No Purple Walls.

On Napping and Scratching. April 20, 2014

Spain is still awesome. Except for the part where all the stores shut down for a few hours in the afternoon, right when some dorks that are still on Eastern Time are trying to run some errands. All of my irritation at this is mostly rooted in envy, by the way, because I am extremely jealous of this nap culture. Everyone seems way more chill here, and it is probably because they are well rested from their daily nap, or well hydrated because the only things that stay open are bars/restaurants and those bars are damn packed during siesta. I was walking to a park with August around three and a group of people were already sauced and yell-singing that “Aaaaye yaaaai yai yaaaaaai, (something) de flores!” song. Please pardon my spelling of both aye and yai as I am writing this in a Word doc on Adam’s lap top because we don’t have wi-fi in our apartment and I can’t google the correct spelling or lyrics.

 

Our apartment has been mostly awesome. I sometimes kind of like the lack of internet access. Except when we are watching The Land Before Time and I get the urge to IMDB the voice of Littlefoot. But I am definitely happy we chose to rent an apartment instead of staying at a hotel. We have a full(ish) kitchen. August has his own bedroom, which makes the whole sleep situation way easier than if we were all crammed into a hotel room. The living room has enough space for August to spread out his toys and play. I wanted to share a picture of our bedroom with you, but I must warn you about the overtly sexual bedding. Please avert your eyes if you are underage or pregnant or have a heart condition.

 

NSFW

NSFW

 

I don’t even mind that the television channels are almost all in Spanish, because it has seriously cut down on the amount of white noise TV I usually have going on in the background. The only station we seem to get in English is an incarnation of Discovery channel. Discovery should have some big ol’ air quotes around it because the shows are basically Pawn Stars and some kind of British cross between Dog the Bounty Hunter and Antiques Roadshow.

 

The floors are all tile, so the lack of air conditioning isn’t even noticeable because the apartment itself does a good job of keeping itself cool. I have been opening the windows a couple inches to get some air flowing through the place, because the smell of diapers can stink up the joint. However, I have been limiting the open-window time to a little bit in the middle of the day, because I got August out of his crib the second morning we were here and almost had a heart attack.

 

What happened to your face?!

What happened to your face?!

 

My first thought was he was getting chicken pox. My second thought was he had some kind of allergic reaction and I was trying to remember what he had to eat the day before. Then I changed him out of his pajamas and realized he didn’t have any spots where he was covered by clothing, just the parts of his arms that were below his short sleeves, and his face. I also had a few spots on my arms, and so did Adam. A short while later, I found a mosquito and killed it, and that sucker was full of blood. But I got him. Story over. Then we squished over 20 more mosquitos the next day. I got up twice at night to buzzing in my ear and told Adam to cover his eyes because I was turning on a bright light to hunt these bastards down and murder them with my flip flop.

 

I have had it with these motherbucket mosquitoes in my motherbucket ear.

 

And murder I did. I left the squished carcasses on the walls, to show their loved ones that they may find a quick meal here, but they will not make it out alive. The soles of my shoes, littered with the dead, dragged along the sidewalk from our apartment, leaving a trail of my enemies. Their God does not live here.

 

Only Death.

 

 

Anyways, I think we got them all, and I don’t think any new ones have gotten in. So hopefully we are all in the clear! Enjoy all the Reese’s Eggs you can shove in your facehole this weekend. Somebody better save me some.

 

Or else.

Or else.

 

Greetings From Spain, You American Turds. April 18, 2014

Three airplanes, a bus, a lot of sweat, and a reward-churro later, we are in Spain! Rota, to be precise. It’s amazing here. The weather is gorgeous, the food has been great, there is wi-fi and beer in pretty much every business. Getting here was mostly not very stressful, although that could be attributed to the fact that I was running on fumes the whole time and partially catatonic. I left all the packing until the night before because I am a procrastinator and an optimist and an idiot. I was up until 3am, and only got August’s bag (mostly) packed. Hadn’t even touched my own. Praise our pastafarian overlords that my sister, Catie slept over, because she watched August the next morning while I packed the rest of our stuff (for three more hours??) and showered. The shower was very important to me, which showers usually aren’t. But I knew there was lots of running around with bags and a stroller and a few people sitting next to me on planes that wouldn’t respect my personal space between me and the next time I wouldn’t smell like stale Auntie Anne’s and someone else’s BO. So shower I did.

 

So fresh and so clean.

So fresh and so clean.

 

My mom drove us to the airport and came in with us until we went through security. This was extremely helpful, because we had two huge rolling suitcases, two carry-ons, a stroller, a diaper bag, and then that toddler of mine. We checked in and then ate some lunch together before saying goodbye right before the security line. August and I took a plane from Baltimore to Newark, which only lasted less than two hours and was pretty easy. I was shoving lollipops in his face because I was very panicked about his ears popping, but he was fine. I have an old iPod Touch that I have loaded up with some of the shows he likes, and some toddler apps, and he just played with that the whole flight. We got to the airport pretty early, and lucked out with there being a little playground-type thing near the gate with a bunch of transportation-themed structures that August climbed on until it was time to board. That did a great job of burning some excess energy and made it a little easier to get him to sit still in his seat. However, he started our first flight by playing a game I like to call “I Will Now Scream Lots of Times So Everyone Knows I Am Here.” I am sure our fellow travelers enjoyed that one. I know I did. After he got that out of his system, August was mega chill and it was a short, easy flight.

 

More later on how that old iPod with a baby-proof case is my lord and savior.

More later on how that old iPod with a baby-proof case is my lord and savior.

 

Once we got to Newark, we had a little bit of a layover between flights, but minutes-while-traveling are about a third as long as normal minutes, so what I thought was a nice chunk of time to relax and grab dinner turned into a mad-dash to get August some kind of food I knew he wouldn’t fight me over eating (questionable macaroni and cheese—always a hit) and then get him into an overnight diaper and pajamas before our plane flew away without us. I had limited food in my system at this point, but there wasn’t time to get myself any dinner, so I resigned myself to airplane food and was hopeful that August would be asleep by the time it was served.

 

We got on the plane and August was much less pleasant. Probably because he only had a sorta-nap that day, and probably because he was right in the window of Look How Awake I Am that turns him into a lunatic right before he crashes in his crib. I got him onto the plane and sat him in his seat. We were in a three-person row, with August at the window and me in the middle, and the lady in the aisle seat seemed none-to-pleased to have a baby neighbor. I totally get this. I do. Small kids on flights are unpredictable, and often loud, and often crying, and that sucks for people that are trying to sleep on a red-eye across the Atlantic. But guess what? This is no cake-walk for me, lady. I’ve got a diaper bag that I’m having a hard time shoving into the overhead bin, a backpack full of things I am hoping can keep my kid happy and a carry-on of things I am hoping can keep me happy that I’m trying to fit under the seat, a toddler I can’t convince to wear his seatbelt without him convincing anyone who can’t see us that I am beating him mercilessly, and I am running on empty. On top of that, I have a rude woman who, instead of offering a little bit of help to an obviously struggling fellow human, is expending all her energy on some impressive stink-eye. But hey, by the time I got everything situated and August and I in our seats, I turned to apologize for the commotion and saw that there was a different lady sitting beside me, and my old seat mate had changed seats. I was not sad.

 

And she missed this cute shit.

And she missed this cute shit.

 

It took about two hours to get August to fall asleep, and then I was free to eat some suspect “pasta and meatballs” while watching a couple episodes of Friends on my seat TV. TVs with On Demand videos on airplanes are the most genius things on the planet, and I hope whoever thought of it is very rich in both life experiences and dollah bills. I enjoyed some quiet time to myself before going to sleep. And by going to sleep I mean leaning over my sleeping child to protect him and distract me from some of the worst and most frequent turbulence I have ever experienced. I am not a good flyer. I have gotten better in recent years, but only marginally better. I never take off my seatbelt, because that is the moment I am sure the plane will plummet and I will hit the ceiling. I also keep myself purposely dehydrated so I don’t have to pee. So instead of sleeping, I spent the next six hours telling myself that I wasn’t going to die. When we landed in Madrid, I was both exhausted and elated and mostly happy that there was only one more plane.

 

Pretty much.

Pretty much.

 

Adam sent me an email ahead of time to tell me how to navigate the Madrid airport, because he said it had been a little difficult. We also weren’t taking this last flight on the same airline, and it had been booked separately, so we had to get our baggage and then check it for our next flight. Sweet shit on a ‘smore. While sitting on our plane at the gate, I slung the diaper bag over my shoulder, then put on the backpack, told August to hold onto his stuffed dog very tight, put my carry-on on my arm and held August in front of me. We got our stroller that we checked on the plane and ran to the baggage claim, finding out along the way that while we needed three elevators to get to the baggage claim, there was a total of one. Helpful people were helpful and helped me carry the stroller down the stairs. This was also while I was realizing just how difficult it was going to be to remember any Spanish I learned that would be useful in the moment. It wasn’t even until later that I realized that when I was asking people if they spoke English, I was actually saying “I speak English?”

 

The struggle is real.

 

We got to baggage claim and I grabbed our bags. There weren’t changing tables in the bathrooms, so I put a suitcase on either side of August and changed him on the ground, then the real fun began. I hooked my diaper bag to the stroller, shoved August’s dog underneath, buckled August in, put the backpack on, and put the straps of my carry-on around the handle of one of the two enormous rolling suitcases, and we were off. And I looked like a nutjob. Pulling a suitcase with either hand and my right arm outstretched so I could shove the stroller along in front of me. I had to get up one floor, then take a bus to another terminal. I was very happy to see an escalator/ramp type deal, and wheeled us on. Then I realized everything was heaving and on wheels and I wasn’t wide enough to block everything, and then August’s stroller wheel was catching on the curb of this whole thing, and I freaked out because we were going to fall back and then fall for eternity because we were on a giant inclined treadmill. I turned around and yelled “Help me, please!” to the person behind me, and this wonderful punk dude ran up and grabbed one of the suitcases and helped me up the rest of the way. He didn’t speak any English, and as I said, my Spanish was crap. We got to the next floor and I think he asked if we needed more help, but I thanked him and told him we were good.

 

So stupid.

 

I was wrong. It took us a while to find the bus, and I was again becoming hyper-aware of the shortened length of minutes-while-traveling. We didn’t have much time before our next flight. But hooray for everything, because the guy that helped us up the ramp (I will refer to him as SuperPunk from here) was waiting for the same bus. We figured out we were going to the same terminal, so SuperPunk helped us get on the bus and then stood with our bags so they didn’t fall over. He got us to our airline so we could check our bags, I said gracias a million times, and then told him again that we were good, which was true this time because I would just be pushing the stroller after this. We got checked in with 20 minutes until boarding, thanked the universe for family-priority at security because we were able to race on through, and got to the gate just as it was time to get on. Having subsisted on crackers since I wasn’t able to find us any breakfast yet, August was in a surprisingly good mood, and was great for this last flight that was taking us to Sevilla. We landed, found actual elevators, got our bags, and then came out a door with all these people waiting like in Love, Actually. And there was Adam! I felt like the cute little tree fairy boy that now plays Jojen Reed on Game of Thrones.

 

Except I was fatgirl huff and puffing and pushing a stroller and not doing any kind of running or jumping.

 

It hadn’t even been a full week since I had seen him, but I was so happy to be with my husband again, and very happy to hand him both suitcases. He was pretty relieved that we made it. August was sound asleep in the stroller. I was super jealous. We took a bus downtown and found some food. I ate the most delicious baguette with cured meat in my life, and am very happy that this is a “thing” in Spain, and then ate a chocolate churro as a reward for not ending the day lying down in a freezer with a toe-tag.

 

My heart.

 

We took a two-hour bus to Rota, but not before the bus driver tried to drive off while Adam was still loading our stuff into the baggage compartment underneath. I always assumed STOP was a universal phrase. It is not. It does not become more universal if you scream it, either. I had a mini heart attack about ending up in a place I did not know, not being able to speak the language, having no idea where I was actually going, and with no way to contact Adam, because I kept yelling STOP THE BUS! MY HUSBAND! STOP THE BUS! And the bus was still moving. Then the bus stopped and Adam got on and we were good to go. I’m pretty sure I got my heart rate up enough to burn off most of that churro.

 

Anyways, that was our journey to Spain. I am thoroughly impressed and appreciative if you read this all the way through because this post is almost as long as the actual journey itself. We are currently renting an apartment, and Adam is working half-days while we are here. I’ll be writing more about what we are doing while we are here, and when we get home I will write a post about what worked and didn’t while traveling and while at our destination. If you’ve been to Spain, or traveled internationally with a toddler, I’d love to hear about it and I would especially love to pilfer any tips you may have. And just because, if anyone wants to throw any Spanishy (or not) recipes my way, we are cooking at the apartment a pretty good bit, and I’d love some ideas for what to make so it’s not Pasta Wednesday every night.

 

They’re both pasta.

 

Lets All Take Bets On Whether Or Not I’m Still Alive In A Couple Weeks April 6, 2014

I’m going to Spain with a toddler in a week.

 

 

All I did was Google "I am so scared."

All I did was Google “I am so scared.”

 

Just thought I would throw that right out there. Partly because I am pretty friggin excited. Partly because I am hugely terrified. Partly because I have a limited window for blog writing at this moment so I figured no need to beat around the bush.

 

Adam got the word that he has to roll out, and he leaves Monday morning to go kick rocks in Spain. We don’t know how long he will be hanging out there until he gets on his boat and is sitting in the sea for who knows how long. But since he is going to be there, we figured August and I might as well be there, too. So “Olé!” or some shit. I don’t know. I was super excited for a second because I took about 50 years of Spanish in middle school/high school/college but then I realized I know Mexico Spanish and not actual Spanish and also they don’t eat burritos or sopapillas or fried ice cream so I really have no idea what I am getting myself into. But I am still excited. Olé.

 

 

August and I are going to fly out next weekend. I’m going to buy everything that Amazon sells between now and then. And have a few heart attacks. Then, when we get to Spain, we are renting a little apartment that we found on Airbnb. Airbnb is the best thing in my life. Traveling with a toddler is a bitch, and hotels are intent on making it bitchier by being like “Hey come chill in this little 8×10 cell with your wackass child. I’m sure they’ll sleep peacefully in their Pack n Play that is wedged next to your bed that they can totally see you through.”

 

You watchin Anchorman without me?

You watchin Anchorman without me?

 

We did this when August was about nine months for a weekend and it was lame. Then we did it when he was about fifteen months for a week and it was straight balls. Those are some damn close quarters to be stuck in, and it makes naptime/bedtime hell on earth. Plus, not having a kitchen is a total pain for us. Before baby, whatever, gimme all the sodium you got, hotel restaurant! I’m not an enormous health nut with my kid, but I also am not trying to feed him complete crap 24/7, and that was our only option during that weeklong stay.

 

So we found an apartment on Airbnb that has two bedrooms, and is cheaper than any hotel we were looking at. Granted, we don’t have amenities or housecleaning and it’s less pretty. But it has a great kitchen and gives us a separate living space when August needs to sleep, and way more room to live. Sometimes, you can find places that are already equipped for kids, and you don’t even need to bring all your bulky baby crap because it is already in the place you are renting! No such luck this time, but still better than a hotel. I am also enjoying getting to remind Adam every 20 minutes that I am a genius for thinking of looking on Airbnb.

 

 

Anyways, here is how life is about to go down. I am going to spend the next week drinking a lot of beer while trying to get us packed and situated for this trip, while trying not to think much about the actual flight or travel experience itself because it’s come close to giving me an aneurysm  several times in recent days. We flew two hours to Savannah last summer, and August was a passed out champ both ways. I’m hoping we are as lucky on the way out, because of the 11 hours we will be traveling, eight of them are the flight to Spain and it takes off right at bedtime. Coming home, we won’t be so lucky, but there are personal televisions with satellite TV in every seat, and fingers crossed I can just let him slip into a Sprout channel coma with minimal issues. We shall see. The only thing I know for sure is that airports have bars and airplanes serve booze and thank shit for that.

 

 

I’m guessing my next post will be from Spain, and it will either be to tell you what we did because we did everything right, or to ask for someone to send Bill Clinton to come rescue me from the Spanish jail cell I will be sitting in. Adios or something. Do they say adios in Spain?

 

I Brushed My Teeth. I Made Lunch. And Other Things I List at The End of the Day to Pretend I Did Anything. March 11, 2014

It might be that Spring is in the air. It might be the extended daylight hours. It might be the Adderall.* But I have been on a crazy person whirlwind of getting shit done today. By getting shit done, I mean I went to another room in my house to get my wallet and brought it back to my computer so I could pay for four things online I have been meaning to pay for, but hadn’t because I don’t have my credit card number memorized and my wallet is always in another room. Productivity! It feels glorious. I’ve also bombarded Adam with no fewer than eleventeen emails today about our calendar, ranging from “Can I get a pedicure this weekend?” to “I know you don’t know when you’re going away for work, but if you had to make a guess that was 100% right, when would you say you would be gone because there are three trips I would like to plan and book in the next hour and I need to know if you will be home or if I should kidnap an au pair.”

 

"Miss! You look like you could use some Ferrero Rocher. It's in the back..."

“Miss! You look like you could use some Ferrero Rocher. It’s in the back…”

 

I have a fantastic case of ADD, in case you were wondering. Actual ADD. Not the kind where you watch Parenthood instead of doing every single other thing you’re supposed to be doing and then say “Oh, my ADD,” as an excuse for why you are leaving the pantry and fridge doors ajar at 830pm and declaring that dinner is served.** I go to a doctor, talk to him for five minutes, then he goes “Holy crap,” and throws a bottle of amphetamines at my face that give me the ability to look around my house and at my calendar and see the actual, separate things that are happening and need to happen, and then I can do them. As opposed to when I don’t take meds, then look around my house or at my calendar and  a cat makes a noise and I forget for six consecutive hours that I am responsible for the care of a household and a human life.

 

ADD-distracted-300x210

 

Being a stay at home mom has been an 18-month journey of discovering that my motivation for doing much of anything related to being a stay at home mom besides playing with my baby and shopping at Target is -50. Part of that is related to the cycle I have found our home goes through.

 

Phase One: The house is a little grimey, but no one is coming over this week so it’s not like anyone will see it. Blinders on.

 

Phase Two: The house is pretty gross. I should probably think about cleaning it.

 

Phase Three: Maybe I should invite some friends over soon. Then I will have to clean it.

 

Phase Four: SHIT everyone will be here in ten minutes and I’m still scrubbing the floor WHYGODWHY.

 

Phase Five: The house is so clean! And there’s leftover cake in the fridge! Ommmmmm.

 

Phase Six: It is now a week since I cleaned. But it still kind of looks clean. I don’t have to clean it again, yet.

 

Return to Phase One.

 

Medicated and in a somewhat rational place, it is still really difficult for me to find the gumption to maintain a household. Even though I have the focus and the time, I end up using that focus and time to fill up Pinterest boards with ways to clean my house if I was actually going to clean it. As great as the internet has been for being able to Google how to get my own blood out of my shirt after August headbutts me in the lip, and finding a recipe for dinner when the only things in our fridge are feta cheese, turkey bacon, grape jelly and some odor-absorbing baking soda, it is also a black hole from which there is no escape if there is so much as a load of socks that need to be washed. Moms of yesteryear had it made. There wasn’t a damn thing on the planet to distract them. That’s why we see images of women in the 50s, vacuuming in heels, made up and put together like they were going to end the night with a fancy dinner at Carrabba’s. It wasn’t unrealistic expectations for women***. They just didn’t have Reddit to suck up two thirds of their day, thus allotting them the time to clean the house, make some gross Betty Crocker recipe for dinner, and still be able to shower and spend two hours applying winged eyeliner.

 

Son of a bitch.

Son of a bitch.

 

Now, if you thought this whole spiel was going to end with me getting all hopeful and excited about some internet timer I was going to buy to limit my access to the Game of Thrones wiki or swearing off electronic devices for whatever is left of lent or something, you are an ignorant fool and may kindly see your way out. I am, however, going to clean my house this week because I am having friends over on Friday and right now it looks gross up in here. I just didn’t want to clean right this minute, so I wrote a blog, instead.****

 

Bye Bye!

 

* It is wholly and completely, the Adderall.

** I didn’t write this hypothetical scenario from personal experience.*****

*** No, it was totally that.

**** As a long winded explanation to my husband as to why I did nothing today, because I probably won’t start cleaning until after he gets home.

***** I did.

 

 

 

This Post Brought to You By Every Drug and Ben & Jerry’s March 5, 2014

We here in the NPW household are coming up on what is going to be an insane few months. Adam is going overseas at *some point* for work. He will be on a ship for 1-2 months. I say *some point* because we are in a super convenient position of having no facking clue when he is leaving or when he is coming home. We will hopefully have two weeks notice before he has to head out. I’m not looking forward to it, but I am also anxious for it to just get here so it can be over.

 

One or two months alone with a toddler isn’t going to be too awful. We did a few weeks earlier this year that we made it through. The stressful part was Adam’s return date kept getting pushed. So I would be counting down the hours until August would poop and I wouldn’t have to change the diaper, and as it would get closer I would find out I needed to take a few more days on.

 

The whole experience of being alone wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be, though. I didn’t really need to cook because August only eats four things and three of them are cheese, and I don’t like cooking for myself most of the time. I end up eating sandwiches and simple stuff. Plus, I would be tired enough at the end of the day that I would skip dinner and climb into bed to fall asleep at 9. So I will be nice and skinny for bathing suit season. Woohoo?

 

 

I already picked mine out.

I already picked mine out.

 

It is also oddly easier to keep the house clean when Adam is away, because I have more control over mess and what parts of the house are being used and stuff like that. He’s not a big mess-maker, and he is great about helping with housework (I would be wearing a bathing suit for underwear right now if he wasn’t such a laundry wizard.) But I usually don’t feel like cleaning after August is in bed because I want to hang out with Adam. When I’m alone, I get to hang out with the floor steamer and my Lemon Pledge. Party party.

 

Shredding.

Shredding.

 

Now, I am also super lucky because we have family in the area that likes our kid, so I have babysitter options and my sister is going to come over and help some nights. One thing I absolutely cannot do on my own is wash August’s hair, so I need help with that. He has a ridic hair texture that is a combination of corkscrew curls and old cotton balls. I have to shampoo it, then put conditioner in and let that sit for a few minutes. The only way I can get a comb through his hair is when it has conditioner, so I try to get the tangles out while he is playing in the tub. Then I have to rinse that out and add a little bit of coconut oil and partially rinse that out, or else he looks like Christopher Lloyd circa 1985.

 

Accurate.

Accurate.

 

On top of that whole process, August just hates having his hair washed. I feel the same way about washing my own hair, as we all know. The one time I tried to do it on my own, the ordeal ended with me holding August in my lap, wrapped in a towel, while he stayed completely still for several minutes. It traumatized us both. Never again. Two person job.

 

Freshly washed and combed, then ten minutes later.

Freshly washed and combed, then ten minutes later.

 

So the whole Adam being gone thing is not the only thing making the coming months crazy. We need a bigger house. We are currently in a two-bedroom townhouse. It’s perfect for us right now. But at some point, I’m going to be tired of fitting in my clothes and having rational reactions, and it will be time to have another baby. I don’t know how the hell the pioneers or cavemen or whoever else has less than three bedrooms got any sleep when they had kids, because I can’t imagine August sharing a room with a baby and it not resulting in the two of throwing all-night illegal raves. So the plan for a while now has been to move sometime in the coming summer. And since we don’t know when Adam will be gone or when he will be back, we kind of just have to do it and hope that he is home, but plan for him to be away. Orchestrating a move on my own does not feel like my favorite thing right now. That’s actually all I really have to say about it, because my brain is shielding me from thinking about it much to prevent what I am sure would be a pretty fantastic mental collapse.

 

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So that’s the gist of what’s to come. Send me all the moving tips you have. And by tips I mean $$$ so I can pay someone to do the whole thing for me. Please and thanks.

 

4 Out of 5 Doctors Recommend I Stop Being Sick February 27, 2014

Filed under: Uncategorized — Sara @ 5:39 pm
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Sick. As. Balls. I can’t catch a break with this cold. Sore throat, aches, exhausted, coughing, and phlegm. So much phlegm. I used to hardly ever get colds. I would get stomach bugs because I eat like an idiot, and headaches, but almost never colds. Since August was born, I’ve been sick more times than I can count. Plus, the last two times I’ve been sick, Adam and August have been completely fine. So I don’t even know who to be mad at for giving me their disgusting snot germs. And it’s screwing with me. The germs are screwing with me. Because I will have a day or two where I feel way better, and I start acting normal and I put on a bra and start getting back into not-sick mode. Then the next day, the germs give me a roundhouse kick to the face to show me who the big boss is. Fack.

 

Dicks.

Dicks.

 

I’ve got pretty solid habits when I am sick. I eat condensed garbage soup because it is nostalgic for me and also because I love garbage and misery loves sodium. I also eat a crap ton of popsicles. The ones packed full of HFCS. Delicious poison. It’s exciting to me that I have reached a level of maturity in my life where I can eat all three flavors of popsicles in the box. I used to be just a grape girl. Grape has always been my favorite artificial flavoring. And I would eat cherry in a pinch. But now I am an adult, and I can even eat orange. I don’t even dig through the box anymore. I just reach in and grab a frozen sugar stick and accept whatever flavor the universe deals me. Grown up.

 

You taste like obesity and hugs.

You taste like obesity and hugs.

 

Watching an absurd amount of television is also a big part of being sick. Adam and I don’t watch much TV at all anymore. So laying in bed and watching almost an entire season of House of Cards was a special treat, even though I felt crap on crap on crap. I had tried watching this show last year. It was entertaining, but nothing special, and I got about halfway through the fifth episode before something interrupted me and I just never went back. Then I finally rewatched the fifth episode. The first half was boring, and I couldn’t figure out why everyone was peeing their pants about this show. Then I got through the second half and sweet cheezus, everything happened! I had apparently stopped watching before anything good ever happened, and two minutes after that point, all the shit was in all the fans. So good. Go watch. Then lets talk about it. I need more friends that want to talk about the shows I watch, because all my friends have cable and watch Real Housewives while I’m just an actual housewife that watches Netflix.

 

Selfieeee.

Selfieeee.

 

The rest of the time that I am sick, I whine. Gold medal whiner. It’s so nice to talk about how everything hurts and nothing feels good. Bless Adam’s heart, because he has listened to me list my symptoms so many times this week and hasn’t attempted to smother me in my sleep yet. Gold medal husband. Thanks for letting me live, honey.

 

Stay whiney, my friends.

Stay whiney, my friends.

 

I’m gonna go eat my ninth popsicle of the day. Seacrest out.

 

I Would Trade All My Eggs, Milk and Toilet Paper For Some Waffle Fries and a Tub of Chocolate Icing February 13, 2014

Last night, I went on a few errands. Stocked up on some grocery staples we were low on, fuel for the pellet stove, and beer. I went to the grocery store with sweet visions of macaroni and cheese dancing in my head. But stupid Weight Watchers has programmed my mind into thinking it doesn’t need my precious Blue Box anymore. I’m sitting in my house, which is surrounded by (just estimating) eight feet of snow, and all I want is some goddamn powdered cheese sauce. Speaking of which, I recently saw that my grocery store was selling just the cheese powder. In like a parmesan shaker can thing. I would do lines of that shit off a toilet seat right now. I’m jonesin.

 

Anyways. It snowed. It’s gonna snow some more. I live in Maryland and we get weather here. I have always loved snow. Mostly because I love snow days and having an excuse to eat gravy with a spoon in front of the tv for an entire day. But this winter, I have realized that without participating in my own at-home version of Man Vs Food, I really only like snow up until I take my Christmas crap down. After that, snow is the worst and we have had a shit ton of the worst in the year 2014. I’m about to order a flame thrower off of Amazon Prime and blowtorch this bitch once it arrives with two-day free shipping.

Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.

Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.

 

The only good thing is that the temperature has two numbers instead of one. Double digits, y’all! Every time it has snowed this season, it has been an insane level of cold that I have not experienced in my lifetime on Earth. After the last snow melted a bit and I was loading August into my car, I had to take off my coat because I felt so warm. I thought it must have been in the 40s that day. Turned on my car and saw it was 26 degrees. I was used to a cold that made the twenties feel toasty. So it was always way too cold to take August out to play in. But today, we are in the thirties!

 

Heat wave!

 

Adam and I took August out for a bit. We bundled him within an inch of his life, to where he looked like that kid in A Christmas Story that can’t put his arms down. He had a blast just waddling around, picking up snowballs we made and then dropping them, and sitting. One of the kids in our neighborhood put him on their sled and pulled him around for a very short distance, which he loved. Then he fell over because he can’t really bend in 27 layers.

 

Yelling at the snow to let it know he is there.

Yelling at the snow to let it know he is there.

 

He was clearly over it at the end, but was super pissed when I brought him back inside. Until I offered him some crackers. Snacks heal all wounds. Now he is napping comfortably. Adam is working out in his underwear. And I am thinking of asking that kid if I can borrow her sled so I can swing through the Sonic drive-thru.

 

Just want a pile of corn dogs. Nothing crazy.

Just want a pile of corn dogs. Nothing crazy.

 

I hope you’re reading this from a warm place with electricity and a substantial supply of preservatives and carbs. Let me know what crap you’re eating. I can drool and fantasize over your junk food until the snow melts and I can satisfy my urges.

 

 
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