Gabby when she gets what she wants…
Gabby when she does NOT get what she wants…
What she wants…
Not what she wants…
And my family has THE NERVE to call her a spoiled brat.
That’s pretty much exactly what my temper tantrums look like. When Tony brings home the wrong kind of drink from Starbucks, Lord have mercy!
I’m all happy when I first see the cup!
“Yay! A frap!”
Then I realize they forgot the extra caramel and I’m all “I aint drinking that stupid piece of crap drink! I will throw it down the drain!”
My sister and I used to have a name for the anger we feel when people don’t get our food orders right. It’s called “Squish the Foam”.
You see, one day Tony went to get us a frozen yogurt. We gave him our order and he came back with THE WRONG SIZES! We wanted larges and he got smalls. SMALLS! . We were both pissed, but didn’t want to say anything because, well, it was really nice of him to get it for us. I sat there, looking at this stupid piece of crap SMALL yogurt and I lost it. I started to squeeze the Styrofoam container as hard as I could. The yogurt oozed out of the cup, all over my hands and dropped onto the table. We both started laughing uncontrollably at how stupid we were acting because we didn’t get larges! We have “issues” with food, obviously and there have been many times since that incident in which we’ve called each other on the phone to talk about “A Squish The Foam” incident we had experienced that day.
Have you ever had a Squish the Foam moment? You were looking forward to eating something and when you brought the food home, the order was totally screwed up and you didn’t want to eat it because you were SO PISSED that it wasn’t exactly what you wanted?
I have a feeling me and my sister are crazy and just may be alone on this issue.
Monthly Archives: March 2005
What is this “aging gracefully” thing that people speak of?
The whole “I need to see your I.D, whoops, I was looking at your ass and not your face and now that I see your face… DAMN YOU LOOK OLD! nevermind!” incident really effed me up.
I’m feeling uglier then I normally do.
I spent all morning examining the wrinkles all over my face and my neck. How did I miss the fact that I am chock full o’ wrinkles? Everywhere!! GROSS!
It didn’t help matters that during the wrinkle examination, I found another gray hair all up in my scalp.
Oh! And did you know I have VERICOSE VIENS on the back of my calves?
WHY COULDN’T TONY HAVE BOUGHT HIS OWN DAMN BEER?
Sunshine.
I got carded tonight, bitches!
Sort of. Kind of. Almost.
Ok. I didn’t get carded at all.
But My ASS totally did.
That’s right, apparently, my ass looks underage, but MY FACE does not.
As I was checking out at the self check out lanes, the lady who works there yelled out “I’m going to need to see I.D” because I had scanned a 12 pack of beer for Tony. “NO PROBLEM!” I shouted, as I pulled out my wallet.
I turned around to show her my card and the ho was all “Ohhhhhhhhh from behind you looked REALLY YOUNG, NEVERMIND, I DON’T NEED TO SEE IT.”
“You could have seen the I.D all the way through, even after you realised I look like an OLD HAG, to save me from feeling like an ass, ya know”
She apologized a hundred times and it took everything within my soul to not give her a round house kick to the ribs and knock all of her teeth out. Like, SHUTUP ALREADY AND GO AWAY BECAUSE I’M TIRED OF PEOPLE STARING AND LAUGHING ALREADY, HO!
My ass taunted me the whole way home. “Ha! I may be fat, but I can lose weight and you can’t lose those wrinkles ALL OVER YOUR FACE YOU OLD HAG!”
I hate my ass.
But not as much as I hate that stupid skank who halted “the carding” the minute she SAW MY FACE.
Puberty.
PUBERTY IS GROSSER THAN GROSS!!
I remember when my little brothers went through it, I was so grossed out, I didn’t want to be around them with their smell, their zits, their voice, their overall ugliness/ackwardness. It was too gross to deal with.
Now, it’s my son. My BABY is pube’n.
Zits! Hair! B.O! BONERS!
I can’t take it, people.
I see the zits on my sons nose, and I want to pop them, but I’m like… PUBERTY! GROSS! YOU CAN’T TOUCH PUBERTY ZITS!
And don’t even get me started on the puberty ‘tude.
This morning, at 9:30am, my son YELLS AT ME from his bed.
“Turn that music down! You’re waking me up!”
Um. Excuse me, kid, but it’s almost 10am. When I was your age, I had to be up by 7 and scrubbing toilets by 7:15, after I had read the bible and prayed, of course. And you’re yelling at me that my music is WAKING YOUR LAZY ASS UP?
Aw hell no.
I don’t know how much of this I can take. :shudders:
*fingers*
My family has decided that my daughter is “A Spoiled Brat.”
She’s attached to me. Very attached to me. So attached to me, that she cries when anyone else holds her.
See?
I have quite a few more pictures like that. Gabby, in someone elses arms, crying.
So everyone’s all “She’s spoiled!” “What a brat!” “She’s TOO attached to you!”
One part of me, most likely the mentally ill/emotionally unstable part of me, wants to stand up and shout. “Of course she’s attached to me! I’m home with her all day long! And at least she loves me unconditionally and LOVES TO BE AROUND ME, unlike everyone else in the fucking world!”
Another part of me is frustrated and hurt by it all. I can’t help it if she’s attached to me. What am I supposed to do? Lock her in her room alone all day so she becomes unattached? WHAT?
“You need to leave her more and go out and do things without her”
Yeah, ok.
The girl won’t take a bottle and GOD FREAKING FORBID that my mother or my husband actually deal with her crying for a little while without acting like the world is come to an end. Everyone wants to make their comments, but no one wants to help me when I ask for it.
So I don’t ask. I just stay home with my daughter and I take care of her, and I love her the way a mama is supposed to take care of and love her baby.
What the hell do people want from me? I’m raising this girl the best way I know how. And in case people have forgotten, I’ve raised two wonderfully, almost totally perfect boys. I think I know what I’m doing.
It makes me so mad and yeah, it makes me cry too, because, do people think I WANT it this way? I’d love to be able to plan a night out with friends without having a time limit because Tony can’t deal with Gabby crying for me.
I’d also love to tell people to suck it.
Long and hard, man. Long.and.hard.
Happy Easter.
Ahhh, Decorating eggs.
The kids love it. Me? No lovey.
Infact, I pretty much hate it.
If you take a really good look at the picture, you can see that Tony isn’t that into it, either. At least I PRETEND I’m having fun, Tony’s a little more “out there” with his hatred.
Ethan was the only one straight up LOVING it. Andrew had fun, but he’s at that age where he can’t let on that he’s enjoying it too much, because, he’s 12 and that means he’s supposed to be “too cool” for stuff like that.
Easter has always been a holiday that I love.
Not because of the candy, or the eggs, or the stupid bunny.
Because of the message of the resurrection of Christ.
It’s a message of amazing love, sacrifice and mostly, one of great hope.
I told my dad I would attend his Easter service today. Now, I’m having second thoughts. I remember when I was one of the church going people, I’d smirk at the people who’d only come to church on Christmas and Easter, never imagined I’d be one of “those people.”
I’ll probably go, for my dad’s sake. I don’t want to deal with him being upset and hurt because I didn’t show up.
I just hope Gabby doesn’t rip one during his sermon.
An Update
I wanted to say THANK YOU to all of the women who came together for Chasmyn. Thanks to your generousity, she will be having the ultrasound done TODAY. I am continually amazed of the kindess and compassion of people who read this site.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
THE CHAMBER!!!!! BARRELL!!
“I want a paintball gun for my birthday.”
Those words were the the beginning of the hell of my life these days, which is known around this house as The Great Paintball Obsession.
I should state, for “the record” that I was against the paintball gun. You see, I KNOW my son, I KNOW how he is and I KNEW that all of our “ok. We will buy you one, BUT, it is NOT to be used here at home. You can ONLY use it when we take you to a place intended for paintball shooting.” talks would go in one ear and out the other and, he’d bug the hell out of us until we let him “shoot it at the wooden fence” or “at targets in the backyard”.
The day of his birthday, Tony decided to let him shoot at the fence “JUST THIS ONE TIME” and only if he promised to wash all of the paint off.
Bad, bad move.
Everyday, since that day, which, in case you are wondering, has been 21 days, he has begged and pleaded with me, the MINUTE HE WALKS IN THE DOOR from school, if he can SHOOT THE STUPID PAINTBALL GUN.
And everyday, since that day, which, in case you are wondering, has been TWENTY ONE DAYS, I have given him the same answer.
“No. You can not.”
And everytime I have given him that answer, he has begged and pleaded and begged some more.
And everytime he has begged and pleaded, I have become extremely pissed off and raised my voice and said “I HAVE ALREADY GIVEN YOU AN ANSWER AND IF YOU CONTINUE TO ASK ME I WILL DESTROY THE GUN!”
He’ll stop asking at that point, but he’ll go to his room, take the gun out, stare at it, and THEN, he’ll come ask me if he can “just shoot AIR.”
“No. You may not shoot air.”
I finally got sick and tired of The Paintball Gun being paraded around the house and I told him I didn’t want to see it until he was going paintball shooting with his dad next weekend.
Fastforward to last night.
I’m in my room paying bills. Andrew walks in.
“Um. Mom. Um. Ok. Um. I took my paintball gun down because I wanted to check on it and I looked in the chamber and there was dirt in their so I STUCK MY FINGER IN IT to get the dirt out and um, my finger is stuck and I can’t get it out.”
I look over and see a long, shiny, round piece of metal hanging from my sons middle finger.
Being the wonderful mother I am, I started laughing, I mean, IT WAS THE MIDDLE FINGER, PEOPLE! But he started crying (and he never cries, he’s 12!) and screaming “It’s not funny! My finger is stuck! HELP ME!” I’ll admit, it took everything in me to a)not continue to laugh b)not run and get my camera c)not yell at him “THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR NOT OBEYING ME!”
Ok. I did say that, but then? I realised that his finger wasn’t going to come out of that thing and I panicked. Seriously panicked.
I have a history of doing that when my kids get hurt. It makes Tony want to kick my ass because I’m “the adult” and it’s my job to calm the kid down, not “freak him out even more”.
I walked him over to the kitchen and got out the cooking oil. This is when “Smart Man Who Knows Everything” chimes in.
“Wait. Not the oil. That could ruin the chamber barrell.”
“THE BARRELL? WHO GIVES A CRAP ABOUT THE BARRELL?! I’M TRYING TO SAVE MY SONS MIDDLE FINGER HERE! THE BARRELL!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”
I greased the finger up, gently twisted and it came off. Thank GOD, I didn’t want to have to call The Law again and ask them to remove a metal object from my child’s body.
The second it slid off, Andrew started laughing uncontrollably because HIS FINGER WASN’T GOING TO HAVE TO BE CHOPPED OFF! And I dropped to the floor where I proceeded to pee a little.
It was awesome to watch Andrew WILLINGLY hand his gun over to his dad, so that we could put it out of his reach until he needs it to actually go paintball shooting. Had I known it would have taken him getting his finger stuck and almost having to have it CHOPPED OFF, I would have pointed out the dirt in the chamber 20 days ago.
scared
I’m going to say something that I haven’t been able to say outloud because I’m scared. Talking about it makes it real, and I don’t want it to be real…
I have 2 very hard lumps on my right leg. I noticed them about 3 months ago. It freaked me out, but I hoped they’d go away.
They haven’t gone away. They’re still there.
I’m scared. For the past month, I’ve not been able to sleep, I am terrified I’ll die in my sleep. SJ told me I should “talk to somebody about it” and Tony agrees. I’ve not slept in our bed for over a month. I fall asleep sitting up on the sofa, usually around 2-3 am and then I am awake again by 6.
This morning, Tony saw that I hadn’t been to bed (because my side was still made) and he asked me how I’m functioning during the day on virtually no sleep. I told him that so far I’ve managed, but I can feel it catching up to me.
I do believe that’s the reason I’ve been taking things so personally. Why I’ve been crying a lot and convinced the world is against me. I am literally on the verge of a breakdown. I suppose not sleeping for a month because I’m scared to die might have something to do with it.
I know I need to get taken care of, but fear is stopping me.
“I don’t want to know!” I say.
But I have children, I have to know so I can take care of myself. And chances are, it’s nothing like I imagine it is.
I’ve already typed “lymphoma” “bone cancer” “non-hodgkins disease” into google this morning and yes, I am now a basket case. Well, more of a basket case than I was before I went and did the search. I’m crying, I’m feeling like I want to throw up, I’m panicking, big time.
I have a tendancy to be a bit dramatic, but this is real. Believe me.
*update*
I scheduled an appointment for April 8. Thank you for trying to calm me down, I love you guys. /cheese.
Putting the “man” back in “Romance”. HAHAHA!
There are a lot of reasons why Our One and Only Date Night should have sucked.
(We were supposed to leave at 3:30 to get to the movie on time. We didn’t get out of the house until 3:55.
Ethan harrassed me the ENTIRE TIME I was getting ready. “Oh, I see how it is. You’d rather stare at a stupid movie screen THAN LOVE YOUR CHILDREN!”
Five minutes after Tony dropped me off to buy the tickets for Hitch, it started POURING RAIN and I did NOT have an umbrella.
I was freezing the entire movie because I was SOAKING WET.
Everytime I called to check on the kids, I could hear Gabby SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER in the background. Apparently, “she’s TOO attached” to me.
We didn’t get to go out to eat because GABBY WAS SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER and I couldn’t bear to leave her there another minute.)
However, I am happy to say, it totally did NOT suck.
You know why it didn’t suck even though it should have sucked?
Because, for 2 hours, I got to hold my husband’s hand without having to let go so I could wipe an ass, whip out a tit, break up a fight, clean up a spill… oh. and? KEVIN JAMES!
Awesomeness. Maybe next time we’ll get to have sex.
Maybe.
Speaking of “awesomeness”…