Wednesday, July 29, 2009

wordless wednesday: because really, fox news, what can we say about this that you will understand?

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

today is tuesday, at least for a little while longer

I was planning to post in a group thingy on the topic of Cloth Diapering: What I Know Now That I Wish I Had Known Before...

But I forgot.

Until I turned the computer on for the first time at 6 pm.

Why, yes, yes I am awesome. Thanks for noticing.

Yesterday was Wee Man's birthday. All day long he would tell anybody with ears, I'm four already. ALREADY. Like he was SUDDENLY 85 years old, after having been 3 for 364.25 days.

Oh, right, the diapering thing.

I wish I knew that I would totally be in love with cloth diapering, and that two and a little more years later, I think sposies are dis.gus.ting. And stinky. The cloth? Not so much with the stinkle.

The End.

There is one bastard mosquito that has been buzzing my ears the way Goose and what's his face buzzed the tower in that movie about the bastard pilot who gets to screw the hot instructor with that crazypants actor who is married to Katie Holmes, who will forever be Katie, and never Kate, except to Mr. Crazypants Actorpants.

And yes, I know his name.

I think I should have grabbed one of Keely's badges for this Totally Random post.

I was mowing the lawn tonight. In the dark. WHY? Because it needed to be mowed. And that was the first chance I had to mow it. And let me tell you, people, the mosquitoes love it when you're out after dark, sweating 'em off. They like their blood with a little salt, just the way I like my margaritas. Back in the day when I took the time to mix my drinks.


Get 'er done.

I can't believe I just wrote that on my blog.

I am broken.

Send help.

In other news, I have just killed six mosquitoes on my monitor. And also one fly. Bite me, PETA. Up to seven, now. I should get out some chopsticks and go all Mr. Miagi on their asses. That'd teach them to fly in the ENORMOUS HOLE IN MY SCREEN DOOR, which THEREBY DEFEATS THE PURPOSE OF HAVING A SCREEN DOOR. And also? The people who leave the back door of our house open? YOU ARE NOT HELPING ME TO NOT DIE FROM WESTERN NEW YORK MALARIA.

There's really no such thing as Western New York Malaria, I just want to see how long it takes for someone to ask the Googles about Western New York Malaria, and maybe they'll read this post and leave a comment, and then that would be super exciting because I could totally use the Googles to stalk them, with a little help from my friends at Sitemeter, and I'd have a brand new hobby.

And no, no bourbon tonight.

You should have known, really, because my spelling was normal.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

wine? what? huh?

So today involved the second worst shopping trip of my life, the first being a trip to the Stuff-Marts two weeks ago that I have not yet recovered from.

I really hate the Stuff-Marts. Really-really, y'all.

I took the team to the fabric store today. Sweets was in the wrap, Miss O was pushing the cart, Wee Man was squeezed into the tiny person seat in the cart, and HB was walking. And by WALKING, naturally I mean running amok, crawling under tables of sale fabric, and hiding in the little cubes under the bolts of fabric. It was awesome.

And then he started screaming.

About what? you ask.

Well, really, I think he was just mad about being at the fabric store, and was howling in protest. He may have thrown a word or two in there for punctuation's sake, but really it was just a great. big. screamfest.

At one point, he did find some words, and screamed I AM WALKING OUT OF HERE. To illustrate how serious he was, he put his hands on his hips and marched toward the back of the store, poor directionally challenged child that he is.

Miss O was quick to jump to his aid, and told him the door was behind him. Because he receives direction well from his sister, he did a quick about-face and marched toward the actual exit.

I marched behind him, all stealthy and stuff, snatched his smug ass up, and buckled him into a cart.

The click of the buckle unleashed the beast.

I thought he had been screaming before, but oh, no, sister. Turns out he had actually been using his indoor voice, and was now using the full-on TWO YEAR OLD FROM HADES voice. There's a marked difference.

So much of a difference, that there were three employees cutting fabric for me in order to get us out of the store. One of the ladies asked me if I'd like a bottle of wine with my purchase.

Is it complimentary wine day today? I asked.

Only for people who need it, she answered.

I smiled.

No thanks, I'm more of a bourbon girl myself, I said. And we keep an enormous bottle of Maker's Mark on the shelf for just such an occasion.

The employees cracked up. Well, not the manager, so much, but she strikes me as being kind of a tough room.

It is truly lovely to be in the company of people who remember what it was like to have to run an errand with many small children, who haven't forgotten that small children hate fabric stores, and who can joke about it kindly without making the mama of the small children feel like a schmuck.

So thanks, fabric store ladies, for keeping it real, and being kind. This mama appreciates it.

But as for you, lady with the three well-dressed children who also happened to have their hair combed, who was walking into the fabric store as we were leaving? I hope your trip to the fabric store did not disintegrate as quickly as mine. But even so? The nasty-ass look that you gave my tired and hungry and also bored children as you walked by? WAS TOTALLY UNNECESSARY.

I have real children. Usually? They're real good children. But they have their moments just like anybody else. They scream and cry and stomp their feet and throw fits. And while I tell them that's not the right thing to do, it's okay. It's okay because they haven't figured out how to handle everything that life, their mama, or their siblings throw at them.

Until they get it all figured out? I'll have mine on the rocks, with coke.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

happy birthday, baby daddy

The other short people took quite a while to warm up to him.
But Sweets?
That boy loves him some Daddy.

And I know you know what I mean when I say
there's nothing like a Daddy and his baby.
Except maybe a Daddy and his babies.

Happy birthday, Mister.

Friday, July 17, 2009

the sling and swaddle fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants

So I was in this Twitter contest... Have I mentioned that?

Yeah, well, it's over. The winner was announced July 8th, and she is a lovely, lovely mama from Boston with a lovely, lovely daughter. And I am very happy for her.

Really, I am. I love my pinko-liberal-bleeding-heart sisters, and I think we'd have a lot in common if we knew each other in real life. I think lots of the mamas in the contest would be friends if we were close enough to actually hang.

I am thankful for the free product I got to use for the contest (and that I get to keep!). I really, really appreciate all of you who followed me, and Follow Friday-ed me, or otherwise encouraged other people to follow me. I truly appreciate your time.

I am glad I got to meet a bunch of cloth diapering mamas, and a bunch of babywearing mamas, and that I now have a good understanding of the social medium that is Twitter.

However? Not so happy with the running of the contest. At the beginning, each participant was required to sign an agreement that outlined the three criteria that would be used to determine the winner: number of updates, number of followers, and creative content.

I did not have the most updates. I did have the most followers, and my content was pretty decent.

I spent a lot, and I mean A LOT of time twittering, and maintaining my followers list in order to get as many followers as I could. I neglected some of my housework, spent WAY too much time on the computer, not as much time with my husband... and I'm not complaining. I made choices. I chose to enter the contest, I chose to play to win.

I didn't win. And I'm okay with not winning.

What I'm not okay with is the ambiguous process that decided the winner. I emailed the person who ran the contest and I asked how they had determined the winner, because I was playing for my local teen MOPS group, and wanted to explain to them why I wasn't the winner.

Turns out, two additional criteria were added without informing contestants, and the number of followers was basically discounted, because some mamas had non-legitimate followers.

That's right, I said non-legitimate followers, thereby violating the stipulation that... oh wait. There were no stipulations. There were no rules about how people got followers. Really, the only rule that was mentioned was that you couldn't post inappropriate content.

So the top three or four people, in terms of the actually measurable criteria (followers and updates) were pretty much out of the running.

Lots of the mamas had done numerous blog posts with pictures of themselves using the product, pictures of the babies wearing product, wrapped in product. Many of the mamas used yfrog and twitpic to post pictures to their Twitter accounts. It seems that did not really weigh into the evaluations, either.

And at the end of last week, the question was raised about the age of the winning baby. Well, not about what her age is, her mama talks about her age on her blog. But the baby is older than the rules of the contest allowed. I'm going to go not that far out on a limb and speculate that there was no dishonesty on the part of the winning mama. She doesn't seem like that sort of person. I think the people in charge of the contest are at fault. They put conflicting information on the agreement and on the application info, and coupled with the other inconsistancies, I think it's logical to hold them accountable for this, too.

When the age of the baby deal was brought to their attention, the response of Sling and Swaddle was, "You're correct. That's something that we'll handle with that mom. Thnx for your concern." The next question posed to them was to the effect of, "That's great, but how are you going to handle it fairly in regards to the other 29 moms?" To which Sling and Swaddle has yet to reply. I even sent them an email asking how this would be handled, and haven't heard back.

Ummm, people? That is just not a good way to do business. When you make a mistake, own up to it, and make it right. If you can't make it right, at least do something to make it look like you're trying. Don't just leave things hanging.

The Sling and Swaddle Journey was fun while it lasted, but I get the impression it has ended on a sour note for some of the mamas involved due to the lack of planning, the hosts' lack of knowledge of Twitter, the disorganization, the lack of rules for the contestants to follow, and the change in expectations which was not passed on to the contestants.

A little more planning and attention to detail could have helped this contest be a fun month-long journey. Instead, they took us for a ride.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

dear karen...

Dangit if I don't know a whole mess of people named Karen and now you go and leave me a comment about the homeschooling and I have no idea which Karen to talk to. As if I don't have enough to think about.

Out yourself, woman! Or man named Karen! In which case the list of Karens suddenly became much, much shorter.

And yes, we are homeschooling, and I will address that in a future postage.

how i got my neighborhood black-listed

I think it's safe to say that I was fairly surly when the end of my pregnancy with Miss O rolled around.

Or, when I rolled around at the end of my pregnancy with Miss O.

Either way, and also? Moving on.

I was a long-term substitute for a middle school music teacher in a suburb of Buffalo, and if you missed it the ninetyeleven times I mentioned this so far? Teaching was not for me. Teaching is the opposite of what I should do when I grow up.

Says the mama who will be homeschooling next year.

I'm getting to the point, I swear.

But first? A brief commercial. I love Cheez-Its. The kind with two flavors in one box? All parmesanish and cheddarish? Hello, lover.

Anyway. I was fat and pissed off and my feet hurt. And it was dinner time (but with that pregnancy, it was ALWAYS dinner time...I will make it through this post if it kills me). Also, it was about 5 degrees outside, and while we measure temperature with the F, 5 degrees C sucks, too.

Someone knocked on my door, which was the result of a serious effort, because it was January, and there was about eighty-nine inches of snow on my sidewalk. Or four. I can't be held accountable for accurately describing things that happen to me when I'm pregnant.

I think I had changed out of my work clothes into my pajamas and bathrobe, so I was very excited to answer the door and find a gaggle of sort-of-well-ish-dressed twenty-somethings standing there.


I opened the door and asked if I could help them.

THEM: We're volunteers, and we would like to talk to you about some important information.

ANGRY PREGNANT LADY: Oh, really? Who do you volunteer for?

THEM: Ummm, uh, well, we're just, ummm.... volunteers.

PREGGERPANTS McGEE: No, seriously. You must be associated with somebody.

THEM: Well, we are volunteers. (Kind of the way one might say, I'm a MOUSEKETEER!)

MOI: That's great. I volunteer, too, with my local Habitat for Humanity affiliate. Except when I volunteer with them? I SAY SO.

THEM: We'd like to give you this information about God.


The poor kids looked hopeful for a minute.

PREGNANT SMART-ASS: Do you work for God? How's that going? And why is He sending you out in weather like this?

The poor kids looked sad.

ME: Have a nice day.

I closed the door. And then my crazy hormone brain kicked in. If you have ever had crazy hormone brain, you know there's just nothing for it.

The poor, poor Mister. He has endured so much crazy.

I followed them out to their car. In my bathrobe, pajamas, and slippers.

The poor kids looked scared.

ME: Yeah, so here's the thing. If you have balls enough to go door to door in a strange community "volunteering" (yes, I did the air quotes), you should be able to muster up enough balls to say who sent you.

I also said something about standing on their soapbox, and if they truly believed in what they were doing they wouldn't be secretive and hide information... and I said a bunch of other things which quite possibly included something slightly more offensive than, "Get the hell out of Dodge and don't ever come back, you pansy-assed proselytizers."

To their credit? They follow directions wonderfully.

Much thanks to cIII at The Goat and Tater for the inspiration. He scared 'em off with his tattoos. Word.

Monday, July 13, 2009


Hi. I'm Pamela, and I'm the blogger round these here parts.

Except for when I'm not the blogger, then I perform a variety of other services, including, but not limited to the following:
  1. wife
  2. mama
  3. nursemaid
  4. coffee-drinker
  5. applier of all things band-aid
  6. remover of all things band-aid
  7. chef
  8. babywearer
  9. lawn mower
  10. ass-wiper
  11. ass-wiper
  12. ass-wiper
  13. ass-wiper
  14. yes, I have included my own in the tally
  15. laundress
  16. bed maker
  17. toy tripper-onner
  18. toy kicker
  19. toy thrower-awayer
  20. gardener
  21. nose wiper
  22. all night diner
  23. all night water service
  24. cat hater
  25. cat tripper-onner
  26. cat kicker
  27. not all the cats, just the one who asks for it by wrapping his nasty self around my feet and ankles, and I don't kick him *that* hard, but I did throw a high-heeled shoe in his general direction the other day, don't bother calling PETA, I'll kick and throw shoes at them, too.
  28. because I can, that's why.
  29. raw pea-pod eater
  30. raspberry picker
  31. currant picker
  32. not a nose picker
  33. diaper washer
  34. chauffeur
  35. sometime adult
  36. ummm...
  37. brainiac. or something.
Thanks for stopping by. If you're new here, please know that my usual offerings are slightly better than this measly peasly list. Which, if I may say so myself, is NOT all inclusive, however the omission of both lap-dancer and pole-dancer is not a mistake.

Because the list is all the stuff I do for free.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

there's nothing for it

My boy is sad. His Special Bwankey, Bewovey, or as the tall people say, Belovey, has been missing for almost a week. He cried himself to sleep tonight. The substitute Belovey is unacceptable. He can't even suck his thumb properly because he doesn't have his Belovey to help. And nothing smells the way Belovey smells (for this, I am thankful...there was no hope for making it smell fresh ever again).

He cries like his heart is broken.

Because it is broken.

And that makes me very, very sad.

Because three is too young to have an unfixable hurt.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

driving back from le maison well-read

It went a little something like this:


Stop for an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, to the bathroom, diapers changed, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, refill the water, dole out the snacks, buckle the seatbelts, curse under the breath, start car and go.


Stop for way more than an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, to the bathroom, diapers changed, play on the playground, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, refill the water, dole out the snacks, buckle the seatbelts, pray for bourbon, start car and go.


Stop for an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, to the bathroom, diapers changed, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, refill the water, dole out the snacks, buckle the seatbelts, curse under the breath, start car and go.


Stop for an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, in the Waffle House, ordered, fed (except not really, because they didn't eat), to the bathroom, diapers changed, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, buckle the seatbelts, curse under the breath, start car and go across the parking lot to the Calico Corners outlet to look for a Substitute Beloved Blanket. Which? No dice. In the car, buckle up, unbuckle, change a diaper, serve cheese to accompany the WHINE.


Purchase dramamine.




The End.

Epilogue: I got into bed and was so exhausted I was dreaming I was still driving, and if I closed my eyes and went to sleep I'd crash my car and die. It was messed up.