Tuesday, November 28, 2006

La Cucaracha

Husband: Ever since you've been keeping the sink clean I haven't seen any roaches crawling around.
Yes we had/have roaches. Yes I'm a slob. Let's move on.
Me: Well, that's good.
Husband: Yeah, roaches are so gross because they can live as long as dogs.*
Me: DOGS!?! I think I'm going to barf. I believe it though, because there's this one roach that's my archnemesis. I've seen him in the bathroom, the kitchen...he sees me and he knows I hate him, and he hates me too. I can see it in his eyes.
Husband: Why don't you kill it?
Me: I'm afraid to. He's really scary looking. He's got these, like, fucked up wings, like he got into a fight with a cat or something. He looks like a bad ass.
Husband: Oh, I killed that thing this morning. WHACK! He's goners.
Me: My hero!

*I have not verified this statement.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Gobble Gobble

I love the feeling of the holidays. A day off in the middle of a work week! Lots of food! It's almost as good as Christmas! Actually, it's better than Christmas, because I don't have to buy anybody presents. Not that I have anything against giving; it's just, you know, the being poor.

I'm going to TWO Thanksgivings tomorrow and all I have to do is bring cookies and brownies. So easy. So yummy.

Have a good holiday!

Monday, November 20, 2006

Free Panties!

I admit I was at first seduced by the language on the pink mailer. Everyone likes free shit, right? Especially underwear. I hate paying for things that are so essential, like toilet paper and tampons. Or do I just hate paying for things that have to do with my ass?

I hesitated with my hand over the trashcan, the Victoria's Secret coupon dangling, ready to drop amongst the egg shells and dirty paper towels. Should I go get my free panties? I was going to be at the mall later, because we were getting my tires rotated across the street. Going to Victoria's Secret wasn't the problem, as we would surely pass it by once or twice during our excursion. The thing was-how totally poor and cheap would I feel exchanging that coupon for some underpants?

I know why they send out coupons like that-so you'll go to get your free whatever, and buy something else while you're there (there was also an offer on the same coupon for $10 off some bra I can't have because it doesn't include those convenient flaps that come down and expose your boobies so some child can suckle them). I knew I would be making no other purchase-did I have the shame to go into that snooty store and say, HEY! Give me some free PANTIES!

I decided that I was more thrifty than prideful, so the coupon went into my purse.

"HIIIII can I help you today?" The perky salesgirl asked as my husband tried to maneuver the stroller around those annoying displays that are never quite big enough for strollers to get around and I fingered some cute boy shorts at the front.

Say you're just looking! You're JUST LOOKING! My inner ego screeched. Don't let her know you're only here for the free swag! She'll look down on yoooou!

Just admit you're here for the freebie, countered my inner whoever is concerned with not spending all day in a panty store. Must be my inner husband. Oh wait, that actually was my husband, hissing to me as the baby pulled some kind of Santa-inspired lingerie monstrosity off of a mannequin.

"Um, yeah, uh, I just wanted to get the free panty?" (I hate that my statements always become questions when I'm embarrassed.)

"They're back there on those three round tables. There are people back there to help you. Also, the Pink panties are five for $25.00 right now!" Like they aren't 5 for $25.00 any other day. Like I'm actually going to be purchasing anything today.

So we make our way back to the three round tables about as gracefully as a herd of learning disabled monkeys, knocking panties off of tables, bras off of shelves, and leaving a trail of general disarray wherever we go. You know how I roll.

"The free panties are only in neutral colors, black, light gray, tan, or white," the sales girl tells me, removing every color choice that was somewhat appealing to me.

Fine, I'll get some black ones. Large and extra small only. Great. Ok, this is embarrassing enough, just grab some and GO! Ego says. At first I think it is husband goading me along, but he's found some sort of lacy thing to stare at. Great. He's occupied.

So I take my grey (yeah, I settled) panties up to the register and hand them over with the coupon.

"It's only the light grey that are free."

Jesus. Could this get any more embarrassing? I'm cheap, yeah, I'm here for the freebie, and apparently I'm trying to live above my means.

So I go back to the round tables. I pick up the light grey.

"Those aren't the free ones," a salesgirl tells me.

"These are lighter grey than those," I snip, then shut my mouth, realizing I'm arguing color semantics with a panty pusher at Victoria's Secret.

"No, it's these grey ones," and she holds up the ugliest pair of panties I'd ever seen. The ones I'd chosen first were a nice coal grey; the next ones I liked were a lighter shade of the same color; these were like dirty white poo-poo grey.

Finally I ended up with a white thong. Newsflash! The panties they give away are thinner and flimsier than the ones they sell. Was it worth it? Eh. I guess. I mean, I got the free undies, but not without an ordeal. And they're kinda crappy. So I guess you could say you get what you pay for. And there's no such thing as a free lunch, er, pair of panties. Because the receipt may say "no charge," but I sure spent a lot of my pride on them.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Yesterday it was about the pussy-today it's about the cock and balls

While changing the baby's diaper:
Me: Move your hands! You're getting powder all over them!
[to husband]He's always grabbing his pee-pee while I change his diaper. He's got a death grip on that thing!
Husband: Eh.
Me: He won't let go of his balls! He does this in the bath, too. He's always got one hand on them, like he's afraid they're going to float away!
Husband: He's a boy!
Oh, that explains it.

While the baby is getting a bath:
Husband: Wow, you really do hold onto that thing. It's fun, isn't it boy?
Like father like son, I guess.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Ponderings I Have After Reading Playboy

I have a question for women who remove 95% percent of their pubic hair: why?

Why not just shave it all off?

Or if you want some fuzz, leave a pretty good patch?

But that teensy tiny little strip down the middle makes your pussy look like Hitler. I do not understand.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Tough Questions

I got some tough questions this morning on my Spanish exam that I wasn't prepared for. I should have expected them; after all, we are learning the future tense. But still.

When are you going to graduate?
No se! I have no clue when I'm going to graduate. Good lord. Thanks for stressing me out, Senora. Hopefully I will graduate. How many semesters of taking one class does it take to finish your degree? Who knows. I guestimated four years from now, and writing down 2010, I realized, HOLY SHIT, there is a possibility I will still be a student in 2010, when the baby is almost 5, and I am...you know what, I don't even want to write it.

What job are you going to have?
Uhhhhhh. La abogada*. Because I work for one and that's the first profession I thought of. And the last one I'd want to be. Like I said, I work for one. It seems pretty stressful. Now I'm wondering if I'll keep this job forever. Pro: I've been here so long I hardly ever have to learn anything new, and it's easy. Con: What I just wrote, but replace "easy" with "boring." My job consists of sitting around all day opening mail, marking dates on a calendar, and sending letters to clients telling them about those dates. If I do that forever, my brain might fall out of my head and my ass will flatten to pancake proportions.

How [or maybe how much, I'm not that great at Spanish] are you going to save money this year?
But it didn't even really matter what the question was, because that one was easy. All I had to do was figure out how to say "SAVE?!?! I'm way too poor to save!" En espanol.

*for those of you even less fluent in Spanish than me, that means lawyer.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Cry It Out

While I've mentioned the baby's sleep problems before, and that he has to be rocked or cuddled or nursed to sleep and can't self soothe, I don't think I've gone into the fact that he wants physical contact pretty much at all times-except, of course, when he wants to be by himself. Which is sometimes convenient, and sometimes not. Mostly, he's clingy when he's tired, but sometimes, he just wants some attention RIGHT NOW dammit, and you'd better pick him up and cuddle him, OR ELSE.

This weekend we decided it was time to finally start fixing up some of the things on the house that we've talked about for months. We bought it for a pretty good price in a middle class neighborhood, mostly because the thing was practically in shambles. We fixed up a lot of the inside, but the outside still looks like the crummy asshole-owned house it was before we got a hold of it. So we decided to start with something easy, and set about to paint the garage door and front door.

At first, the baby was in his walker outside with us, and was pretty content. He loves being outside, and entertained himself for awhile. Then he decided he needed someone to pay attention to him.

Baby: *whiney noises*
Us: Look, Mommy and Daddy are painting!
Baby: *more whiney* wahhh...?
Us: Oh, don't cry, look, we're right here! Doesn't the garage door look...
Me: I'll get him.
Husband: No! We're almost done! He just needs to wait. He's fine. He just wants attention. He doesn't NEED it.
Me: But the neighbors are going to think we're bad parents!

So my husband takes the baby into the house for awhile. The next thing I know, he's got the front door open so we can look in, and the baby is in his portable play pen with lots of toys. Screaming.

I agreed that he needed to learn that his playpen is fun, he can have fun on his own without us, and we needed to finish the damn painting. So we let him cry.

For the first five minutes or so, it was awful. He screamed and got himself REALLY worked up. The next five minutes weren't as bad, but were still heartbreaking. He still cried, just less hysterically. I did notice one thing though-if you looked at him, he turned on the waterworks big time. As long as we weren't paying him any attention, he just whimpered.

Suddenly, the crying stopped. I carefully peered over there to make sure he was alive. He was PLAYING WITH HIS TOYS! My proudest moment as a parent. He was calm and happy most of the rest of the time, and we even got to paint the front door as well.

I can't believe I had the balls to try a "cry it out" approach. And it turned out so well! Now if only I can apply this to sleeping at night...that kid is constantly kicking me in bed.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Addicted To Boob

WARNING: If you don't want to read about boobs and nipples don't read this. If you googled boobs or nipples looking for something sexual, go ahead and read it, but if it gets you off, you're sicker than you thought.

Day One:
Baby is born. Baby will not latch on. Mother is hysterically shoving boob in baby's face. Baby will hold boob contemplatively in mouth, but will not suck. Mother cries. Baby cries but mostly sleeps(unless Mother is sleeping, then baby is totally crying). Mother fears she will never be able to give baby the "liquid gold" her midwife has told her is crucial to brain and immune system development.

Day Two:
Lactation consultant arrives. Baby is finally able to latch on and suck. Mother is overjoyed. Lactation consultant is overjoyed. Baby is hungry.

Day Two nighttime:
Baby wants to eat round the clock. Mother is getting tired and sore. Maybe she should have gone with bottle feeding.

Days 2-8 or so:
Baby loves boob. Mother has boobs of porn star. This does not make Mother's cracked, bleeding nipples feel any better, though.

Two weeks:
Breastfeeding no longer hurts, and is fairly enjoyable to baby and Mother.

Six weeks:
Mother goes back to work and starts up a relationship with the Medela Pump In Style. This opens up several fifteen minute chunks a day to surf the internet. Mother discovers mommy blogs.

Three months:
Still nursing, still pumping, still good.

Six months:
Still nursing, still pumping, still good. Mother is very proud of herself for keeping up with breastfeeding for so long. Baby is very healthy and rarely sick. He also seems pretty smart. Mother pats self on the back.

Seven months:
Baby begins performing acrobatics while nursing. Baby also begins removing mouth from boob and grabbing at nipple with his tiny little sharp fingernails. Breastfeeding has just gotten a lot more interesting.

Eight months:
Baby tries to nurse upside down and while standing. Mother fears boobs will hang to waistline by the time this whole thing is over. Baby is still waking up in the middle of the night several times crying for boob. Mother is shackled to child. Mother is shackled to Medela Pump In Style. Mother wonders if she'll ever again wear a sexy, lacy, padded, underwire bra.

Nine months:
How do you stop breastfeeding!?!?! Mother considers weaning, but feels bad because she knows breastmilk is good for baby and baby enjoys nursing. Also, is the only way to get him to go to sleep a lot of the time. (Bad parent alert! Bad parent alert! Mother isn't teaching to self-soothe!) Also, burning all those calories keeps the weight down.

What's next?

One year:
Probably still breastfeeding.

Two years:
Boobs have reached orangutan proportions.

Five years:
Baby gets breastmilk in lunch box thermos.

Ten years:
Baby enters therapy.