracker will delight in telling us over and over how he's a horse that looks like a cow, just like our neighbor's black and white spotted cat.
(Small inexpensive token is becoming collector status. But I've been good, so far.)
So I'm resisting and I'm resisting and I am actually able to keep a Christmas surprise a secret for once. (Other secrets = no problem. But if I have a Christmas gift that I am excited to give you? Really bad track record.) (And that would be my mom's fault. My paternal grandmother would send me my gift and my mother would encourage me to carefully slice the tape and open it the second I got home from school. Then she'd retape and remind me to act surprised in front of my Dad, who is no dummy but knew there was no stopping her.)
And then last night, right before bed, a sick little Cracker barfed. And because he was sick and sad and pathetic he had was clutching his best bud ever so tightly when it happened...
Not-Bob was sporting really stinky vomit.
Now really, what was I to do? It was late! And he was sick! And just as much as he needed to go to bed, Not-Bob need a bath or two or three. So I reached into the stash.
"I want Not-Bob!"
"I know you do honey, but he is sick too and he really needs a bath. But before he went into the washing machine he asked if you could do him a favor."
That stopped the crying. "Huh?"
"Not-Bob asked for your help."
"Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"Not-Bob is not a weal horse. He's PRETEND. Oh, and horses don't talk. Horses NEIGH."
Stop being so damn smart and logical and go with me here. "He has a new friend who is very lonely and scared of the dark. Do you think you could let him sleep with you tonight?"
"Not-Bob has a fwend!"
"Of course he does! Would you like to meet him?"
And just as I'd hoped, the Cracker was instantly attached.
I rock.
"He needs a name you know. Can you think of a good name for him?"
"Hmmmm...hmmm.........let's see........ummmm......ummmmmm......ummmmm............NO."
"Okay, well, ummm...how about Charlie?"
"Chaw-wie? Chaw-wie! Yes! I love it!"
So without further ado I present you with Charlie
(And his still-a-secret posse)
The Cracker has now decided he wants more friends for Not-Bob and Charlie.
(Score.)
"Honey, we don't have anymore. Only one friend came to visit." (Hehehe!)
"Dats okay Mommy. I tell San O Cause, and San O Cause will come down! down! down! the fi-place and bwing Not-Bob and Chaw-wie more horse fwends. And San O Cause will eat cookies I make for him and Not-Bob and his lots of fwends will eat hay and apples. Oh, and cawwots too."
Damn I'm having fun.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)