I've been on the high-end makeup bandwagon since December 2005. Why do I remember this do clearly? It was Christmas time and for some ungodly reason, I thought it was a GREAT idea to go to Oakbrook Mall for some reason. To this day, I cannot remember why I went to the mall, but I went to the mall at Christmas time and walked through Macy's.
While zig-zagging my way to get out of the department store formally known as Marshall Fields, I was accosted by a gal from the Benefit Cosmetic counter. At this point in time, all I knew about makeup was what I had taught myself through trial and error as a teenager. I bought drugstore stuff because then I didn't have to deal with sales people and it was easy to get my hands on. I was a big fan of Almay, hated L'Oreal lipstick, and wore a lot of random mascaras. I'd been to Ultra a few times, but still only bought stuff from the drugstore brands. I didn't even realize they had high-end stuff until I was twenty-five.
But, I digress, I was fighting my way out of the Macy's at Christmas when a woman commented on my eyebrows. She liked them. She thought she could help me make them look better.
I eyed her, wondering why she would tweeze my eyebrows, as at this point in time I was literally the only female person I knew who didn't pluck, wax, or thread her eyebrows. I did nothing to them. Literally nothing. They simply existed above my eyes and I refused to tweeze them, wax them, or thread them. They were dark, thick, and perfect in my eyes.
"You see, you've got a great base to work with. Nice thick brows, good color, but if we use this," she paused to grab the product she wished to show me, "they could be even better."
She did not hold out tweezers, but rather a compact filled with brown powder and wax. I knitted the glorious eyebrows together.
"Here, sit. I'll show you."
"There will be no tweezing, right?"
"No, of course not. Do you tweeze your eyebrows?"
"No. I do nothing to them."
"Well, sit. I'll show you how to accent them."
I sat. She accented. I looked amazing. She gave me some awesome color in my cheeks. I looked even more amazing. I ended up buying the Brow-Zing and High Beam, the cheek highlighter the woman used. I wanted everything but opted on the two things I did not actually own.
It was more money than I'd ever spent on makeup at once, but man was it worth it.
It also started my downward spiral into buying all high-end makeup.
Six months later, I wound up buying Dior lip products. Some lipgloss and liner cost more than my two Benefit products and the woman who did my makeup had no clue how to apply mascara as I looked like I had little spiders for eyelashes. (I should have guessed because that's how her mascara looked.) I really didn't totally switch over until the fall of 2009. I was living at home with my parents. I needed new mascara (I never use a tube for more than three months after the massive eye infection of 2008) and couldn't find Max Factor anywhere. I was about to just give up and go to Sephora and spend too much money on a tube of mascara that I'd never finish when I remembered the existence of Ultra.
They did not have Max Factor either, but they did have a travel size tube of Benefit's BADgal Lash. I'd liked it when the woman those many moons had used it on me, and the travel sized tube was the same price as Max Factor, so I got it. Honestly, unless you're a heavy mascara user, get a travel sized tube. I still only use tubes for three months, and even the travel sized ones I never use all of it, but I cannot remember the last time I actually paid for mascara.
Yeah, that's right. I don't really pay for them. Outright. I hoard samples of mascara. I get them with my rewards, I select them as my sample bonus, I always select mascara if offered it for my Birchbox. I've tried almost every kind of mascara out there. There are ones I like (BadGal, Marc Jacobs, Milk, and that's all I can think of off the top of my head) and ones I hate (mostly Two Faced Better than Sex and the other Benefit mascaras.) I've found that price doesn't matter when it comes to mascara, nor does the brush really. It's the formula that matters at the end of the day. I have very fine, thin lashes that I refuse to put extensions on, so the heavier the formula the worse I find the results. The thicker the mascara and fluffier the brush, the more I hate it. You'd think with fine, thin lashes, I'd like some volume, but I like a natural look. I'm currently using Hourglass. It's got a thin brush and the formula is pretty good. Not as good as the various Marc Jacobs I've tried, or the Milk one. The Milk mascara is like the best ever. That weird looking brush got me for a while, but once I figured it out, I fell in love.
Also, I hate waterproof mascara. It flakes like crazy. Especially in Alaska.
Showing posts with label getting to know you. Show all posts
Showing posts with label getting to know you. Show all posts
27 March 2017
20 March 2017
The Loudest Known Clock
In fifth grade, my friends began to get their bedrooms updated to "teen appropriate." For most of them, it was trading out pastels for bold, older colors. They went from pink to bold teal, light purple to bright blue, pastel yellow to in your face purple. Growing up, I had teal painted walls with a balloon wallpaper border along the top. I also had very dark furniture and got no direct light in my room.
It was dark.
I wanted to lighten up while all my friends were telling me it was time to live in a cave.
While I enjoy jewel tones, I was with my mother when she said we'd go lighter and brighter. We went to the local wallpaper store and got a ton of books filled with wallpaper. So much wallpaper. We laid them out on my bed and discussed what should go in the room. I was attracted to plaids and stripes. My mother feared the day I was let out on my own to decorate. (I've never put wallpaper on walls ever, so do not fear for my house.) In the end, she narrowed it down to a flowery print and said she'd let me have one wall of striped, as one of the coordinating papers was a stripe pattern. I distinctly remember telling her I wanted the blue color, as I hated pink. I've hated pink since it was declared that pink is the color little girls liked. My favorite color is purple, but I hated light shades of it for a very long time, so I chucked the light purple flowery one out.
Somehow, I wound up with a pink room.
So much pink.
My mother informed me she went with pink because I already had pink bedspreads and curtains and I didn't need new ones. So, I got stuck with a very pink room. And green carpet.
It took my mother a very long time to wallpaper the entire room. It is a large room and there was a pattern to match. After she was done she declared she was never taking that paper down or putting any more up. (She wallpapered her bathroom and our bathroom, but to this day my room is still pink flowers and stripes.)
I remember being horrified upon entering the room at the sight of all the pink. It didn't even match the bedspreads and curtains. It did match the carpet.
I'm not sure how long I had been living in the pink flowery room before The Clock showed up. It took me forever to tell time and I still can't tell time very well, so having an analog clock wasn't exactly high on my list of things I wanted. Somehow, I wound up with a clock. It was a dusty rose plastic thing with a white face, black numbers, and hands. It was a cheap plasticky nightmare that we should have just chucked out after that first night of hell.
How does a stupid clock cause hell on Earth? Oh, by being the loudest clock in the world. Honest. You can hear the freaking thing in the basement. Everyone in the house hated the clock, yet it remained on the wall till the day I moved out at 23. Everyone knew where I was if I answered the phone in my room. It was the creepiest thing to be in the house alone because you could hear the stupid thing in every single room. My mom put cotton on the outside to dampen the sound, but it did nothing.
After my daughter was born, I found the clock in the closet when I was going through some old papers my mom had kept. She wanted to know what I wished to keep and what she could throw out. I stared at the clock with a little nostalgia. Even though I'd spent the majority of my childhood hating the loudest clock known to man, upon leaving home I found I often was unable to sleep without loud ticking. I slept on top of my watch when I got really desperate. In Scotland, I went to Tesco and bought a wind-up alarm clock because it was the only analog clock they had for sale.
It was super loud. (Side story: I would always confuse people who'd stop by my room because it was never the right time. I strictly used it for the noise, so I didn't bother to keep the time right if I happen to miss a winding cycle.)
My mom gave me the loudest ticking clock known to man to put in my daughter's room.
"You know, to use instead of that sound machine."
The sound machine broke, but while I hung the clock on the wall, I didn't put a battery in it. My husband hated The Clock and everyone known to man has taken the batteries out of the clocks I put in bedrooms, so I didn't bother to find a battery for The Clock. I set it to 10.10 and never thought about it again until one day my daughter demanded her daddy fix the clock.
So, he put the batteries in. And he stared at me like it was my fault she wanted to have The Clock working. I feared the noise would keep her up, but she zonked out and stayed that way that night. Pilot Boy also was out for the count, but I lay awake for a long time listening to TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.
It had been almost ten years since I needed that noise to sleep and having it back was strange. But, since I spent so long with that noise, within days I forgot about it. Now, only on nights when I'm tossing and turning do I realize it's there and I can listen to it to calm down my over active mind.
It was dark.
I wanted to lighten up while all my friends were telling me it was time to live in a cave.
While I enjoy jewel tones, I was with my mother when she said we'd go lighter and brighter. We went to the local wallpaper store and got a ton of books filled with wallpaper. So much wallpaper. We laid them out on my bed and discussed what should go in the room. I was attracted to plaids and stripes. My mother feared the day I was let out on my own to decorate. (I've never put wallpaper on walls ever, so do not fear for my house.) In the end, she narrowed it down to a flowery print and said she'd let me have one wall of striped, as one of the coordinating papers was a stripe pattern. I distinctly remember telling her I wanted the blue color, as I hated pink. I've hated pink since it was declared that pink is the color little girls liked. My favorite color is purple, but I hated light shades of it for a very long time, so I chucked the light purple flowery one out.
Somehow, I wound up with a pink room.
So much pink.
My mother informed me she went with pink because I already had pink bedspreads and curtains and I didn't need new ones. So, I got stuck with a very pink room. And green carpet.
It took my mother a very long time to wallpaper the entire room. It is a large room and there was a pattern to match. After she was done she declared she was never taking that paper down or putting any more up. (She wallpapered her bathroom and our bathroom, but to this day my room is still pink flowers and stripes.)
I remember being horrified upon entering the room at the sight of all the pink. It didn't even match the bedspreads and curtains. It did match the carpet.
I'm not sure how long I had been living in the pink flowery room before The Clock showed up. It took me forever to tell time and I still can't tell time very well, so having an analog clock wasn't exactly high on my list of things I wanted. Somehow, I wound up with a clock. It was a dusty rose plastic thing with a white face, black numbers, and hands. It was a cheap plasticky nightmare that we should have just chucked out after that first night of hell.
How does a stupid clock cause hell on Earth? Oh, by being the loudest clock in the world. Honest. You can hear the freaking thing in the basement. Everyone in the house hated the clock, yet it remained on the wall till the day I moved out at 23. Everyone knew where I was if I answered the phone in my room. It was the creepiest thing to be in the house alone because you could hear the stupid thing in every single room. My mom put cotton on the outside to dampen the sound, but it did nothing.
After my daughter was born, I found the clock in the closet when I was going through some old papers my mom had kept. She wanted to know what I wished to keep and what she could throw out. I stared at the clock with a little nostalgia. Even though I'd spent the majority of my childhood hating the loudest clock known to man, upon leaving home I found I often was unable to sleep without loud ticking. I slept on top of my watch when I got really desperate. In Scotland, I went to Tesco and bought a wind-up alarm clock because it was the only analog clock they had for sale.
It was super loud. (Side story: I would always confuse people who'd stop by my room because it was never the right time. I strictly used it for the noise, so I didn't bother to keep the time right if I happen to miss a winding cycle.)
My mom gave me the loudest ticking clock known to man to put in my daughter's room.
"You know, to use instead of that sound machine."
The sound machine broke, but while I hung the clock on the wall, I didn't put a battery in it. My husband hated The Clock and everyone known to man has taken the batteries out of the clocks I put in bedrooms, so I didn't bother to find a battery for The Clock. I set it to 10.10 and never thought about it again until one day my daughter demanded her daddy fix the clock.
So, he put the batteries in. And he stared at me like it was my fault she wanted to have The Clock working. I feared the noise would keep her up, but she zonked out and stayed that way that night. Pilot Boy also was out for the count, but I lay awake for a long time listening to TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.
It had been almost ten years since I needed that noise to sleep and having it back was strange. But, since I spent so long with that noise, within days I forgot about it. Now, only on nights when I'm tossing and turning do I realize it's there and I can listen to it to calm down my over active mind.
11 March 2017
Back in Fashion
It happened this week. I told someone I was wearing something I had had since high school. Upon realizing this, I was amazed and wondrous, as the size I am now and the size I am now are like night and day.
So, here's what happened. I went to a coffee shop with a friend of mine who was in town. We both wished to escape tiny humans and enjoy a conversation that was not interrupted by the tiny humans (or the husbands). Something you don't realize when you usually converse with a two-year-old and not an adult: you can't have a conversation while there are toddlers present, as they will demand your attention either by talking over you or falling on their face. So, we left the tiny humans with our husbands and escaped for two glorious hours of adult conversation at a local coffee shop.
Now, I love this coffee shop. It was the first one suggested to me upon arrival, but I nixed because it was tiny, cramped, and dark. I wound up going there because it was small and I had a tiny human who was crawling everywhere. I fell in love with it for an array of reasons, none having to do with the coffee. They have a FULL-SIZE CHANGING TABLE. They also gave my daughter a full cup of whipped cream mostly because she was so well behaved while my friend and I had coffee. EMO was maybe nine months at the time. She was crawling and I spent the majority of the time chasing her down when she'd get too far from me. (I would have just let her crawl away, but there were others in the shop and they didn't seem to think I should be letting my kid crawl around the coffee shop.) But, she didn't fuss or complain, simply went back to exploring once I brought her back to our corner. The other's times I've taken her, they've almost always given her something, though never again a full cup of whipped cream (which I ate most of because she was too busy crawling away).
The last time I'd gone to the coffee shop to get coffee with my dad, they'd totally redone the place and it felt bigger, brighter, and totally different, so I wanted to go sit in it and enjoy it without a toddler. While the barista was crafting our lattes, he mentioned that my jean jacket was a hot trend and they were "totally back." (Yes, he did, in fact, say that to me.) We proceeded to have a conversation about how things keep coming back in fashion. He really wanted the 80s to return and for men to wear crop tops. (I was not aware that was a thing for dudes in the 80s, but what the hell do I know? I wore whatever my mother put me in throughout my life in the 80s.) My friend mentioned henleys were coming back in and she'd just gotten rid of her whole collection of henleys, to which I responded, "I only ever get rid of stuff that doesn't fit. If it fits, I keep it just in case."
This is very true. Hence why I have a jean jacket from high school. I also have my Doc Martens from high school. All three pairs. (Which until two years ago when I bought a pair of full price Tory Burch flats, were the most expensive shoes I had ever bought for myself at $120 for the shoes and $110 for the sandals.) I have a sweatshirt and top from Abercrombie. They belonged to my brother and he rejected them. They swam on me in high school, they fit now. The jean jacket was also too big when originally purchased. And here's why: my mom refused to believe me when I told her I wore an XS.
Yup. She refused to believe that at seventeen I knew what size I wore. I had been in denial for a few years, but by that point, I had owned up to the fact I wore a size zero. I accepted it and had embraced the fact I was non-existant. I knew, in the back of my head, that so many of my peers would have loved to buy size zero jeans from American Eagle, who have been jealous of me as I bought double zero jeans from Abercrombie (yeah, double zero. I was double non-existent at Abercrombie & Finch). I wore XS shirts because I had no boobs and going to a bigger size didn't make the shirts any longer.
My mother, who did my laundry, honestly thought I was wearing clothes that were too small simply based on what these items looked like when she washed them. She commented quite often about the size of the shirts when she'd washed them, but never when they were on me. She bought me a crop top. I was never brave enough to really wear it, but she did buy it for me. I've no idea why. I was sixteen. She told me I ought to embrace the body I had at the moment as one day it'd be gone.
Like usual, she was right. And I did listen to her, hence why I owned up to the fact I was not a size 4 and began buying the size that fit: zero. (And man did I feel better about myself when I no longer had a saggy butt and had to wear belts to keep my too large pants up.)
Anyways, in the spring of my junior year, for some reason, we were at Old Navy. I didn't really shop at Old Navy in high school after I embraced my non-existence because they didn't make non-existent clothing. So, my mother and I were at Old Navy and she proclaimed she was buying me clothes. This was strange for a wide array of reasons. She had decided when I was ten she wasn't ever buying me clothing and since I was thirteen I had to pay for my own clothes. Also, I didn't NEED anything. By this point in my life, I had enough clothing to clothe the entire school and then some. (Not that many people wore non-existant sized clothing. This was tragic on many levels, most being I could never trade clothes with my girlfriends as they all wore size four or larger.) But, I was not about to argue with my mom paying for clothes, so I went along for the ride.
We both really liked what the mannequin was wearing, so she agreed I could get the jean jacket and red checkered shirt. When we went to get the clothes, I discovered Old Navy actually carried XS. (They did not have size zero pants, though. I did check.) I grabbed the XS, but my mother said, "No. You're not that small."
I think I blinked.
"You need a small."
I did not argue with her. I simply agreed and got the small shirt and jacket.
As whenever I have new clothes, I was super excited to wear the new outfit and planned to wear it on a field trip to the art museum in downtown Chicago. The morning of the trip, I excitedly put my new stuff on and realized a major flaw.
Everything was too big. The shirt was swimming on me, especially in the chest area. Even with my super bra (either filled with air or water, as Victoria Secret carried both to give you bigger boobs and since I had none and everyone who made clothing seemed to think us non-existant people had huge boobs, I had to wear padded bras and the ones filled with air or water looked more natural), the shirt was too big. I put the coat on over it and the coat was down passed my knuckles-- which was great. I loved sleeves that were too long, but the jacket was not the fitted, cute thing it was on the mannequin. It was wide and boxy.
I wore the outfit anyway, as I was running late and figured that at least my pants fit. I didn't take the jacket off all day and no one told me I looked cute.
I never wore the shirt and jacket again while in high school. I've no idea where the shirt went, but I hung onto the jacket. I think my mom sent me off to college with it. I wore it one day and discovered the pockets were sewn in such a manner they gave me inside pockets that were perfect for my ID. So, I wore it a lot in college because it had extra pockets. The jacket even went to Scotland with me. When cooler weather rolls around, I always unearth it from where ever it is and start wearing it again.
As I stood in the coffee shop at thirty-three-years-old and now wearing a size 8, I stared at the jacket I've merrily worn since I became a size 4. It's always fit since that time. Always. (Except when I was six months pregnant and it didn't button over my humungous boobs.) Was my jacket kinda like the Traveling Pants? It was kinda like a traveling coat. It's been to Scotland, Alaska, Texas, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Oklahoma. It's likely to go off and go to more places because every time I've sat down to replace the stupid thing, I can never find a better coat. And yes, I have sat down to replace it a few times. There's just never a coat that's...well, that coat. So, I give up and just go back to wearing a coat bought by my mother in 2001.
And, guess what? I'm totally in fashion right now with my sixteen-year-old denim coat.
So, here's what happened. I went to a coffee shop with a friend of mine who was in town. We both wished to escape tiny humans and enjoy a conversation that was not interrupted by the tiny humans (or the husbands). Something you don't realize when you usually converse with a two-year-old and not an adult: you can't have a conversation while there are toddlers present, as they will demand your attention either by talking over you or falling on their face. So, we left the tiny humans with our husbands and escaped for two glorious hours of adult conversation at a local coffee shop.
Now, I love this coffee shop. It was the first one suggested to me upon arrival, but I nixed because it was tiny, cramped, and dark. I wound up going there because it was small and I had a tiny human who was crawling everywhere. I fell in love with it for an array of reasons, none having to do with the coffee. They have a FULL-SIZE CHANGING TABLE. They also gave my daughter a full cup of whipped cream mostly because she was so well behaved while my friend and I had coffee. EMO was maybe nine months at the time. She was crawling and I spent the majority of the time chasing her down when she'd get too far from me. (I would have just let her crawl away, but there were others in the shop and they didn't seem to think I should be letting my kid crawl around the coffee shop.) But, she didn't fuss or complain, simply went back to exploring once I brought her back to our corner. The other's times I've taken her, they've almost always given her something, though never again a full cup of whipped cream (which I ate most of because she was too busy crawling away).
The last time I'd gone to the coffee shop to get coffee with my dad, they'd totally redone the place and it felt bigger, brighter, and totally different, so I wanted to go sit in it and enjoy it without a toddler. While the barista was crafting our lattes, he mentioned that my jean jacket was a hot trend and they were "totally back." (Yes, he did, in fact, say that to me.) We proceeded to have a conversation about how things keep coming back in fashion. He really wanted the 80s to return and for men to wear crop tops. (I was not aware that was a thing for dudes in the 80s, but what the hell do I know? I wore whatever my mother put me in throughout my life in the 80s.) My friend mentioned henleys were coming back in and she'd just gotten rid of her whole collection of henleys, to which I responded, "I only ever get rid of stuff that doesn't fit. If it fits, I keep it just in case."
This is very true. Hence why I have a jean jacket from high school. I also have my Doc Martens from high school. All three pairs. (Which until two years ago when I bought a pair of full price Tory Burch flats, were the most expensive shoes I had ever bought for myself at $120 for the shoes and $110 for the sandals.) I have a sweatshirt and top from Abercrombie. They belonged to my brother and he rejected them. They swam on me in high school, they fit now. The jean jacket was also too big when originally purchased. And here's why: my mom refused to believe me when I told her I wore an XS.
Yup. She refused to believe that at seventeen I knew what size I wore. I had been in denial for a few years, but by that point, I had owned up to the fact I wore a size zero. I accepted it and had embraced the fact I was non-existant. I knew, in the back of my head, that so many of my peers would have loved to buy size zero jeans from American Eagle, who have been jealous of me as I bought double zero jeans from Abercrombie (yeah, double zero. I was double non-existent at Abercrombie & Finch). I wore XS shirts because I had no boobs and going to a bigger size didn't make the shirts any longer.
My mother, who did my laundry, honestly thought I was wearing clothes that were too small simply based on what these items looked like when she washed them. She commented quite often about the size of the shirts when she'd washed them, but never when they were on me. She bought me a crop top. I was never brave enough to really wear it, but she did buy it for me. I've no idea why. I was sixteen. She told me I ought to embrace the body I had at the moment as one day it'd be gone.
Like usual, she was right. And I did listen to her, hence why I owned up to the fact I was not a size 4 and began buying the size that fit: zero. (And man did I feel better about myself when I no longer had a saggy butt and had to wear belts to keep my too large pants up.)
Anyways, in the spring of my junior year, for some reason, we were at Old Navy. I didn't really shop at Old Navy in high school after I embraced my non-existence because they didn't make non-existent clothing. So, my mother and I were at Old Navy and she proclaimed she was buying me clothes. This was strange for a wide array of reasons. She had decided when I was ten she wasn't ever buying me clothing and since I was thirteen I had to pay for my own clothes. Also, I didn't NEED anything. By this point in my life, I had enough clothing to clothe the entire school and then some. (Not that many people wore non-existant sized clothing. This was tragic on many levels, most being I could never trade clothes with my girlfriends as they all wore size four or larger.) But, I was not about to argue with my mom paying for clothes, so I went along for the ride.
We both really liked what the mannequin was wearing, so she agreed I could get the jean jacket and red checkered shirt. When we went to get the clothes, I discovered Old Navy actually carried XS. (They did not have size zero pants, though. I did check.) I grabbed the XS, but my mother said, "No. You're not that small."
I think I blinked.
"You need a small."
I did not argue with her. I simply agreed and got the small shirt and jacket.
As whenever I have new clothes, I was super excited to wear the new outfit and planned to wear it on a field trip to the art museum in downtown Chicago. The morning of the trip, I excitedly put my new stuff on and realized a major flaw.
Everything was too big. The shirt was swimming on me, especially in the chest area. Even with my super bra (either filled with air or water, as Victoria Secret carried both to give you bigger boobs and since I had none and everyone who made clothing seemed to think us non-existant people had huge boobs, I had to wear padded bras and the ones filled with air or water looked more natural), the shirt was too big. I put the coat on over it and the coat was down passed my knuckles-- which was great. I loved sleeves that were too long, but the jacket was not the fitted, cute thing it was on the mannequin. It was wide and boxy.
I wore the outfit anyway, as I was running late and figured that at least my pants fit. I didn't take the jacket off all day and no one told me I looked cute.
I never wore the shirt and jacket again while in high school. I've no idea where the shirt went, but I hung onto the jacket. I think my mom sent me off to college with it. I wore it one day and discovered the pockets were sewn in such a manner they gave me inside pockets that were perfect for my ID. So, I wore it a lot in college because it had extra pockets. The jacket even went to Scotland with me. When cooler weather rolls around, I always unearth it from where ever it is and start wearing it again.
As I stood in the coffee shop at thirty-three-years-old and now wearing a size 8, I stared at the jacket I've merrily worn since I became a size 4. It's always fit since that time. Always. (Except when I was six months pregnant and it didn't button over my humungous boobs.) Was my jacket kinda like the Traveling Pants? It was kinda like a traveling coat. It's been to Scotland, Alaska, Texas, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Oklahoma. It's likely to go off and go to more places because every time I've sat down to replace the stupid thing, I can never find a better coat. And yes, I have sat down to replace it a few times. There's just never a coat that's...well, that coat. So, I give up and just go back to wearing a coat bought by my mother in 2001.
And, guess what? I'm totally in fashion right now with my sixteen-year-old denim coat.
03 March 2017
Heed Not the Crazy Singing Lady
I have always loved music. Since I was a baby if I believe my parents. So, logically, once I found about musicals, I was a goner.
The first musical I remember being eaten alive by was Annie. My parents took me to see a live performance that a fellow from our church was in. And by the end, I was in love. My mother took me to the library and rented the CD from the movie. I annoyed the whole family for two weeks solid belting out "Tomorrow" out of tune. (This was the first time I realized I had no musical talent as I couldn't hit that one note no matter how much I played with my voice.)
There were other musicals to follow, various Disney movies and The Music Man. In high school, I was utterly obsessed for MONTHS with Titanic. I'd bought the CD on a trip to the mall when I was in 8th grade, but during either freshman, I began to listen to the CD before going to Youth Choir (yeah, I still couldn't sing, didn't stop me from trying). I felt it warmed up my voice better than doing warm-ups with the actual choir. For months, I'd listen to the whole thing before leaving the house for the evening.
Then it came to Chicago and I about burst a blood vessel. Least to say, when I requested to be taken, neither parent objected to their 15-year-old kid wanting to go to the theater to see a musical about a sinking boat.
I discovered old movie musicals the summer between junior and senior year in high school. I spent weeks singing "There's No Business Like Show Business."
In college, I was obsessed with Chicago. (I actually wanted to listen to the soundtrack to that musical while getting ready for my wedding, but didn't happen due to the fact I was having too much fun and didn't bother to put any music on.)
The first musical I remember being eaten alive by was Annie. My parents took me to see a live performance that a fellow from our church was in. And by the end, I was in love. My mother took me to the library and rented the CD from the movie. I annoyed the whole family for two weeks solid belting out "Tomorrow" out of tune. (This was the first time I realized I had no musical talent as I couldn't hit that one note no matter how much I played with my voice.)
There were other musicals to follow, various Disney movies and The Music Man. In high school, I was utterly obsessed for MONTHS with Titanic. I'd bought the CD on a trip to the mall when I was in 8th grade, but during either freshman, I began to listen to the CD before going to Youth Choir (yeah, I still couldn't sing, didn't stop me from trying). I felt it warmed up my voice better than doing warm-ups with the actual choir. For months, I'd listen to the whole thing before leaving the house for the evening.
Then it came to Chicago and I about burst a blood vessel. Least to say, when I requested to be taken, neither parent objected to their 15-year-old kid wanting to go to the theater to see a musical about a sinking boat.
I discovered old movie musicals the summer between junior and senior year in high school. I spent weeks singing "There's No Business Like Show Business."
In college, I was obsessed with Chicago. (I actually wanted to listen to the soundtrack to that musical while getting ready for my wedding, but didn't happen due to the fact I was having too much fun and didn't bother to put any music on.)
I love Singing in the Rain, but I hate West Side Story. (Which was reaffirmed last night when I watched it on TMC.)
Basically, if it's a musical movie, I've seen it.
BUT
I'm currently obsessed with Hamilton. I got on that boat late, but I've been listening to it enough lately my child has started singing it without prompting. EMO began singing last night as she was getting ready for bed, "FOR SHAME! FOR SHAME! I WANT GREEN TOOTHPASTE! FOR SHAME!"
Pilot Boy looked at me like I had done something horrible, but I shrugged as at first, I didn't know what the hell she was singing. She usually needs prompting to sing Hamilton tunes. I spout out the chorus for "My Shot" and she can finish it. She sings along at the end of all King George's songs. She randomly shouts words during the raps, but she's never just begun spouting off things.
I had a feeling it was from Hamilton, but I had to look it up to figure it out which song.
"Farmer Refuted."
I couldn't stop laughing. While I do enjoy that song, it's not one that we tend to perform together when we do listen to the soundtrack (I am that crazy woman in her car waving her arms and pointing while at a red light with a child in the back doing the same thing).
EMO shouted her version of "Farmer Refuted" till she fell asleep.
11 January 2017
Hiding in Plain Sight
Five years ago this week, I went to Florida for the first time.
Also, five years ago this week, I suffered from the most crippling panic attack I've ever had.
It pretty much continued until I was back in Alaska. But, after my very public breakdown when it began (who says you can't continuously cry for 12 hours?), I kept my ongoing anxiety and panic to myself throughout the trip.
This week, I'm reliving the trip through my past Facebook posts on their handy: LOOK WHAT YOU DID IN THE PAST button.
I sound very chipper and like I'm enjoying myself.
I do not remember enjoying much.
(I wrote a huge post about the trip (leaving the panic out) but it never posted and was eaten by Blogger. I got mad, and never tried again.)
I remember being unable to enjoy any meal because my stomach was also twisting in knots. I remember worrying about meals and eating because that's just what I do when I'm in a panicking state. I remember getting so overheated I couldn't do anything other than try to calm myself down (which didn't work very well) because it was so damn hot and humid in Florida (to me, everyone else thought it was lovely). I remember that after this trip, I couldn't even manage to go to Target without having a panic attack.
Five years ago this week, panic took over my life.
Five years ago this week, I developed a disorder that took over my entire life and still controls a lot of what I do.
And I still have no idea what set me off.
I will never know because most panic disorders just kind of happen. And you don't always understand why you just have to learn to recognize the symptoms and deal with them in a way you're comfortable with.
I can't fly without a Xanax now. But, I can now ride in the car for over 45 minutes without any drugs. I can go out to eat again without drugging myself and go new places within town without taking a Klonopin. I finally found a breathing exercise that works for me to calm and slow my heart rate. I take drugs to help me sleep, but hell, I'm sleeping again so I don't care. (I also can't loose weight because of this drug but don't care because I am sleeping through the night for the first time in five years (not counting right after having a baby when I could sleep whenever and likely forever).)
Most people don't realize sometimes when I'm being socially awkward it's not actually because I'm socially awkward but because I'm having a panic attack. No one knows. Because unless I start crying, me having a panic attack pretty just looks like me sitting in a dark corner by myself watching the world go by. My husband only knows because he recognizes the breathing exercise, but the people at the auto show last year didn't know I was having a panic attack as I pushed my stroller to the entrance just by looking at me.
I looked like a mother pushing a stroller.
Underdressed, but still. There are crazy people who don't dress properly. (I am that crazy person.)
Five years ago, I felt like I was falling apart at the seams and I desperately wanted help.
Four years go, I made myself work through various panic attacks to get this help.
Due to getting help, I can walk into the Med Group and not have a meltdown, I can wear clothing that is kind of weather appropriate, and I can get in the car on a Sunday night and go to Oklahoma City and enjoy dinner with some guy I don't really know but knows my husband well.
Instead of thinking, "I can't do this," I think, "I can do this. Breathe in two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight."
Also, five years ago this week, I suffered from the most crippling panic attack I've ever had.
It pretty much continued until I was back in Alaska. But, after my very public breakdown when it began (who says you can't continuously cry for 12 hours?), I kept my ongoing anxiety and panic to myself throughout the trip.
This week, I'm reliving the trip through my past Facebook posts on their handy: LOOK WHAT YOU DID IN THE PAST button.
I sound very chipper and like I'm enjoying myself.
I do not remember enjoying much.
(I wrote a huge post about the trip (leaving the panic out) but it never posted and was eaten by Blogger. I got mad, and never tried again.)
I remember being unable to enjoy any meal because my stomach was also twisting in knots. I remember worrying about meals and eating because that's just what I do when I'm in a panicking state. I remember getting so overheated I couldn't do anything other than try to calm myself down (which didn't work very well) because it was so damn hot and humid in Florida (to me, everyone else thought it was lovely). I remember that after this trip, I couldn't even manage to go to Target without having a panic attack.
Five years ago this week, panic took over my life.
Five years ago this week, I developed a disorder that took over my entire life and still controls a lot of what I do.
And I still have no idea what set me off.
I will never know because most panic disorders just kind of happen. And you don't always understand why you just have to learn to recognize the symptoms and deal with them in a way you're comfortable with.
I can't fly without a Xanax now. But, I can now ride in the car for over 45 minutes without any drugs. I can go out to eat again without drugging myself and go new places within town without taking a Klonopin. I finally found a breathing exercise that works for me to calm and slow my heart rate. I take drugs to help me sleep, but hell, I'm sleeping again so I don't care. (I also can't loose weight because of this drug but don't care because I am sleeping through the night for the first time in five years (not counting right after having a baby when I could sleep whenever and likely forever).)
Most people don't realize sometimes when I'm being socially awkward it's not actually because I'm socially awkward but because I'm having a panic attack. No one knows. Because unless I start crying, me having a panic attack pretty just looks like me sitting in a dark corner by myself watching the world go by. My husband only knows because he recognizes the breathing exercise, but the people at the auto show last year didn't know I was having a panic attack as I pushed my stroller to the entrance just by looking at me.
I looked like a mother pushing a stroller.
Underdressed, but still. There are crazy people who don't dress properly. (I am that crazy person.)
Five years ago, I felt like I was falling apart at the seams and I desperately wanted help.
Four years go, I made myself work through various panic attacks to get this help.
Due to getting help, I can walk into the Med Group and not have a meltdown, I can wear clothing that is kind of weather appropriate, and I can get in the car on a Sunday night and go to Oklahoma City and enjoy dinner with some guy I don't really know but knows my husband well.
Instead of thinking, "I can't do this," I think, "I can do this. Breathe in two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight."
03 April 2016
Let It Go
When I was in high school, I had a Sunday School teacher who was awesome. He was great for a wide array of reasons, but mostly because --and I don't remember why he said what he did-- he told us if we had any problem, any worry, anything we needed help with to just send it up to God. And he shrugged his shoulders, turned his hands over and lifted them up as if he was handing God whatever the problem was.
He claimed it worked.
I was doubtful.
I was doubtful about a lot of faith based things. I always was. No one (important) ever told me what to believe or that I was wrong for believing whatever I happened to think. When I questioned if everything was true in the Bible when I was twelve, my mom told me she viewed the book as a set of morals. To twelve year old me, that made total sense. Or more sense than what I'd read. Years later when I took a history class on the Middle Ages and found out how the Bible we currently use was put together, I was kind of glad I didn't think it was word for word true. Because it was put together by a bunch of power hungry men who got together to tell people what to believe to basically control what they believed. When I decided when I was seventeen there was no hell, my friend didn't tell me I was stupid or wrong, she listened to my theory and looked as if maybe I wasn't completely mental.
I was always encouraged to form my own believes and find my own way to faith and all that jazz.
So, I was seventeen, stressed, scared, in over my head, and becoming someone I hated.
I was in the bathroom when I tried it the first time. I closed my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, and threw my issues at the ceiling.
I let go.
I sent it up to God to deal with.
And the strangest thing, I felt lighter.
Nothing had changed, I was still in the mess I'd been in a moment before, but it suddenly didn't look so horrible and end of the worldish.
Over the years, I've done this several times: just let it go, sent it up.
And I always feel lighter.
It still utterly amazes me each time it happens and suddenly, whatever is the issue doesn't seem as horrid as I was thinking.
It's been YEARS since I've actually done this. To be honest, I kinda forgot about it. When I was having all my anxiety related issues, it never crossed my mind to do just...let it go.
Why?
Because when you're in the thrall of anxiety and panic, you cannot just let it go. That is the whole problem.
So, when my therapist suggested I just not worry about the things keeping me awake at night, I stared at him as if he'd gone around the bend. I'm pretty sure I'd have laughed at him if I hadn't been so sleep deprived and kind of on edge.
I came home, still in a panic about the thing I was worrying about, tried to research it and just solve the problem, but I got no where. So, I texted my dad and he came to the rescue and eased my mind, but I was still worried. It was still nagging at my brain, gnawing away.
And then I remembered the advice of that awesome Sunday School teacher.
I shrugged my shoulders, lifted my hands, and threw my problem at God.
And I felt lighter. My chest loosened and my stomach settled.
I let go.
Does the issue still exist?
Yeah.
Does it still kind of bother me?
Yes.
But, I do know it'll get solved. And it's not worth loosing sleep over, letting it keep me awake and tied in knots.
Faith is a marvelous, wondrous, personal thing. But, I figured I'd share this and maybe help someone else out.
He claimed it worked.
I was doubtful.
I was doubtful about a lot of faith based things. I always was. No one (important) ever told me what to believe or that I was wrong for believing whatever I happened to think. When I questioned if everything was true in the Bible when I was twelve, my mom told me she viewed the book as a set of morals. To twelve year old me, that made total sense. Or more sense than what I'd read. Years later when I took a history class on the Middle Ages and found out how the Bible we currently use was put together, I was kind of glad I didn't think it was word for word true. Because it was put together by a bunch of power hungry men who got together to tell people what to believe to basically control what they believed. When I decided when I was seventeen there was no hell, my friend didn't tell me I was stupid or wrong, she listened to my theory and looked as if maybe I wasn't completely mental.
I was always encouraged to form my own believes and find my own way to faith and all that jazz.
So, I was seventeen, stressed, scared, in over my head, and becoming someone I hated.
I was in the bathroom when I tried it the first time. I closed my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, and threw my issues at the ceiling.
I let go.
I sent it up to God to deal with.
And the strangest thing, I felt lighter.
Nothing had changed, I was still in the mess I'd been in a moment before, but it suddenly didn't look so horrible and end of the worldish.
Over the years, I've done this several times: just let it go, sent it up.
And I always feel lighter.
It still utterly amazes me each time it happens and suddenly, whatever is the issue doesn't seem as horrid as I was thinking.
It's been YEARS since I've actually done this. To be honest, I kinda forgot about it. When I was having all my anxiety related issues, it never crossed my mind to do just...let it go.
Why?
Because when you're in the thrall of anxiety and panic, you cannot just let it go. That is the whole problem.
So, when my therapist suggested I just not worry about the things keeping me awake at night, I stared at him as if he'd gone around the bend. I'm pretty sure I'd have laughed at him if I hadn't been so sleep deprived and kind of on edge.
I came home, still in a panic about the thing I was worrying about, tried to research it and just solve the problem, but I got no where. So, I texted my dad and he came to the rescue and eased my mind, but I was still worried. It was still nagging at my brain, gnawing away.
And then I remembered the advice of that awesome Sunday School teacher.
I shrugged my shoulders, lifted my hands, and threw my problem at God.
And I felt lighter. My chest loosened and my stomach settled.
I let go.
Does the issue still exist?
Yeah.
Does it still kind of bother me?
Yes.
But, I do know it'll get solved. And it's not worth loosing sleep over, letting it keep me awake and tied in knots.
Faith is a marvelous, wondrous, personal thing. But, I figured I'd share this and maybe help someone else out.
21 February 2016
Back In The Day I Ate Raspberry Muffins
When I was in college, the "fast food" joint (DKs) on campus carried muffins in the morning. Starting as a first year, I discovered a muffin with some sort of red berry that was simply heavenly. I couldn't figure out what the red berry was, but was always thrilled when I found the red berry muffins. DKs did not often carry the red berry muffins, I discovered when I began to get a daily muffin senior year. As a senior, I still didn't know what the berry was.
Nor did anyone else I bothered to ask.
I didn't figure it out till my last semester. I was sitting in the coffee joint (Java Joint), eating my muffin and drinking my tea between my morning classes when I realized what the berry was: raspberry.
And boy did I feel stupid.
The reason I liked the muffins was that they were sweet and tart, reminding me of rhubarb. But there was a bite missing that rhubarb has, so I knew it wasn’t rhubarb. It wasn’t a strawberry, because it wasn’t sweet enough. It was in between. I don’t remember how I realized it was a raspberry, as it honestly looked like a muffin with some red goop. It had no discernible characteristics other than it was red, sweet and tart, and fruit-like.
But, that day in the Java Joint, I realized it was a raspberry. Or it was in a former life before it’d come in contact with whoever baked the muffins for Beloit College.
Fast forward ten years, and I’m scrolling through Pinterest looking for “healthy” breakfast muffins to bake next week to take to someone who just had a baby. I was getting frustrated because all the “breastfeeding” muffins have all sort of “healthy” things you cannot find in the middle of nowhere. (Or I don’t want to buy it because it costs 12 dollars for a tiny bag and I’ll use it this once and I don’t even know if she’s breastfeeding because I haven’t spoken or seen her since before she had the baby and also I still live in the middle of nowhere.)
ANYWAY
So, I gave up on the whole breastfeeding muffins and looked at what foods breastfeeding mothers should be eating. (You’d think I’d remember as I was at one point a breastfeeding mother, but I didn’t actually pay any attention till my milk dried up and I was pumping an ounce a day and freaking out and that was when I learned about low flow and suddenly everything made sense and I gave up.)
ANYWAY
The point of this post: I found raspberry muffins. I know I’ve looked them up before, fondly thinking of those muffins I stuffed in my gob throughout college, but I’ve yet to actually try any of the recipes I’ve pinned. Since I had a lemon, when we went to the store, I bought some raspberries (and blueberries. Those were in the breastfeeding muffins someone brought me shortly after EMO was born) and greek yogurt, as I used most of ours last week making the fail at life greek yogurt brownies no one can stand. (Proof: it’s been four days and they are still in the tin and I’ve only had one, Pilot Boy two.) I’ve not had much success when baking with greek yogurt. (The Cake Cookies and the failure at life brownies.) I was a bit iffy to try these, but figured this time it’d go better as there was more liquid than the failure at life brownies.
They turned out pretty good, though they did remind me why I usually do not bake with berries: melting berries went everywhere. And folding the berries into the batter in a uniform manner was hopeless due to the fact it was so thick, but unlike the Cake Cookies, the thick better made a pretty good muffin. Also, while it seems strange to zest a whole lemon (to me), the lemon flavor isn’t really all that strong. Next time (when I make them for myself), I might zest another whole lemon in there.
Without further ado: the recipe.
Adapted from here.
Raspberry-Blueberry-Lemon Breakfast (or Anytime Really) Muffins
Ingredients
1 lemon (seriously, you’ll need the whole lemon or another if you really want a lemony flavor)
1/2 cup sugar (white, unless you really want to use something else, but I used white)
1 cup plain nonfat greek yogurt
1/3 cup oil (I used veggie, but I’d think any cooking oil would do)
1 egg
1/2 tablespoon vanilla extract
2 cups flour (I would have loved to use white whole-wheat, but tragically, had none so I used all purpose plain flour)
1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup fresh raspberries
1 cup fresh blueberries
Directions
1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.
2. Peel the skin off the lemon. You want to peel, so it doesn’t have to be pretty. As once you’re done getting the rind off, you’re going to put it in the food processor (or blender) and chop it up into tiny bits. Do not zest, as you want more flavor, so peel that lemon rind off the lemon. (With a veggie peeler, not your fingers.)
3. Put the peel and sugar into a food processor (or blender) and pulse (seriously, pulse, do not blend) until lemon peel is tiny and combined with the sugar. (This will smell awesome. Take a moment and sniff.)
4. Add the yogurt, oil, egg, and vanilla. Once again, pulse, do not blend, until combined. (This will also smell really good. A different kind of good, but still worth a good whiff.)
5. In a big mixing bowl, combine dry ingredients. Add the wet to this and fold together with a wooden spoon, plastic spatula, or something that is not a motorized mixer.
6. Once batter is almost combined, add berries and continue folding until there’s no more loose flour. Batter will be super thick.
7. Get out your muffin tins.
8. Spray muffin tins with cooking spray, grease with butter then sprinkle with flour, or line with muffin cups. Just do something so the batter does not stick to the tin.
9. Using a spoon, divide the batter among the cups. Fill the cups as full as you can get them, as the batter will rise only a little. (I got a total of 18 muffins out of my batter, filling the cups full.)
10. Bake until edges are golden brown, which will occur around the 18 minute mark. Do not bake for longer than 25 minutes. (Mine finished before the 18 minute mark, but since my oven is usually slow, I set the timer for 20 minutes. Luckily, I checked them shortly after the 18 minute mark, as if I'd left them in there for 20, they'd've burned.)
11. Remove muffins from oven and cool for five minutes before transferring to wire racks.
12. Enjoy warm. (Not hot, as the berries will burn your tongue.)
09 February 2016
Milestone Upon Milestone
When you've got a child, you hit miles stones constantly. When they first lift their heads up whilst on their tummies, when they manage to sit up unaided, when they stand up unaided, then they start walking around and never stop. They get teeth, they begin to eat food, stop drinking breast milk and/or formula. They grow out of newborn clothing, then three months clothing, six month clothing, nine month, twelve months, and just when you think they have slowed they no longer fit into 18 months. Just when you think you've got this whole having a child thing under control, they begin talking.
Miles stones. So many mile stones.
EMO (who still munches time, but I think I'm gonna call her EMO from now on here, as she can be kinda emo sometimes) just hit another milestone: preschool registration. Granted, I didn't fill out the mountains of paper work, got copies of her shot records, or whatever else is needed to really "register," but I did fork over money to reserve her spot at a preschool at a local Methodist Church.
I know nothing of preschool. Especially when the kids are only two. I began preschool when I was turning three. And other than screaming when my mother left me, wearing my shoes on the wrong feet, and being hit in the head with a metal truck, I don't remember much.
I was not a social child. I was perfectly content at home, alone, and entertaining myself by pretending my clothes were people. By the time I was three, we'd moved to a neighborhood where there were children who were my age, several in fact. They became my childhood friends and several of them attended the Frog School as I have always called it. (I've no idea what it's actually called some 30 years later.) I cannot tell you if I had a good experience there. I don't remember a lot of those year other than I wasn't allowed to be Rainbow Bright and had to be a bear, I cried a lot at the start of each day when my mother left me, and a little boy threw a truck at my head for reasons I could never figure out.
Preschool is important. I know that much. I also know EMO is a social being and unlike myself really likes other people and going out. Since she was born, I've been dragging myself out mostly for her benefit (mine is just a side benefit). We go shopping. We go to art class. In the summer months I take her to the gym and let her socialize with those whose parents would also like to work out and not have a child climbing all over them when they are trying to do Russian twists or downward dog. It was last summer I realize I needed to do something with EMO to expose her to more kids, as she LOVED it when other kids showed up, no matter their age. Shortly after I began to panic on what do to with the poor kid (didn't need day care, couldn't see paying for it if I didn't need it), one of the girls who I had been friends with as a small child and gone to the Frog School with (and put our shoes on the wrong feet together) posted on Facebook her two-year-old daughter had started Frog School.
I was like, "Wait? Two-year-olds can go to preschool?!"
And I instantly began to see if there were places other than the fancy place in town to send EMO. (Well, it might not be fancy, but they won't even post their tuition prices online. You must call.) After an afternoon of searching, I found a preschool taking place in a Methodist church. Due to this, I decided this was it. This was where EMO was going.
I grew up going to a Methodist Church and some of my best memories are in that musty, dusty smelling building. I am not overly religious. I was allowed to form my own believes and will allow my daughter to do the same. But, I am partial to Methodist Churches. I knew the moment I entered, I'd picked the right joint. It felt like home, familiar, and even smelled the same as the church I'd gone to as a kid. Since I had no idea where I was supposed to meet the woman who was going to give us a tour, I wandered a little till I heard the sound of children and headed down the stairs.
It was like walking back in time. While not everything was the same (no half finished Noah Ark murals on the walls and not totally made out of cinder blocks, there was something comforting about the building. The church was huge, so it took us a while to find the offices. We then sat and waited a little while, EMO pointing out all the fruits that were taped to the walls and failing to find the banana when asked.
As the tour took place, I was struck more and more how the building, thousands of miles away from the church of my childhood, was startling like my own. We walked through their "fellowship hall" and man, I was taken back. While the church itself is a lot more beautiful than the one I attended for years, it still felt right.
So, I filled out the form to reserve her spot, forked over $48 for the art fee, EMO waved goodbye to the tour lady (who had put her shoes back on and her coat, my girl is not shy in the least), while the other girl who was on the tour who was about a year older screamed.
While I wouldn't say the girl was horrible, she was really testing boundaries. The mother was mildly embarrassed, but handled it well. I tried not to feel smug while EMO held my hand, put away toys when asked, and was all around the perfect toddler that make others think, "Hey, this wouldn't be so bad if my kid was as well behaved as EMO." A friend of mine who gave birth this passed weekend said the same thing after sitting with EMO when I got my haircut last week.
While EMO does throw fits, they almost always happen at home, and if they are in public she fails to get the reaction she wants, usually doesn't get what she wants, and gets Angry Mom face. This seems to work. She might pout, but soon someone will say something to her and she'll smile again.
EMO still refuses to eat anything green (except pickles), won't eat meat (except hot dogs), and won't eat anything healthy other than fruit. She has a skin allergy to peanut butter, but sometimes to get protein into her (she recently decided she was above eggs), I feed it to her in limited qualities (mostly if I barely put any on the bread, she doesn't get it all over her face). She is still the most horrible napper known to man, but she will take them. Sometimes. She always goes to bed at eight, usually is asleep by nine and doesn't wake till seven the next morning. She won't eat breakfast if I make it, but if it's in smoothie form she will eat it.
My little girl is growing up. She is testing her boundaries to see what she can get away with. She will start school next fall.
Do I miss the newborn stages? The cuddles, the baby smell, nursing, the quiet, the being immobile?
No.
About the only thing I miss is...nothing. I was anxious for her to get to this stage, where she was discovering things, playing, and talking (or trying). I wake up each morning exhausted (because I have that cold that won't go away and cannot stop coughing), but I smile as it's another fun filled day with EMO. That kid has been independent and stubborn since she came out. Being a newborn frustrated her to no end. She wanted to sit up. She wanted to roll away. When she was finally able to do these things...she was so proud. And once she started walking, god, I've never seen a happier child.
Today, as we toured the school, she held her hand out to me, she dragged me to the bins of toys, then abandoned me instantly when there were other children were around.
I smiled, didn't feel sad. I felt elated.
EMO is going to love preschool, just as she's loved every, single milestone she's reached so far on her way to being an independent person.
Miles stones. So many mile stones.
EMO (who still munches time, but I think I'm gonna call her EMO from now on here, as she can be kinda emo sometimes) just hit another milestone: preschool registration. Granted, I didn't fill out the mountains of paper work, got copies of her shot records, or whatever else is needed to really "register," but I did fork over money to reserve her spot at a preschool at a local Methodist Church.
I know nothing of preschool. Especially when the kids are only two. I began preschool when I was turning three. And other than screaming when my mother left me, wearing my shoes on the wrong feet, and being hit in the head with a metal truck, I don't remember much.
I was not a social child. I was perfectly content at home, alone, and entertaining myself by pretending my clothes were people. By the time I was three, we'd moved to a neighborhood where there were children who were my age, several in fact. They became my childhood friends and several of them attended the Frog School as I have always called it. (I've no idea what it's actually called some 30 years later.) I cannot tell you if I had a good experience there. I don't remember a lot of those year other than I wasn't allowed to be Rainbow Bright and had to be a bear, I cried a lot at the start of each day when my mother left me, and a little boy threw a truck at my head for reasons I could never figure out.
Preschool is important. I know that much. I also know EMO is a social being and unlike myself really likes other people and going out. Since she was born, I've been dragging myself out mostly for her benefit (mine is just a side benefit). We go shopping. We go to art class. In the summer months I take her to the gym and let her socialize with those whose parents would also like to work out and not have a child climbing all over them when they are trying to do Russian twists or downward dog. It was last summer I realize I needed to do something with EMO to expose her to more kids, as she LOVED it when other kids showed up, no matter their age. Shortly after I began to panic on what do to with the poor kid (didn't need day care, couldn't see paying for it if I didn't need it), one of the girls who I had been friends with as a small child and gone to the Frog School with (and put our shoes on the wrong feet together) posted on Facebook her two-year-old daughter had started Frog School.
I was like, "Wait? Two-year-olds can go to preschool?!"
And I instantly began to see if there were places other than the fancy place in town to send EMO. (Well, it might not be fancy, but they won't even post their tuition prices online. You must call.) After an afternoon of searching, I found a preschool taking place in a Methodist church. Due to this, I decided this was it. This was where EMO was going.
I grew up going to a Methodist Church and some of my best memories are in that musty, dusty smelling building. I am not overly religious. I was allowed to form my own believes and will allow my daughter to do the same. But, I am partial to Methodist Churches. I knew the moment I entered, I'd picked the right joint. It felt like home, familiar, and even smelled the same as the church I'd gone to as a kid. Since I had no idea where I was supposed to meet the woman who was going to give us a tour, I wandered a little till I heard the sound of children and headed down the stairs.
It was like walking back in time. While not everything was the same (no half finished Noah Ark murals on the walls and not totally made out of cinder blocks, there was something comforting about the building. The church was huge, so it took us a while to find the offices. We then sat and waited a little while, EMO pointing out all the fruits that were taped to the walls and failing to find the banana when asked.
As the tour took place, I was struck more and more how the building, thousands of miles away from the church of my childhood, was startling like my own. We walked through their "fellowship hall" and man, I was taken back. While the church itself is a lot more beautiful than the one I attended for years, it still felt right.
So, I filled out the form to reserve her spot, forked over $48 for the art fee, EMO waved goodbye to the tour lady (who had put her shoes back on and her coat, my girl is not shy in the least), while the other girl who was on the tour who was about a year older screamed.
While I wouldn't say the girl was horrible, she was really testing boundaries. The mother was mildly embarrassed, but handled it well. I tried not to feel smug while EMO held my hand, put away toys when asked, and was all around the perfect toddler that make others think, "Hey, this wouldn't be so bad if my kid was as well behaved as EMO." A friend of mine who gave birth this passed weekend said the same thing after sitting with EMO when I got my haircut last week.
While EMO does throw fits, they almost always happen at home, and if they are in public she fails to get the reaction she wants, usually doesn't get what she wants, and gets Angry Mom face. This seems to work. She might pout, but soon someone will say something to her and she'll smile again.
EMO still refuses to eat anything green (except pickles), won't eat meat (except hot dogs), and won't eat anything healthy other than fruit. She has a skin allergy to peanut butter, but sometimes to get protein into her (she recently decided she was above eggs), I feed it to her in limited qualities (mostly if I barely put any on the bread, she doesn't get it all over her face). She is still the most horrible napper known to man, but she will take them. Sometimes. She always goes to bed at eight, usually is asleep by nine and doesn't wake till seven the next morning. She won't eat breakfast if I make it, but if it's in smoothie form she will eat it.
My little girl is growing up. She is testing her boundaries to see what she can get away with. She will start school next fall.
Do I miss the newborn stages? The cuddles, the baby smell, nursing, the quiet, the being immobile?
No.
About the only thing I miss is...nothing. I was anxious for her to get to this stage, where she was discovering things, playing, and talking (or trying). I wake up each morning exhausted (because I have that cold that won't go away and cannot stop coughing), but I smile as it's another fun filled day with EMO. That kid has been independent and stubborn since she came out. Being a newborn frustrated her to no end. She wanted to sit up. She wanted to roll away. When she was finally able to do these things...she was so proud. And once she started walking, god, I've never seen a happier child.
Today, as we toured the school, she held her hand out to me, she dragged me to the bins of toys, then abandoned me instantly when there were other children were around.
I smiled, didn't feel sad. I felt elated.
EMO is going to love preschool, just as she's loved every, single milestone she's reached so far on her way to being an independent person.
28 April 2015
Time Munching with Wiggles
A year ago, I was exhausted, elated, freaked out, exhausted, anxious, and exhausted. Why?
I'd just had a baby.
By this time (roughly 7pm), I'd adjusted to the fact I had this small being dependent on me and I had peed the three mandatory times required for me to be able to go home the next day. I'd been fed, drugged, and was looking forward to sleeping. As I might have mentioned, I was exhausted.
A year later, I'm no longer exhausted, but I am constantly tired. It usually hits at about 7pm. I just get utterly exhausted and desperately want to go to bed.
However, someone who no longer really Wiggles doesn't wish to sleep at seven.
Or much.
That much hasn't changed in the year of life. My kid still doesn't like sleeping much. She does, though, seem to understand she needs it and will do it. For some stretches. She takes one nap, sometimes two hours long. She sleeps from about 8 till 12, then 12 till 6.30, 7 if we're lucky. On bad days, she wakes up at 4 am ready to get up and face her day.
Crazy child.
She walks now more than she crawls. She's into everything and I'm not sure how she sees as her hair is always in her face. (She won't wear barrettes and yanks out elastics.) Her feet are not big enough for most walker-shoes, as she wears a 2.5, not a 4. She wears a size 12 in length, but a 6 in with. Everything still makes a trip into her mouth and she loves to chew on books. Unloading the DVD bins is a daily activity, as well as handing Mommy all the DVDs as if they are precious jewels.
My days speed by at the speed of light and by the time we put Time Muncher (formerly known as Wiggles) I cannot for the life of me figure out where the day went. While I might not be able to explain to you what I exactly did today, I'll will have either gotten dressed to leave the house or dressed to work out. If I dressed to work out, I almost always get it down during nap time. I might not unload the dishwasher, but I will work out. Days I work out AND unload the dishwasher are REALLY AMAZING DAYS.
The past year as seen Time Muncher go from a squirming, funny looking newborn, to a pretty little baby, to a long, lean walking machine. Her hair went from just on her head to everywhere, and her teeth went from zero to four. She laughs, cries crocodile tears, and claps her hands for Elmo. She always stops what she's doing when Frozen starts and will attempt to dance to any music she hears.
She takes her socks off, tends to loose one shoe, hates for you to put things over her head, but will always help you remove her shirts. She likes to give people things and then stare at them while they hold them. She usually doesn't want them back. She love to knock things over and hates when Dad leaves the room when she's cranky.
Everyone tells me she's beautiful, she looks like me, and she's utterly adorable (especially when she waves at them or claps her hands). I tend to agree with all these assessments and I love that she loves almost all food we give her (except cheese and spinach ravioli). She drinks water, love wheat puffs she can share with Basil Bea Dog, and rolls around on the dog bed like it's her own.
I know life has changed with the addition of Time Muncher, yet I am still me. And I am proud of this. I did not loose myself. I changed-- I no longer spent two hours to get ready to leave the house. I can get ready to go somewhere in under 30 now, including a shower! I still write, still do art projects, and still bake sugary things I shouldn't likely be eating. I sewed a diaper bag, painted half a bedroom, wrote several stories, edited several stories, scrap booked, and got into oil paints. I still love clothes, buy too many pairs of shoes, and adore designer purses. I just also love buying shoes, clothes, and toys for TM. I love building block towers for her to knock over, reading books to myself while she chews on another and is clearly not listening to me, and walking her down the mean streets and not get hit by cars because the town lacks sidewalks. I like taking TM shopping. She likes to get out and see the sights.
I am less house bound since TM and will likely remain that way as she's super social. And now that she's walking and playing, she'll likely like some friends.
A year ago, I had a baby. A year ago, I didn't know what was going to happen, yet I was looking forward to it. I'm looking forward to the next year of development and every year after. Will I miss her being a baby? Being a newborn who didn't do anything except lie there and stare at the ceiling?
No. I'm one of those weird people who will not miss those days because they were boring and frustrating. My child didn't want to cuddle, she wanted to be independent. She was so happy the day she figured out how to move on her own. I do cherish the moment she wants to cuddle, when she sits in my lap and happily sucks on her two fingers and ceases moving.
Those moments...those I like.
I'd just had a baby.
By this time (roughly 7pm), I'd adjusted to the fact I had this small being dependent on me and I had peed the three mandatory times required for me to be able to go home the next day. I'd been fed, drugged, and was looking forward to sleeping. As I might have mentioned, I was exhausted.
A year later, I'm no longer exhausted, but I am constantly tired. It usually hits at about 7pm. I just get utterly exhausted and desperately want to go to bed.
However, someone who no longer really Wiggles doesn't wish to sleep at seven.
Or much.
That much hasn't changed in the year of life. My kid still doesn't like sleeping much. She does, though, seem to understand she needs it and will do it. For some stretches. She takes one nap, sometimes two hours long. She sleeps from about 8 till 12, then 12 till 6.30, 7 if we're lucky. On bad days, she wakes up at 4 am ready to get up and face her day.
Crazy child.
She walks now more than she crawls. She's into everything and I'm not sure how she sees as her hair is always in her face. (She won't wear barrettes and yanks out elastics.) Her feet are not big enough for most walker-shoes, as she wears a 2.5, not a 4. She wears a size 12 in length, but a 6 in with. Everything still makes a trip into her mouth and she loves to chew on books. Unloading the DVD bins is a daily activity, as well as handing Mommy all the DVDs as if they are precious jewels.
My days speed by at the speed of light and by the time we put Time Muncher (formerly known as Wiggles) I cannot for the life of me figure out where the day went. While I might not be able to explain to you what I exactly did today, I'll will have either gotten dressed to leave the house or dressed to work out. If I dressed to work out, I almost always get it down during nap time. I might not unload the dishwasher, but I will work out. Days I work out AND unload the dishwasher are REALLY AMAZING DAYS.
The past year as seen Time Muncher go from a squirming, funny looking newborn, to a pretty little baby, to a long, lean walking machine. Her hair went from just on her head to everywhere, and her teeth went from zero to four. She laughs, cries crocodile tears, and claps her hands for Elmo. She always stops what she's doing when Frozen starts and will attempt to dance to any music she hears.
She takes her socks off, tends to loose one shoe, hates for you to put things over her head, but will always help you remove her shirts. She likes to give people things and then stare at them while they hold them. She usually doesn't want them back. She love to knock things over and hates when Dad leaves the room when she's cranky.
Everyone tells me she's beautiful, she looks like me, and she's utterly adorable (especially when she waves at them or claps her hands). I tend to agree with all these assessments and I love that she loves almost all food we give her (except cheese and spinach ravioli). She drinks water, love wheat puffs she can share with Basil Bea Dog, and rolls around on the dog bed like it's her own.
I know life has changed with the addition of Time Muncher, yet I am still me. And I am proud of this. I did not loose myself. I changed-- I no longer spent two hours to get ready to leave the house. I can get ready to go somewhere in under 30 now, including a shower! I still write, still do art projects, and still bake sugary things I shouldn't likely be eating. I sewed a diaper bag, painted half a bedroom, wrote several stories, edited several stories, scrap booked, and got into oil paints. I still love clothes, buy too many pairs of shoes, and adore designer purses. I just also love buying shoes, clothes, and toys for TM. I love building block towers for her to knock over, reading books to myself while she chews on another and is clearly not listening to me, and walking her down the mean streets and not get hit by cars because the town lacks sidewalks. I like taking TM shopping. She likes to get out and see the sights.
I am less house bound since TM and will likely remain that way as she's super social. And now that she's walking and playing, she'll likely like some friends.
A year ago, I had a baby. A year ago, I didn't know what was going to happen, yet I was looking forward to it. I'm looking forward to the next year of development and every year after. Will I miss her being a baby? Being a newborn who didn't do anything except lie there and stare at the ceiling?
No. I'm one of those weird people who will not miss those days because they were boring and frustrating. My child didn't want to cuddle, she wanted to be independent. She was so happy the day she figured out how to move on her own. I do cherish the moment she wants to cuddle, when she sits in my lap and happily sucks on her two fingers and ceases moving.
Those moments...those I like.
25 March 2015
An Ode to Shoes
I love shoes. I've loved shoes since I was 13 and realized I owned almost fifty pairs of them. I was awed and amazed to discover I had an obsession with shoes. Since that point in time, I've continued to hoard shoes, loving everything about them except one thing: wearing them.
I hate wearing shoes.
I walked around barefoot whenever I could get away with it. I took off my shoes as soon as it is feasible. I was that person who will take her shoes off on the plane and put my feet on the gross carpet. Why? Because due to the fact I hated wearing shoes, I had about ten inches of callouses on my feet. I could hardly feel anything.
Till I got my first pedicure.
It's been all downhill since that point in time because do you know what they do to your feet when you get a pedicure? They scrap your feet and remove the callouses.
I was horrified. Utterly, completely horrified. I wanted to rip my foot out of the tiny woman's grasp, as what the hell was she doing?
I didn't though and I regret it all the time. Why? Because up till that point, shoes, when I did deem to wear them, didn't bother me. I never got blisters. I never had to break shoes in.
Then, my years of work hardening my feet was taken away from me and suddenly my feet always hurt. Shoes gave me blisters on my heels, my big toes, between my toes when I wore flip flops for the first time in a season, and worst of all I had to break shoes in suddenly.
I'd never had to do that before.
Why the hell do people get pedicures? Seriously. I've gotten maybe four total in my life and each time they scrap away my callouses on my feet I think, well, maybe this time will be different.
It's not.
Yeah, my feet look pretty, but my shoes and I have a hard relationship after this point.
I haven't had a pedicure in seven years. I got one before I got married. Mostly because I was like, "What the heck? It's fifty degrees. I can wear flip flops." I mored when the polish finally began chipping and swore I'd get another one in the summer. Maybe keeping up with the whole foot scrapping would help?
Then, I never got another one.
I thought about it. Multiple times, but I've never gone. Even while I was pregnant. Mostly because I had no idea where to go to get it done other than the place by Walmart and I was like, "I don't want to go there by myself. It's alway awkward."
So, yeah. I've got seven years of callouses on my feet, but I still have to break in shoes.
That's where I am going with this: breaking in shoes.
I finally broke down and bought a pair of Tory Burch flats. I've only wanted a pair for seven years. The only reasons I didn't do it before now was because I had a minor heart attack each time I saw the price of a pair. Then, as discussed in a previous post, I discovered designer resale. And I know what you're thinking: used shoes. Ick. But, seriously, I'm not about to pay $400 dollars for a pair of heels I might wear twenty
times in the next seven years.
But, oh, how I lusted after Kate Middleton's shoes. I love the Sledge by LK Bennett and the Corkswoon by Stuart Weitzman. I seriously wanted the Corkswoon, but I cannot pay $400 for a pair of 4 1/2 inch platforms I won't be able to walk in. Towering high heels and I are not friends after my pregnancy. About 3 1/2 inches is what I can get away with without a platform and four with, but that extra half inch is not doable. I cannot walk. And it breaks my heart, BUT, I found the perfect subs for the Corkswoon and they are super comfortable. Last spring, I was tooling around JC Factory's website and found a very similar pair. They were navy, wedges, but used rope rather than cork. However, I was never able to find a look-a-like pair for the Sledge within my low price point and in my size. I'd find the perfect pair, but they'd not have my size.
Tragic. On many levels.
Then one afternoon, I logged onto ThredUp and there they were: the LK Bennet Sledge. In the Right color.
I don't think I even really thought about it, I put it in the cart and checked out before I even realized what I was exactly doing: buying used shoes. I did not even care. All I could think: I was going to own a pair of $400 designer shoes! And I only paid $77 for them!
I was giddy by the time the shoes arrived and threw them on my feet as fast as possible.
They were a little tight in the shoe box, but I didn't care. I owned a pair of LK Bennett shoes! And the ones I'd lusted after for years! Also, as I wore them around the house to get used to them/break them in, I discovered if I put my foot in sides, my toes didn't get squished. (I know, does that make sense? No.) I also discovered, if I wore them with socks, I could wear them longer. The only issue was finding no show socks that were low enough cut not to shoe. (I've yet to find them.)
Anyways, so I had my first pair of high end designer shoes and I could not stop thinking about my next pair. (The same thing happened when I first bought a designer purse, I couldn't stop thinking about my next one.) I trolled the two resale sights I use and never came across what I really wanted: a pair of Tory Burch flats. Oh, sure, both sites have a lot of Tory Burch flats, just none in my size. I spent months waiting and hoping, but never did they show up.
Then one day, Pilot Boy said something that made me think: I could buy a pair of designer shoes at full price. (Then I shuddered.) So, I ventured out onto the retail sites online and began to research. I looked at Stuart Weitzman, read reviews. What I like about his wedges is the heel base is larger than on most wedges, making it easier to walk in. Yet, I still could not bring myself to pay for a pair of shoes I might not be able to walk in, so I turned my sites to Tory Burch.
I can walk in flats. I've always wanted a pair of Reva flats for seven years. I remember when I first saw them on PurseBlog (yeah, weird I know). The writer had just gotten a pair and loved them. That weekend, I was at Dillards (I think) and saw a pair on display. I grabbed it up, flipped it over, and promptly put it back down.
For newly wed and currently unemployed me, they were way too much money.
I didn't pick up another pair till we were in San Antonio and at an outlet mall. I went into the overly crowded Tory Burch outlet thinking maybe I could get a pair of flats. The store was a zoo, so I just waked around quickly looking for shoes. I found a pair, flipped it over, and promptly put it back.
The outlet shoes cost the same as the non-outlet shoes.
And that's the thing about outlet malls I've come to discover: their not any cheaper any longer. Retailers MAKE clothes for their outlet stores. Yeah, they have "sales" on them, but in reality its not any cheaper than going to the actual store if they had a sale.
So, before I had a panic attack in the overly crowded store, I left and decided I'd just buy the flats another day. (I'd just gotten a pair of Ray-Bans, so I figured the flats were out of the question for that trip.)
Fast forward two years and my current obsession with designer shoes.
I've wanted these shoes for seven years. Yes, they've changed over the years, but the Reva flat is still made, still comes in black and gold.
Only, I really hate gold.
And I really do hate labels. (Odd, I know.)
When I first began lusting after the Reva flat, no one knew who Tory Burch was, nor knew her logo. Now, they do. So, yeah. But, it was mostly the gold logo that turned me away from the Reva flats currently available. I was surfing around the Tory Burch site and found the flats for me: Mini Miller.
I am not sure what is mini about them, but they are the typical Tory Burch flat, but the logo is done in the same color, and in this case leather, as the shoe itself. After a few days of thinking about it, I bought them.
And like when I bought my first (and third) designer purse, I fretted about the purchase. Like my first designer purse, I cannot brag about not paying full price, as I did. Tragically. Why? Because each and every time Tory Bruch has a sale, the flats are never on sale in my size. NEVER. Everyone must wear an 8.5. Seriously. Anyways, so, the shoes showed up a few days ago. After the dog stopped barking (UPS delivered and he cannot stealthily deliver anything due to the noise his truck makes never mind his instance on ringing the bell), I unpacked the shoes and stared.
I've never had a designer shoe box before. The LK Bennett shoes didn't come in a box, they were simply wrapped in bubble wrap. Now, I know, why does it matter. Most people throw away shoe boxes. I used to, but now I keep my shoe boxes and store shoes in them. You know, so they don't get dusty. I started doing this in Alaska when I had a shelf to keep the boxes on. Now, I have a shelf for shoes to display them, so I keep the ones I wear often on there and the nicer ones all in boxes, sometimes doubled up if they don't have boxes due to being bought at TJ Maxx.
Anyways, so I spent a lot of time staring at the box. I also spent quite a bit of time looking at the wrappings, as that is one thing I just love about ordering designer things from the designer's website: the packaging. I'm pretty sure I only like this due to the fact I ran my own shop for four years and took pride in how I presented the handbag to it's new owner via it's wrappings. So, I spent quite a bit of time enjoying the shiny paper and shoe box before I actually took the rubber band (nice purple elastic thing) off and looked at the shoes.
Yup. Those were the shoes I ordered.
I put them on and stared at my feet. I almost expected something to happen, but nothing did other than Wiggles deciding she also like the trappings of my shoes and made the box explode of packaging.
Not knowing if I ought to keep them or not, I wore them around the house, realizing they were kind of uncomfortable. Now, I didn't expect them to be like my boat shoes, instantly comfortable. They are hard leather and need breaking in. And today, after three days of having these shoes I decided to "break them in" quickly by use of a hair dryer. I found it on Pinterest. So, I was like, eh, worth a shot. Especially after I am not sending them back. Between the fact I do really like them, Wiggles has drooled all over them a few times before decided, No. I do not like Tory Burch as much as LK Bennett (yes, she nawed on my LK Bennett shoes. She loves them.) So, I took my hair dryer, blasted the shoes for a total of 8 seconds each then put them one with a pair of SmartWool socks.
They are a lot more comfortable with the SmartWool socks on, even if I look like an idiot due to the fact I'm wearing designer flats, SmartWool socks in grey and blue, and exercise pants. (I'm dressed for working out this afternoon when Wiggles goes to sleep, not just because I didn't feel like putting proper pants on this morning.)
However, part of me knows that if I'd never gotten a pedicure all those years ago, I wouldn't be breaking shoes in at this moment and instead would be dancing around merrily not having any idea what blisters felt like.
I hate wearing shoes.
I walked around barefoot whenever I could get away with it. I took off my shoes as soon as it is feasible. I was that person who will take her shoes off on the plane and put my feet on the gross carpet. Why? Because due to the fact I hated wearing shoes, I had about ten inches of callouses on my feet. I could hardly feel anything.
Till I got my first pedicure.
It's been all downhill since that point in time because do you know what they do to your feet when you get a pedicure? They scrap your feet and remove the callouses.
I was horrified. Utterly, completely horrified. I wanted to rip my foot out of the tiny woman's grasp, as what the hell was she doing?
I didn't though and I regret it all the time. Why? Because up till that point, shoes, when I did deem to wear them, didn't bother me. I never got blisters. I never had to break shoes in.
Then, my years of work hardening my feet was taken away from me and suddenly my feet always hurt. Shoes gave me blisters on my heels, my big toes, between my toes when I wore flip flops for the first time in a season, and worst of all I had to break shoes in suddenly.
I'd never had to do that before.
Why the hell do people get pedicures? Seriously. I've gotten maybe four total in my life and each time they scrap away my callouses on my feet I think, well, maybe this time will be different.
It's not.
Yeah, my feet look pretty, but my shoes and I have a hard relationship after this point.
I haven't had a pedicure in seven years. I got one before I got married. Mostly because I was like, "What the heck? It's fifty degrees. I can wear flip flops." I mored when the polish finally began chipping and swore I'd get another one in the summer. Maybe keeping up with the whole foot scrapping would help?
Then, I never got another one.
I thought about it. Multiple times, but I've never gone. Even while I was pregnant. Mostly because I had no idea where to go to get it done other than the place by Walmart and I was like, "I don't want to go there by myself. It's alway awkward."
So, yeah. I've got seven years of callouses on my feet, but I still have to break in shoes.
That's where I am going with this: breaking in shoes.
I finally broke down and bought a pair of Tory Burch flats. I've only wanted a pair for seven years. The only reasons I didn't do it before now was because I had a minor heart attack each time I saw the price of a pair. Then, as discussed in a previous post, I discovered designer resale. And I know what you're thinking: used shoes. Ick. But, seriously, I'm not about to pay $400 dollars for a pair of heels I might wear twenty
times in the next seven years.
 |
| LK Bennett Sledge |
 |
| Stuart Weitzman Corkswoon |
Tragic. On many levels.
Then one afternoon, I logged onto ThredUp and there they were: the LK Bennet Sledge. In the Right color.
I don't think I even really thought about it, I put it in the cart and checked out before I even realized what I was exactly doing: buying used shoes. I did not even care. All I could think: I was going to own a pair of $400 designer shoes! And I only paid $77 for them!
I was giddy by the time the shoes arrived and threw them on my feet as fast as possible.
They were a little tight in the shoe box, but I didn't care. I owned a pair of LK Bennett shoes! And the ones I'd lusted after for years! Also, as I wore them around the house to get used to them/break them in, I discovered if I put my foot in sides, my toes didn't get squished. (I know, does that make sense? No.) I also discovered, if I wore them with socks, I could wear them longer. The only issue was finding no show socks that were low enough cut not to shoe. (I've yet to find them.)
Anyways, so I had my first pair of high end designer shoes and I could not stop thinking about my next pair. (The same thing happened when I first bought a designer purse, I couldn't stop thinking about my next one.) I trolled the two resale sights I use and never came across what I really wanted: a pair of Tory Burch flats. Oh, sure, both sites have a lot of Tory Burch flats, just none in my size. I spent months waiting and hoping, but never did they show up.
Then one day, Pilot Boy said something that made me think: I could buy a pair of designer shoes at full price. (Then I shuddered.) So, I ventured out onto the retail sites online and began to research. I looked at Stuart Weitzman, read reviews. What I like about his wedges is the heel base is larger than on most wedges, making it easier to walk in. Yet, I still could not bring myself to pay for a pair of shoes I might not be able to walk in, so I turned my sites to Tory Burch.
I can walk in flats. I've always wanted a pair of Reva flats for seven years. I remember when I first saw them on PurseBlog (yeah, weird I know). The writer had just gotten a pair and loved them. That weekend, I was at Dillards (I think) and saw a pair on display. I grabbed it up, flipped it over, and promptly put it back down.
For newly wed and currently unemployed me, they were way too much money.
I didn't pick up another pair till we were in San Antonio and at an outlet mall. I went into the overly crowded Tory Burch outlet thinking maybe I could get a pair of flats. The store was a zoo, so I just waked around quickly looking for shoes. I found a pair, flipped it over, and promptly put it back.
The outlet shoes cost the same as the non-outlet shoes.
And that's the thing about outlet malls I've come to discover: their not any cheaper any longer. Retailers MAKE clothes for their outlet stores. Yeah, they have "sales" on them, but in reality its not any cheaper than going to the actual store if they had a sale.
So, before I had a panic attack in the overly crowded store, I left and decided I'd just buy the flats another day. (I'd just gotten a pair of Ray-Bans, so I figured the flats were out of the question for that trip.)
Fast forward two years and my current obsession with designer shoes.
I've wanted these shoes for seven years. Yes, they've changed over the years, but the Reva flat is still made, still comes in black and gold.
Only, I really hate gold.
And I really do hate labels. (Odd, I know.)
When I first began lusting after the Reva flat, no one knew who Tory Burch was, nor knew her logo. Now, they do. So, yeah. But, it was mostly the gold logo that turned me away from the Reva flats currently available. I was surfing around the Tory Burch site and found the flats for me: Mini Miller.
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| Mini Miller Flat in yellow |
And like when I bought my first (and third) designer purse, I fretted about the purchase. Like my first designer purse, I cannot brag about not paying full price, as I did. Tragically. Why? Because each and every time Tory Bruch has a sale, the flats are never on sale in my size. NEVER. Everyone must wear an 8.5. Seriously. Anyways, so, the shoes showed up a few days ago. After the dog stopped barking (UPS delivered and he cannot stealthily deliver anything due to the noise his truck makes never mind his instance on ringing the bell), I unpacked the shoes and stared.
I've never had a designer shoe box before. The LK Bennett shoes didn't come in a box, they were simply wrapped in bubble wrap. Now, I know, why does it matter. Most people throw away shoe boxes. I used to, but now I keep my shoe boxes and store shoes in them. You know, so they don't get dusty. I started doing this in Alaska when I had a shelf to keep the boxes on. Now, I have a shelf for shoes to display them, so I keep the ones I wear often on there and the nicer ones all in boxes, sometimes doubled up if they don't have boxes due to being bought at TJ Maxx.
Anyways, so I spent a lot of time staring at the box. I also spent quite a bit of time looking at the wrappings, as that is one thing I just love about ordering designer things from the designer's website: the packaging. I'm pretty sure I only like this due to the fact I ran my own shop for four years and took pride in how I presented the handbag to it's new owner via it's wrappings. So, I spent quite a bit of time enjoying the shiny paper and shoe box before I actually took the rubber band (nice purple elastic thing) off and looked at the shoes.
Yup. Those were the shoes I ordered.
I put them on and stared at my feet. I almost expected something to happen, but nothing did other than Wiggles deciding she also like the trappings of my shoes and made the box explode of packaging.
Not knowing if I ought to keep them or not, I wore them around the house, realizing they were kind of uncomfortable. Now, I didn't expect them to be like my boat shoes, instantly comfortable. They are hard leather and need breaking in. And today, after three days of having these shoes I decided to "break them in" quickly by use of a hair dryer. I found it on Pinterest. So, I was like, eh, worth a shot. Especially after I am not sending them back. Between the fact I do really like them, Wiggles has drooled all over them a few times before decided, No. I do not like Tory Burch as much as LK Bennett (yes, she nawed on my LK Bennett shoes. She loves them.) So, I took my hair dryer, blasted the shoes for a total of 8 seconds each then put them one with a pair of SmartWool socks.
They are a lot more comfortable with the SmartWool socks on, even if I look like an idiot due to the fact I'm wearing designer flats, SmartWool socks in grey and blue, and exercise pants. (I'm dressed for working out this afternoon when Wiggles goes to sleep, not just because I didn't feel like putting proper pants on this morning.)
However, part of me knows that if I'd never gotten a pedicure all those years ago, I wouldn't be breaking shoes in at this moment and instead would be dancing around merrily not having any idea what blisters felt like.
17 January 2015
the world is wide
My favorite episode of Doctor Who happens to be "Closing Time." While my Doctor might be David Tennant, my favorite episode of all time is "Closing Time." And not just because I had the song by Semisonic stuck in my head each time I happened to either see the title, hear it, or think about it. No, I actually like the episode because I think it's well done. It's funny, serious, there's a baby, and Craig is awesome. My favorite lines of the show still stem from "Utopia," but overall, "Closing Time" is my favorite episode.
Speaking of "Closing Time," I happened across this post on Facebook today. I read the whole blog post before watching the video, but like the author, I thought the song was about the bar closing and getting kicked out. And while fifteen year old me had never set foot in a bar, I still loved the song. I taped it when it was on the radio and played it over and over-- no where near like how I hit repeat on the Backstreet Boys or 'N Sync, so my dad is likely to know all the lyrics, but I am able to recall them easily enough to sing it in my mind when I see "Closing Time."
So, I watched the above video. I stared at Wiggles (who spent most of the time I was trying to watch it on VOLUME SETTING LOUD), laughed, misted up, and then proceeded to go download the song. Because, even thought 15 year-old me loved it, 15 year-old-me failed to have iTunes (due to the fact it wasn't invented yet).
It does make me wonder how many other songs that seem straight forward are not what we think. (I know many of the songs I like are sometimes not about what I think. And sometimes the words are even wrong. It breaks my heart that "Adam's Song" is not The dream is over, I've survived but rather The tour is over, I've survived. Makes me glad I didn't contribute that quote to them on my yearbook senior year. Mostly because I didn't have room if I wanted my own name on it. Turns out, it was a quote by myself, as I'd heard the lyrics wrong.)
Speaking of "Closing Time," I happened across this post on Facebook today. I read the whole blog post before watching the video, but like the author, I thought the song was about the bar closing and getting kicked out. And while fifteen year old me had never set foot in a bar, I still loved the song. I taped it when it was on the radio and played it over and over-- no where near like how I hit repeat on the Backstreet Boys or 'N Sync, so my dad is likely to know all the lyrics, but I am able to recall them easily enough to sing it in my mind when I see "Closing Time."
So, I watched the above video. I stared at Wiggles (who spent most of the time I was trying to watch it on VOLUME SETTING LOUD), laughed, misted up, and then proceeded to go download the song. Because, even thought 15 year-old me loved it, 15 year-old-me failed to have iTunes (due to the fact it wasn't invented yet).
It does make me wonder how many other songs that seem straight forward are not what we think. (I know many of the songs I like are sometimes not about what I think. And sometimes the words are even wrong. It breaks my heart that "Adam's Song" is not The dream is over, I've survived but rather The tour is over, I've survived. Makes me glad I didn't contribute that quote to them on my yearbook senior year. Mostly because I didn't have room if I wanted my own name on it. Turns out, it was a quote by myself, as I'd heard the lyrics wrong.)
26 April 2014
Sweet Stuffs
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Throughout my pregnancy, I've not had "cravings" in the typical sense. Yeah, I'll randomly want something, usually Arby's, but that happened to me before I got knocked up. Usually around that time of the months...and it was usually chocolate.I am a sugar addict. I'm completely and utterly addicted to sugary items. Most of the things I've "craved" have sugar. Are are made mostly out of sugar. So, I've actually done quite a bit of baking. Recently, I've wanted doughnuts.
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However, I thought: there must be a healthier way to eat a doughnut, right?
Then I remembered: Baked doughnuts.
I'd need a doughnut pan. I didn't have one, hence why I'd never tried it before. So, I logged onto Amazon, used the last of my credit card reward points and happily bought two doughnut pans and a doughnut cutter for when I decided I'd like to tackle yeast doughnuts myself.
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I also got a cookbook all about doughnuts: Doughnuts: Simple and Delicious Recipes to Make at Home.
So, I was amped up to make doughnuts.
Then I read the cookbook.
It called for things I'd a) never find in the tiny town I live in (I can't even find white whole wheat flour, people) and b) whole milk (that I can find easily now that I know it's not called whole milk, but vitamin D milk).
Also, the recipes all made way too many doughnuts for me to eat alone, so I took to my old fall back: Pinterest.
That's where I found the recipe I decided to use. Reasons I decided to use it: a) it didn't call for any special flour; b) it didn't call for any special type of sugar; c) it claimed to make only 10 doughnuts; and d) it didn't call for whole milk except in the glaze, which I figured I could fudge with skim.
So, I made these doughnuts.
They were good.
They were actually really easy to make.
Pilot Boy came home and announced, "Wow, these are good!"
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I did learn a few things the first time I made them.1. Use actual buttermilk. I've never actually bought buttermilk before, but since I was going to the store to get real butter for these babies (the fake stuff doesn't brown as nice, tragically) I decided I'd get some buttermilk. And man, they taste better with the real thing as opposed to when you milk the milk you have with vinegar. (or maybe I'm just mental, I'm not sure)
2. Don't make the glaze in a pie plate. Also, cut the glaze recipe in half.
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The second time I made doughnuts, I wanted to make non-chocolate cake ones. I went with the other recipe on posted on Joy the Baker: Brown Butter Doughnuts.
They were not as good as the chocolate and I doubt I'll make them again. I'm not sure what went wrong, as once more I followed the directions and didn't do my own thing, but they were chewy and tasted horrid. I also made a batch of chocolate ones and froze the dough I didn't use (will I ever use it? I don't know. More than likely not, but I was tried and didn't feel like making more doughnuts.) The Brown Butter Doughnuts recipes claims to make six, but I got almost eight, thus why I began the chocolate ones when I wasn't going to, but then I did.
Anyways, I can vouch the chocolate baked doughnuts are awesome.
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The other thing I've recently been making often is cookie dough balls. Frozen cookie dough balls. I like these because they are sugar, chocolate, and cold. And they are small so you don't feel like you're eating a whole bunch when you chow down on four or five of the tiny balls. I cut the recipe in half, as I don't have room in my freezer for a full batch. They are really good on a hot day.31 March 2014
Counting Down to Zero
I'm about four weeks away from my due date. I'm somewhat torn about this. There is one part of me that is like: I AM NOT READY TO HAVE A BABY! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING, IRELAND. YOU CAN'T TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, YOU EXPECT YOU'RE GOING TO TAKE CARE OF A TINY, SQUALLING HUMAN BEING?
Then, there's this other part of me that's like: GET HER OUT NOW.
I can't sleep for more than a few hours because there is this head squashing my bladder making it the size of a peanut. (I swear it's that big.) I'm pretty sure I don't have hemorrhoids, but it's all...eck from all the peeing. I'm so over peeing. And I'm sick of my skin feeling too tight. I don't know how to describe it other than my skin is just too tight.
So, am I ready?
Emotionally? Hell no.
Physically? Hell no. (I'm still totally freaking out about the whole birth thing. Who thought THAT was a good idea?)
But, do I want the whole being pregnant thing to be over?
Yeah. I do. I'm over being pregnant.
I am exhausted. I'm finally looking pregnant, so my belly is awkward and my boobs almost always ache. AND YET, a few of my maternity shirts (mostly from Target and Old Navy) are still too big. Two I got during my first round of ordering maternity clothes, I put on this past weekend and my husband asked, "Are those maternity shirts?"
"Yes."
"Why are they still so big? Do they think you're having a whale? What size are those?"
"Small."
"Do they size them differently so bigger people think they are suddenly smaller during pregnancy?"
"They must. I feel tiny in this shirt," I replied, as I took it off and put on a non-maternity tank top I hardly ever wore while living in Alaska because it was never really warm enough to walk around in only a tank top.
It covered the bump and the fact my shorts were maternity. (At least THOSE fit.)
I believe I've got all the baby stuff (except a nursing chair). I've ordered a second base for the car seat, I picked up a variety of diapers this afternoon (and wipes). I picked up some nipple cream to take the hospital with me as well as granny panties to wear after I deliver. (They looked HUGE when I unwrapped them, which is odd, as they are the same size I got when I first found out I was pregnant and none of these look big. Whatever. They are 100% cotton, unlike the other ones I got.) I need to pack my bag to go to the hospital, which I'll do either later this afternoon or tomorrow. I'm packing up the diaper bag for the baby. (I know I don't need to, but I just decided to throw her stuff into her own bag just to keep things separate.)
The only thing not ready in the kid's room is all the art work I've made. I've got no frames. Pilot Boy was supposed to get a miter board from his dad, but I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon, so the pieces of artwork won't likely have frames till I break down and shell out big bucks to get some.
Today, besides getting some diapers and wipes, I picked up a little lamp to use at night in the room, as the only light in there is the overhead light on the fan. It's not the owl lamp I wanted, but the owl lamp was 69 dollars and the one I picked up at Lowes was 15.
The baby is still turned and facing downward (I could have told the doctor that, but it was nice to confirm her fat head was still doing headstands on my bladder and I wasn't crazy). I was also told today, that he'd induce me if I was at three centimeters a week before my due date if I wanted.
I said yes. I want her out.
He chuckled. Then went on to say, or we could just wait till you're 41 weeks. I kind of wanted to hit him, only I like him, so I didn't.
"I want her out. I'm over being pregnant."
"Well, some women like being pregnant and want to remain pregnant for as long as they can," he said, laughing at me.
I was glaring at him at this point.
I am not one of those woman.
I am over ramming into things.
I am over peeing every hour.
I am over being kept up most of the night because I can't get comfortable and someone likes to do headstands on my peanut sized bladder. (Her beating me with her feet and trying to break out of my uterus using her feet and hands don't bother me, it's the pressure on my bladder I could do without.)
I am over maternity clothes.
But mostly, I'm over this whole peeing every hour thing.
Then, there's this other part of me that's like: GET HER OUT NOW.
I can't sleep for more than a few hours because there is this head squashing my bladder making it the size of a peanut. (I swear it's that big.) I'm pretty sure I don't have hemorrhoids, but it's all...eck from all the peeing. I'm so over peeing. And I'm sick of my skin feeling too tight. I don't know how to describe it other than my skin is just too tight.
So, am I ready?
Emotionally? Hell no.
Physically? Hell no. (I'm still totally freaking out about the whole birth thing. Who thought THAT was a good idea?)
But, do I want the whole being pregnant thing to be over?
Yeah. I do. I'm over being pregnant.
I am exhausted. I'm finally looking pregnant, so my belly is awkward and my boobs almost always ache. AND YET, a few of my maternity shirts (mostly from Target and Old Navy) are still too big. Two I got during my first round of ordering maternity clothes, I put on this past weekend and my husband asked, "Are those maternity shirts?"
"Yes."
"Why are they still so big? Do they think you're having a whale? What size are those?"
"Small."
"Do they size them differently so bigger people think they are suddenly smaller during pregnancy?"
"They must. I feel tiny in this shirt," I replied, as I took it off and put on a non-maternity tank top I hardly ever wore while living in Alaska because it was never really warm enough to walk around in only a tank top.
It covered the bump and the fact my shorts were maternity. (At least THOSE fit.)
I believe I've got all the baby stuff (except a nursing chair). I've ordered a second base for the car seat, I picked up a variety of diapers this afternoon (and wipes). I picked up some nipple cream to take the hospital with me as well as granny panties to wear after I deliver. (They looked HUGE when I unwrapped them, which is odd, as they are the same size I got when I first found out I was pregnant and none of these look big. Whatever. They are 100% cotton, unlike the other ones I got.) I need to pack my bag to go to the hospital, which I'll do either later this afternoon or tomorrow. I'm packing up the diaper bag for the baby. (I know I don't need to, but I just decided to throw her stuff into her own bag just to keep things separate.)
The only thing not ready in the kid's room is all the art work I've made. I've got no frames. Pilot Boy was supposed to get a miter board from his dad, but I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon, so the pieces of artwork won't likely have frames till I break down and shell out big bucks to get some.
Today, besides getting some diapers and wipes, I picked up a little lamp to use at night in the room, as the only light in there is the overhead light on the fan. It's not the owl lamp I wanted, but the owl lamp was 69 dollars and the one I picked up at Lowes was 15.
The baby is still turned and facing downward (I could have told the doctor that, but it was nice to confirm her fat head was still doing headstands on my bladder and I wasn't crazy). I was also told today, that he'd induce me if I was at three centimeters a week before my due date if I wanted.
I said yes. I want her out.
He chuckled. Then went on to say, or we could just wait till you're 41 weeks. I kind of wanted to hit him, only I like him, so I didn't.
"I want her out. I'm over being pregnant."
"Well, some women like being pregnant and want to remain pregnant for as long as they can," he said, laughing at me.
I was glaring at him at this point.
I am not one of those woman.
I am over ramming into things.
I am over peeing every hour.
I am over being kept up most of the night because I can't get comfortable and someone likes to do headstands on my peanut sized bladder. (Her beating me with her feet and trying to break out of my uterus using her feet and hands don't bother me, it's the pressure on my bladder I could do without.)
I am over maternity clothes.
But mostly, I'm over this whole peeing every hour thing.
17 March 2014
An Overview Before I Forget
Well, I'm in week 33 of my trek to become a mother. And I've learned a lot and haven't been surprised by much--other than the lack of stretch marks and the fact I STILL DO NOT FIT INTO MATERNITY CLOTHES.
But, I digress.
I went to the doc this AM and found out that all the kid's squirming over the past 48 hours wasn't for naught. She's head down. Let's just hope she doesn't twist herself around so she's going the wrong way. I'd like her to at least try to come out the right way.
So, I've been reflective lately. My father told me I ought to keep a journal of my journey through pregnancy. I did. It's mostly filled with I HATE MY LIFE! THIS SUCKS! WHY AM I DOING THIS!
And while I still think these things sometimes, there are times I think WHOO HOOO!
Those are few in far between, as I still dislike being pregnant. I just cannot get on board with the whole "this is wonderful" thing that some pregnant women feel. My mother told me, whilst I was trying to not throw up while sitting on the couch in the reading nook, she loved being pregnant.
I glared at her.
So, here's my take:
1. First Trimester just sucks. It is not fun. You will never convince me that first trimester is fun. You're hot, exhausted, sick, and you are usually in pain. What? Pain? What are you talking about? I'm talking about ligaments. They stretch out as your uterus grows and it freaking hurts. And it happens quite often first trimester. A few times it was worst than period cramps. Add on the fact you're throwing up randomly, it's just plum horrid. I hated first trimester and vowed, loudly and often, I was NEVER doing this again.
2. Second Trimester. This is supposed to be the honeymoon period where you're all glowing, pretty, and you get some of your energy back and you stop throwing up.
I didn't stop throwing up till I was midway through and I was still nauseous quite often till the final weeks. Also, you're growing larger. Well, you're supposed to be, but some of us don't grow like those models who sell maternity clothes. What I've discovered: no one sells stuff meant for second and first trimester no matter what they claim. By the time I hit second trimester, I had a very small bump thing that sat just above where most of my low ride jeans hung out. While I was perfectly find standing, once I sat down I wanted to rip my pants off and scream. Maternity tops were all very baggy in several areas: read the belly and chest. While I had shot up from a 34C to a 34DD, my boobs were still too small for my tops. (The story of my life. No matter how LARGE they get (I was a 34A till I was 21, then a 34B till I got married then grew to a 34C. Then, I got knocked up and shot up to a DD. And I STILL didn't fill out the top half of a shirt. Go figure?)
I began, though, to pee more like a normal person and less like a pregnant one. That was a positive thing, as going every freaking hour was getting to the point of annoyance at this point.
So, with a pants extender thing (which I'm still using BTW and I'm still on the smallest one they offer...which means I can't use the panels they suppled to hide your underwear when you can't get the zip up), I muddled my way through second trimester wearing mostly my pre-pregnancy clothing that was a bit looser cut to hide my belly.
Why was I hiding my bell?
I mostly looked like I was just fat, not pregnant. I lost my waist rather quickly, yet didn't really gain a bump till I was almost into my third trimester and I bloomed outwards. So, onward to Third Trimester.
3. They say after second trimester's wonderfulness, third is a bit harder.
Bit harder my butt.
I hit week 30 and everything went pear shaped.
First, when the kid decides she's going to grow, I feel like I'm going to die or something. It's like having a period without the blood. I get moody, want chocolate, and have this constant paint where my ligaments are expanding some more. Add on the baby earthquakes and sometimes I lay on my back (propped up on almost every single pillow we own, as being on your back as a pregnant woman is a bad thing due to blood pooling or something in your feet) and just wonder why I am doing this to myself. Don't let anyone tell you it's 'fun' to be pregnant. Yeah, I've gotten to buy new clothes, but I've also had to buy a butt load of bras, half of which no longer fit. (They NEVER stop growing.)
Granted, I knew this process was going to suck. I knew it going in, so I didn't go in blind. I learned all I could about pregnancy, birth, and all that jazz before Pilot Boy and I began trying. I quickly lost all delusions I'd ever had about pregnancy and embraced all the bad stuff, as I knew it'd all happen to me.
And for the most part it has.
Only, I never read anywhere, anyone having issues finding maternity clothes that fit them. Luckily, I know how to kind of sew, so I was able to save a few of the pairs of jeans I had bought thinking they'd fit by now. They don't. While the belly did expand (as I look pregnant now, though not as pregnant as I am, as no one believes me when I say I'm due on the 25th of April. I've lost track of the times I've heard I'm tiny), my hips didn't move. Are they just going to magically open up more in the next few weeks? God, I hope so, or else this kid might have issues trying to get out.
Third trimester you also start those birthing and prenatal classes. I've only done the prenatal classes, but it was the first time I was actually exposed to other pregnant women since I got myself knocked up. I've had nothing to judge myself against since I got pregnant, which of course made it hard to believe I was tiny.
I am tiny.
The women in my class are not HUGE women to begin with. They are average--just as I am. However, their bellies are HUGE compared to mine. The girl I spoke to last week before class began is due a little under two weeks before me, but looks to me like she could drop that kid any moment by her size. The other woman, whose due date I don't know passed some time in April, is also larger than me, yet likely smaller than me before she got pregnant. And sitting with these women, I feel tiny and not a huge boat I usually feel like. It's unnerving. Because I look at my belly now and think, "How the hell is there a 17 inch long baby weighing 4.5 lbs in there? How do you fit?"
I've got no idea how she fits, but clearly she does. And clearly she's getting ready to head on out, as I found out today she's facing downwards, facing the right direction to head on down out. (Though, nothing else in my body is saying she's going to show up anytime soon. Thank god.)
Oh, and the other thing that has gotten REALLY bad during third trimester: my brain.
I'm turning into my dad. I'm putting things in the pantry that belong in the fridge, things in the fridge that belong in the pantry, forgetting to do things like go to the bathroom (which sucks because when I finally go, I really have to go). Sometimes I forget to eat till my stomach roars at me. And I can't remember words for the life of me. I'll be talking and suddenly the word will just vanish. And forget about paying bills on time. I never know what day it is. Now, this wouldn't be too much of an issue if Pilot Boy had any room on his ice burg for mundane things like paying bills or remembering to do things around the house. However, those kind of things slip his mind like water through a colander. So, currently, it's amazing we get anything done as I'm the one who remembers things.
Well, I've once again forgot to eat lunch. And do a variety of other things I meant to do upon coming into my new study to work. (I was going to write the next installment of Don't Ever Change and maybe work on the Thor story I've been working on for the past four months since I've finally seen Thor: The Dark World. (And glad I didn't see in it the theater. I took five bathroom breaks.)
So, laters.
But, I digress.
I went to the doc this AM and found out that all the kid's squirming over the past 48 hours wasn't for naught. She's head down. Let's just hope she doesn't twist herself around so she's going the wrong way. I'd like her to at least try to come out the right way.
So, I've been reflective lately. My father told me I ought to keep a journal of my journey through pregnancy. I did. It's mostly filled with I HATE MY LIFE! THIS SUCKS! WHY AM I DOING THIS!
And while I still think these things sometimes, there are times I think WHOO HOOO!
Those are few in far between, as I still dislike being pregnant. I just cannot get on board with the whole "this is wonderful" thing that some pregnant women feel. My mother told me, whilst I was trying to not throw up while sitting on the couch in the reading nook, she loved being pregnant.
I glared at her.
So, here's my take:
1. First Trimester just sucks. It is not fun. You will never convince me that first trimester is fun. You're hot, exhausted, sick, and you are usually in pain. What? Pain? What are you talking about? I'm talking about ligaments. They stretch out as your uterus grows and it freaking hurts. And it happens quite often first trimester. A few times it was worst than period cramps. Add on the fact you're throwing up randomly, it's just plum horrid. I hated first trimester and vowed, loudly and often, I was NEVER doing this again.
2. Second Trimester. This is supposed to be the honeymoon period where you're all glowing, pretty, and you get some of your energy back and you stop throwing up.
I didn't stop throwing up till I was midway through and I was still nauseous quite often till the final weeks. Also, you're growing larger. Well, you're supposed to be, but some of us don't grow like those models who sell maternity clothes. What I've discovered: no one sells stuff meant for second and first trimester no matter what they claim. By the time I hit second trimester, I had a very small bump thing that sat just above where most of my low ride jeans hung out. While I was perfectly find standing, once I sat down I wanted to rip my pants off and scream. Maternity tops were all very baggy in several areas: read the belly and chest. While I had shot up from a 34C to a 34DD, my boobs were still too small for my tops. (The story of my life. No matter how LARGE they get (I was a 34A till I was 21, then a 34B till I got married then grew to a 34C. Then, I got knocked up and shot up to a DD. And I STILL didn't fill out the top half of a shirt. Go figure?)
I began, though, to pee more like a normal person and less like a pregnant one. That was a positive thing, as going every freaking hour was getting to the point of annoyance at this point.
So, with a pants extender thing (which I'm still using BTW and I'm still on the smallest one they offer...which means I can't use the panels they suppled to hide your underwear when you can't get the zip up), I muddled my way through second trimester wearing mostly my pre-pregnancy clothing that was a bit looser cut to hide my belly.
Why was I hiding my bell?
I mostly looked like I was just fat, not pregnant. I lost my waist rather quickly, yet didn't really gain a bump till I was almost into my third trimester and I bloomed outwards. So, onward to Third Trimester.
3. They say after second trimester's wonderfulness, third is a bit harder.
Bit harder my butt.
I hit week 30 and everything went pear shaped.
First, when the kid decides she's going to grow, I feel like I'm going to die or something. It's like having a period without the blood. I get moody, want chocolate, and have this constant paint where my ligaments are expanding some more. Add on the baby earthquakes and sometimes I lay on my back (propped up on almost every single pillow we own, as being on your back as a pregnant woman is a bad thing due to blood pooling or something in your feet) and just wonder why I am doing this to myself. Don't let anyone tell you it's 'fun' to be pregnant. Yeah, I've gotten to buy new clothes, but I've also had to buy a butt load of bras, half of which no longer fit. (They NEVER stop growing.)
Granted, I knew this process was going to suck. I knew it going in, so I didn't go in blind. I learned all I could about pregnancy, birth, and all that jazz before Pilot Boy and I began trying. I quickly lost all delusions I'd ever had about pregnancy and embraced all the bad stuff, as I knew it'd all happen to me.
And for the most part it has.
Only, I never read anywhere, anyone having issues finding maternity clothes that fit them. Luckily, I know how to kind of sew, so I was able to save a few of the pairs of jeans I had bought thinking they'd fit by now. They don't. While the belly did expand (as I look pregnant now, though not as pregnant as I am, as no one believes me when I say I'm due on the 25th of April. I've lost track of the times I've heard I'm tiny), my hips didn't move. Are they just going to magically open up more in the next few weeks? God, I hope so, or else this kid might have issues trying to get out.
Third trimester you also start those birthing and prenatal classes. I've only done the prenatal classes, but it was the first time I was actually exposed to other pregnant women since I got myself knocked up. I've had nothing to judge myself against since I got pregnant, which of course made it hard to believe I was tiny.
I am tiny.
The women in my class are not HUGE women to begin with. They are average--just as I am. However, their bellies are HUGE compared to mine. The girl I spoke to last week before class began is due a little under two weeks before me, but looks to me like she could drop that kid any moment by her size. The other woman, whose due date I don't know passed some time in April, is also larger than me, yet likely smaller than me before she got pregnant. And sitting with these women, I feel tiny and not a huge boat I usually feel like. It's unnerving. Because I look at my belly now and think, "How the hell is there a 17 inch long baby weighing 4.5 lbs in there? How do you fit?"
I've got no idea how she fits, but clearly she does. And clearly she's getting ready to head on out, as I found out today she's facing downwards, facing the right direction to head on down out. (Though, nothing else in my body is saying she's going to show up anytime soon. Thank god.)
Oh, and the other thing that has gotten REALLY bad during third trimester: my brain.
I'm turning into my dad. I'm putting things in the pantry that belong in the fridge, things in the fridge that belong in the pantry, forgetting to do things like go to the bathroom (which sucks because when I finally go, I really have to go). Sometimes I forget to eat till my stomach roars at me. And I can't remember words for the life of me. I'll be talking and suddenly the word will just vanish. And forget about paying bills on time. I never know what day it is. Now, this wouldn't be too much of an issue if Pilot Boy had any room on his ice burg for mundane things like paying bills or remembering to do things around the house. However, those kind of things slip his mind like water through a colander. So, currently, it's amazing we get anything done as I'm the one who remembers things.
Well, I've once again forgot to eat lunch. And do a variety of other things I meant to do upon coming into my new study to work. (I was going to write the next installment of Don't Ever Change and maybe work on the Thor story I've been working on for the past four months since I've finally seen Thor: The Dark World. (And glad I didn't see in it the theater. I took five bathroom breaks.)
So, laters.
07 February 2014
Back in the Day...
Recently, a childhood friend of mine posted an old school photo on Facebook.
I was utterly mortified. I looked like a complete idiot.
I was an adorable child. My parents will tell you this, other people might agree, and I will tell you this. However, around the age of about ten or eleven, I turned into a complete, awkward mess. I'm not sure if it had to do with getting glasses or what, but something happened between fourth and fifth grade. And it only got worst till I was a junior in high school. I still tended to take horrible photos, but I stopped looking so awkward and geeky. (Sometimes.) I also finally stopped hacking off my hair to channel a mushroom.
But I digress.
The photo posted on Facebook (or The Facebook as some people call it) was from fifth grade. Oddly, I was actually wearing my glasses (I tended to forget them till I was in about seventh grade when I finally became blind enough to be unable to function without them). I also, for some unknown reason, tucked my shirt into my high waisted jeans. I know, back in 1995, those were like the ONLY type of jeans out there, but still. WHY DID I TUCK MY SHIRT IN? Out of the seven or six girls in the photo, only two of us were sporting tucked in shirts. And since I was the short one with the tucked in shirt, tapered jeans, and granny boots, I looked like an awkward mess. Even for 1995.
With the exception of the girl who posted the photo and one other, each person (besides myself) commented on the photo how, well, horrible she looked. Each one thought she looked the worst, completely passing over myself. (Who did look the worst. My brother agreed.) The photo had been up for quite a few days before I realized that likely all of us were totally embarrassed (in a ha ha ha kind of way) of how we appeared as kids. For the most part, when I see photos of myself as a kid, I don't cringe at the clothes. Yeah, I look dated, but for the most part I think I look fine. It's not till I hit that awkward stage (around the time of the photo), where I want to crawl into a hole and hide.
Though, out of all the years, I think my junior high years were the worst. I remember thinking during those years I looked GREAT. My mom let me have more control over my wardrobe (in eighth grade she took me to Old Navy to buy clothes and I almost passed out, as she never took me to "cool" places to shop. I had to take my dad) and I had wire rimmed glasses (which at the time I thought were great and cool).
My hair kept getting shorter, the glasses kept getting geekier, and I had braces. And I am just awkward. I am still awkward. I just can dress and do my hair now. In high school, when I finally stopped trying to channel a mushroom, I finally stopped looking like a complete train wreck. By the time I went to college, I had "style."
Seriously.
I never thought I had my own style. I wanted to look like everyone else. I shopped at the "in" stores (especially after I got a license and a credit card). My hair was finally somewhat under my control and not always in a scrunchie. (Oh god, the scrunchies...) My basic goal in life was not to look like an award mess.
But style? That was the farthest thing from my mind. Yet, for some reason, all my friends seemed to think I was the fashionable one, the one with style, and the one to come to when they had clothes questions.
I spent a lot of time blinking my first year of college when this would happen.
As I went through college, it kind of went to my head. Especially when this one well dressed girl told me she liked my style. I was totally flattered. And blinked a lot.
When I look back at photos from my college years (or late high school), I do not cringe at my hair, clothing choices, or glasses. Even when I still sported the braces, I looked okay. I do cringe at photos of me from after I got married, but not due to what I'm wearing. I usually cringe because I think my face looks fat or something else along those lines. Or why or why did I cut my hair off before we went to Del Rio? I look like a moron with short hair. I don't know why, but I think I look like a loser. And it always makes my face look fuller, so then I look fatter. (I know I am not fat. Even at the moment, I know I am not fat. If I were fat, I'd fit into my maternity jeans and I would have to take them in on the sides to avoid them a) falling down and b) having mom butt.)
That is another thing I began to contemplate while staring at this photo from 1995: will my daughter be an award mess like myself? She will be blind (I'm blind and Pilot Boy was blind till he let some doctor cut his eye up with lasers) and she will likely have some crazy hair. (When Pilot Boy has hair, it's curly and I've got a wavy/curly/straight mess on my head.) Will she likely listen to me when I try to tell her to do something because she will later want to hide her face in her hands when looking at a photo some twenty years later?
No. Just like I didn't listen to my own mother. I doubt she'll listen to me. Such is life.
I was utterly mortified. I looked like a complete idiot.
I was an adorable child. My parents will tell you this, other people might agree, and I will tell you this. However, around the age of about ten or eleven, I turned into a complete, awkward mess. I'm not sure if it had to do with getting glasses or what, but something happened between fourth and fifth grade. And it only got worst till I was a junior in high school. I still tended to take horrible photos, but I stopped looking so awkward and geeky. (Sometimes.) I also finally stopped hacking off my hair to channel a mushroom.
But I digress.
The photo posted on Facebook (or The Facebook as some people call it) was from fifth grade. Oddly, I was actually wearing my glasses (I tended to forget them till I was in about seventh grade when I finally became blind enough to be unable to function without them). I also, for some unknown reason, tucked my shirt into my high waisted jeans. I know, back in 1995, those were like the ONLY type of jeans out there, but still. WHY DID I TUCK MY SHIRT IN? Out of the seven or six girls in the photo, only two of us were sporting tucked in shirts. And since I was the short one with the tucked in shirt, tapered jeans, and granny boots, I looked like an awkward mess. Even for 1995.
With the exception of the girl who posted the photo and one other, each person (besides myself) commented on the photo how, well, horrible she looked. Each one thought she looked the worst, completely passing over myself. (Who did look the worst. My brother agreed.) The photo had been up for quite a few days before I realized that likely all of us were totally embarrassed (in a ha ha ha kind of way) of how we appeared as kids. For the most part, when I see photos of myself as a kid, I don't cringe at the clothes. Yeah, I look dated, but for the most part I think I look fine. It's not till I hit that awkward stage (around the time of the photo), where I want to crawl into a hole and hide.
Though, out of all the years, I think my junior high years were the worst. I remember thinking during those years I looked GREAT. My mom let me have more control over my wardrobe (in eighth grade she took me to Old Navy to buy clothes and I almost passed out, as she never took me to "cool" places to shop. I had to take my dad) and I had wire rimmed glasses (which at the time I thought were great and cool).
My hair kept getting shorter, the glasses kept getting geekier, and I had braces. And I am just awkward. I am still awkward. I just can dress and do my hair now. In high school, when I finally stopped trying to channel a mushroom, I finally stopped looking like a complete train wreck. By the time I went to college, I had "style."
Seriously.
I never thought I had my own style. I wanted to look like everyone else. I shopped at the "in" stores (especially after I got a license and a credit card). My hair was finally somewhat under my control and not always in a scrunchie. (Oh god, the scrunchies...) My basic goal in life was not to look like an award mess.
But style? That was the farthest thing from my mind. Yet, for some reason, all my friends seemed to think I was the fashionable one, the one with style, and the one to come to when they had clothes questions.
I spent a lot of time blinking my first year of college when this would happen.
As I went through college, it kind of went to my head. Especially when this one well dressed girl told me she liked my style. I was totally flattered. And blinked a lot.
When I look back at photos from my college years (or late high school), I do not cringe at my hair, clothing choices, or glasses. Even when I still sported the braces, I looked okay. I do cringe at photos of me from after I got married, but not due to what I'm wearing. I usually cringe because I think my face looks fat or something else along those lines. Or why or why did I cut my hair off before we went to Del Rio? I look like a moron with short hair. I don't know why, but I think I look like a loser. And it always makes my face look fuller, so then I look fatter. (I know I am not fat. Even at the moment, I know I am not fat. If I were fat, I'd fit into my maternity jeans and I would have to take them in on the sides to avoid them a) falling down and b) having mom butt.)
That is another thing I began to contemplate while staring at this photo from 1995: will my daughter be an award mess like myself? She will be blind (I'm blind and Pilot Boy was blind till he let some doctor cut his eye up with lasers) and she will likely have some crazy hair. (When Pilot Boy has hair, it's curly and I've got a wavy/curly/straight mess on my head.) Will she likely listen to me when I try to tell her to do something because she will later want to hide her face in her hands when looking at a photo some twenty years later?
No. Just like I didn't listen to my own mother. I doubt she'll listen to me. Such is life.
21 January 2014
Baby Earthquakes
The first time I was kicked from within, I was lying on my back (when it was still safe to) and had my hand just resting down near where many moons ago my appendix was ripped out of me...ever so lovingly. (And for 7,000!) I was trying to convince myself I ought to get out of bed when I felt a sharp thump against my hand.
I froze.
Had she just kicked me?
I waited a moment for it to happen again, but I didn't feel anything. But, I knew it was a kick. My baby had kicked me for the first time.
Later that day, I put my hand back down in the area and waited for her to do a repeat performance. It took hours, but I finally felt little jabs of her tiny foot. (Or fist, but I think it was a foot.)
Pilot Boy couldn't feel anything. He thought I was making up.
As the weeks went on, the movements got stronger and more pronounced. There were also clear kicks, head-butts, and just random movements (like rolls or something). Basically, I spent a lot of time with my hand down my pants just to feel my kid move around.
Finally, shortly before the winter holidays, Pilot Boy felt his daughter move. It was a bit movement. It felt like an earthquake going on in my uterus and I said, "You've had to have felt that one."
"Yep."
And that is when the kicks stopped and the earthquakes really began. Seriously. Sometimes they are concentrated earthquakes-- like in the area where my former appendix lived till it decided it hated me and moved out. It moved on to green pastures seven years ago, yet when my daughter decides to beat up on it, it hurts. Her other favorite thing to do is stomp on my bladder. Or one night, she decided to do headstands or something on my poor bladder. I spent the entire night thinking I had to pee, but I really didn't. I just had a baby on my bladder.
Rumblings tend to happen at night, like when I'm trying to go to bed. Since I hit week 25, the little quakes have been happening more often. I'll be sitting around during the day and suddenly the book, laptop, phone, Kindle will just go tumbling over from where I had it perched because my kid decided she didn't like it there. Or my arm jerks.
"What the hell was that for?" Pilot Boy asked when I accidentally elbowed him this weekend in the side whilst we sat on the couch reading.
"Your daughter wishes you to know my pain," was my reply.
He didn't buy it.
Sometimes all this movement (which is a good thing, as she's old enough now she ought to be moving and shaking and channeling a soccer player) is fine with me, while other times I just wish she'd kick me in the stomach. Or the spleen. Or somewhere other than my bladder or my former appendix. I've no clue what it is about the scar tissue hanging out there, but man...each time she hits that spot it feels almost as bad as when I made the mistake of going bowling two weeks after I had it removed. Or when I went bowling three months after it left me for some jar. (Or whatever they do with infected appendixes.) Or when I went bowling almost two years after it was cut out of me.
I shouldn't go bowling. I tend to hurt myself in the area where the appendix used to live.
I also shouldn't be pregnant as my kid loves to kick me there and it's freaking annoying. It's either a sharp paint or a dull pain, depending on how much oomph she puts into her movement.
I've yet to see anything, like a foot or hand poking out. I've yet to see anything really as when I'm paying attention and staring at my bare belly, she decides to do all her moving towards my spin or something. I do know it moves, though, the belly. My shirts sometimes ripple during earthquakes.
She is kicking me down. Just little jabs right behind my belly button.
I like it best when I do catch her out and get to feel her little foot as it rams itself into my innards. There is just something completely mind blowing about the whole thing--you know feeling it inside and on your hand and knowing it's a little foot and some day there will be a little human outside who will kick you in the face with the same foot. (And not on purpose. It'll just likely happen. Most likely whilst changing a nappy.)
I froze.
Had she just kicked me?
I waited a moment for it to happen again, but I didn't feel anything. But, I knew it was a kick. My baby had kicked me for the first time.
Later that day, I put my hand back down in the area and waited for her to do a repeat performance. It took hours, but I finally felt little jabs of her tiny foot. (Or fist, but I think it was a foot.)
Pilot Boy couldn't feel anything. He thought I was making up.
As the weeks went on, the movements got stronger and more pronounced. There were also clear kicks, head-butts, and just random movements (like rolls or something). Basically, I spent a lot of time with my hand down my pants just to feel my kid move around.
Finally, shortly before the winter holidays, Pilot Boy felt his daughter move. It was a bit movement. It felt like an earthquake going on in my uterus and I said, "You've had to have felt that one."
"Yep."
And that is when the kicks stopped and the earthquakes really began. Seriously. Sometimes they are concentrated earthquakes-- like in the area where my former appendix lived till it decided it hated me and moved out. It moved on to green pastures seven years ago, yet when my daughter decides to beat up on it, it hurts. Her other favorite thing to do is stomp on my bladder. Or one night, she decided to do headstands or something on my poor bladder. I spent the entire night thinking I had to pee, but I really didn't. I just had a baby on my bladder.
Rumblings tend to happen at night, like when I'm trying to go to bed. Since I hit week 25, the little quakes have been happening more often. I'll be sitting around during the day and suddenly the book, laptop, phone, Kindle will just go tumbling over from where I had it perched because my kid decided she didn't like it there. Or my arm jerks.
"What the hell was that for?" Pilot Boy asked when I accidentally elbowed him this weekend in the side whilst we sat on the couch reading.
"Your daughter wishes you to know my pain," was my reply.
He didn't buy it.
Sometimes all this movement (which is a good thing, as she's old enough now she ought to be moving and shaking and channeling a soccer player) is fine with me, while other times I just wish she'd kick me in the stomach. Or the spleen. Or somewhere other than my bladder or my former appendix. I've no clue what it is about the scar tissue hanging out there, but man...each time she hits that spot it feels almost as bad as when I made the mistake of going bowling two weeks after I had it removed. Or when I went bowling three months after it left me for some jar. (Or whatever they do with infected appendixes.) Or when I went bowling almost two years after it was cut out of me.
I shouldn't go bowling. I tend to hurt myself in the area where the appendix used to live.
I also shouldn't be pregnant as my kid loves to kick me there and it's freaking annoying. It's either a sharp paint or a dull pain, depending on how much oomph she puts into her movement.
I've yet to see anything, like a foot or hand poking out. I've yet to see anything really as when I'm paying attention and staring at my bare belly, she decides to do all her moving towards my spin or something. I do know it moves, though, the belly. My shirts sometimes ripple during earthquakes.
She is kicking me down. Just little jabs right behind my belly button.
I like it best when I do catch her out and get to feel her little foot as it rams itself into my innards. There is just something completely mind blowing about the whole thing--you know feeling it inside and on your hand and knowing it's a little foot and some day there will be a little human outside who will kick you in the face with the same foot. (And not on purpose. It'll just likely happen. Most likely whilst changing a nappy.)
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