Rebel without a Cause

While The Bean has been busy growing into a real girl, I've been reliving freshman year at college.

The Bean is an awesome sleeper most nights; which means I get to do things I enjoy in the evenings. And I may have gotten drunk and carried away with my newfound freedom.

When you're making your sixth jar of pickled okra, you can put down the tongs - you've canned all the things.

You'll be glad to know, I'm inept as ever at this whole parenting this. Once you think you've got it all figured out, the child learns something new and ruins everything. You might remember how the Moby saved my life and allowed me to food shop.

Boy. Those were the good ol' days...

The Last 3 Months...Clip Show Style

So I've been gone. It's probably something you did. But thankfully I finally forgave you.

When last we met, it was Mother's Day and The Bean and I shared cake OCD style. Since then, things have happened. Nothing earth-shattering.

Except this:

Why yes, that is a vacuumed carpet. You may start worshiping me any time now.


Then there was the Baby Bird Rescue of 2012. Did you hear about it on the news? No? Well, it was more of a regional story. In my backyard. It consumed my life for a week and a half as I rescued the same baby robin no less than three times. Once after he fell out of a tree; once from the jaws of my cat; and once when he got trapped in a fence. He lived and flew away with not so much as a thank you.

Ungrateful nit. Should've let the cat eat you.

Then The Bean turned one. Which most people say is a momentous occasion. I celebrated by vacuuming the carpet again.

We also felt since she was now a mature young lady, this was the right moment to teach The Bean that the world is a cruel place where mothers bake you cakes that look like giant turds, force you to stand in front of a room full of strangers in a bathing suit and let you grab burning candles.

After that we went on a trip. I realize now that I have a child the word vacation will never again apply to my life. 


As our fortune would have it, the trip coincided perfectly with Death Hotness from Hell Week which added an extra fun element - the 'let's stay in the air-conditioned hotel room where we will eat teacups and not go outside' element.

Then we did a bunch of boring things and The Bean barely enjoyed herself.

Until we met boys...at which point I determined The Bean will be home schooled and enter a nunnery at the ripe age of 16. Her behavior was completely inappropriate for the first date (of which she had a few - little hussy)...

Not napping or sleeping for 10 days straight because you're afraid you might miss all the things is exhausting, especially for a young lass. So she's been sleeping for a week.

And now you're about caught up.

She walks (like a drunken sailor).

She talks. "Babry (Baby)," "Dahg (Dog)," "Cah (Cat)," "Uh-oh (Uh-oh)," Da Da (Da Da)," and "Mum-Mum (as in the rice cracker snack - not me...I don't actually have a name)"

And is pretty groovy.

Two Minutes Hate

Dear children's book "authors,"

Thanks for ruining what I used to think would be one of those highlights of parenthood: reading with my daughter.


I'm looking at you, creators of the crafts-gone-bad "books" (felt, glitter and yarn glued onto a few photos of animals barely qualifies as a camp project, let alone a book).

There I am dutifully reading our animal book like every other parent of an infant:


"Cow. Moooooo."

"Pig. Oink, oink."

"Horse. Neigh, neigh."

"Tiger. Rawr."

And then, you coy, sadistic little a-holes throw in a picture of a turtle. What am I supposed to do with that?

The Bean looks up at me expecting a noise and I got nothing; you know she's thinking to herself "Jesus, this woman doesn't even know what a turtle says...I'm doomed."


She's my daughter...I assure you, she's judging me.


Thanks.


Mrs. D-Zo

A Post about Quirks, but Does Mention Mother's Day So the Other Mommy Bloggers Don't Spurn Me

There is a special level of embarrassment saved for those moments when you realize you have unintentionally broadcast a personal idiosyncrasy to the general public and are suddenly forced to defend it so you aren't admitted to the closest mental health facility.   

I am repeatedly faced with the unsettling truth that my life is a sham. No matter the lengths I go through to appear like a sane, functioning member of society, there is one undermining and undeniable fact: 

I am a weird eater. 

Not a picky eater. God, those people are annoying. I can say that because I dated the King of Picky Eater Land and making fun of picky eaters is the prize I won for those grueling years of my life. 

You're dying for details, aren't you? 

At Taco Bell there could be no lettuce on whatever he ordered. Like none. At all. One time he unwrapped his burrito for The Mandatory Food Inspection and found a sliver of lettuce inside; we had to get back in the car and get a new burrito. 

I am the type of person who, if I ordered a hamburger and received a cabbage milkshake, would just power through the shake. Confrontations - and most social interactions - are not my strong suit.

However, I am not a picky eater; I am a weird eater. My weirdness manifests itself in 3 distinct levels of awesome.

Level 1: When I Say Organization Is a Way of Life, I Mean It.

When confronted with a bowl of fruit salad, most people react this way:

I am not most people.

A girlfriend and I were splitting a fruit salad at brunch one day because we wanted to save our calories for the bottomless Bloody Marys. We were mid-conversation when she suddenly stopped eating and stared at me in disbelief. 

Unconsciously, I had done this to our plate:

She gave me a lovely psychological dissertation on the need to have control over minor things in life when one is avoiding dealing with bigger issues...blah, blah, blah.

Little did she know, she had only caught me mid-act. Had she let me continue on to fruit salad harmony, the plate would have looked like this.

Why yes, there is an equal number of fruit pieces in each color-coded category, thankyouverymuch. This way you can eat in a circle and have an equal amount of each fruit at the end instead of a plate of cantaloupe with nary a strawberry in sight. THE HORROR.

And people are surprised when I tell them I analyze data for a living.

Level 2: Order Sits at the Right Hand of Our Holy Father, Organization


I am a terrible conversationalist during dinner. Mostly because I am so busy. After organizing comes the prioritization of foods. [It's at about this point you're probably thinking to yourself, "Wow...I have really got it together. This one's a nutter." You're welcome.]

My goal is to make the last bite of my meal a forkful of the most delicious item. There is one flaw in this plan. I married my husband.

Early on in our dating career, my husband made an epic mistake. As he was finishing up his salad course, his fork strayed onto my plate and took a heaping pile of blue cheese and bacon lardons I had meticulously avoided. My anticipation level for this grand finale of porky saltiness was on par with the release of the final Harry Potter novel (hey, you already think I'm insane so I may as well throw nerdy into the ring too).

To be fair, he thought I was eating around those items because I didn't want them - hence, fair game. The scars on the back of his hand serve as a constant reminder to not interfere with my dinner routine.

Level 3: Portions Bring Us One Step Closer to World Peace


At the end of each meal, Michael's plate looks like a crime scene. An experienced investigator could recreate a play-by-play of Michael's meal by examining the bloody clues left behind. You could return my plate to the cabinet because I ate my portion of food. Every last drop.

Whenever we eat out, my to-go box is an exact replica, in miniature, of the meal I had (Level 1 and Level 2 of my food insanity help drive this). I am not left with a monster pile of green beans, 2 bites of a steak and the hint of mashed potatoes served. If I opened up a to-go box and saw those proportions, you might as well shoot me in the face because what's the point of living another day?

Which leads me to yesterday.

For Mother's Day, The Bean and I visited the local coffee shop to split a slice of cake while we sipped on coffee and gabbed about our girlfriends behind their backs. 

The cake was enormous and I knew I would need to take half of it home.

Have you been paying attention Dear Reader? Which of these do you think were my leftovers?

Mothers, Daughters and Other People's Daughters

The day my mother realized I was never going to embrace shopping as my one true savior, she died a little on the inside. It is also the day she began praying to the Lord of Sparkly Dresses, Designer Labels and Great Deals to grant her a granddaughter who would make up for her own daughter's tragic flaw.

The Bean will turn one year old next month and I have an amazing fact to share with you: Humans are born with nearly 300 bones in their body, but only have 206 bones by the time they reach adulthood. Also, I have only purchased one item of clothing for my child. Ever. And she has not even worn it yet.

Nana has been busy.

When I first informed my mother I was pregnant with a baby girl, she showed up with enough clothes to outfit The Bean for the first few hundred years of life. This was great; especially since, at the time, I was blowing extreme amounts of money on supporting my ice cream habit.

Every few weeks since The Bean's arrival onto this planet, I end up shouting, "Holy crap kid, quit this growing business! You're going to force me to go shopping because we're out of clothes you fit into. And if I have to go shopping, I promise I will torture you with a closet full of corduroy pants when you hit middle school."

Lucky for The Bean, Nana's superpower is sensing when a fashion catastrophe is imminent. Within the next day or two a new shipment of clothes comes in; keeping The Bean baby chic and me from having a mall meltdown. Win-win-win.

Recently, my mother asked me how The Bean was enjoying her newest shipment of fashionable frocks she lovingly picked out piece by trendsetting piece.

Crap.

My daughter inherited two things from me. An inappropriate love of pickles and a complete lack of interest in sparkles, ruffles, glitter or Ralph Lauren.

Pretty sure Nana was envisioning this.

The reality is, every time a new box of clothes from Nana arrives, The Bean looks inside and then crawls off to make raspberry noises as loudly as possible, preferably while banging on metal objects. Meanwhile the nanny's daughter lovingly pulls out each item, examines its craftsmanship and beauty then struts around the house with her favorite pieces as if she was working the runway in Milan - glancing down at us proletarians and style simpletons.

I did what any daughter would do. I told my mother the horrible truth - that her granddaughter was also fashion-backward. Because daughters like nothing more than getting under the skin of their mothers; even when the child is 34. (And yes, I realize I will be getting my just desserts someday soon; that's the joy of it all.)

Last week's fashion delivery consisted of two matching shirts (in different colors). As Nana put it, "One for The Bean and one for The Fashionista." A truly lovely gift for the girls, but mothers always have the last laugh. Nana's one request: send me a picture of the girls in their shirts.

Do you know what's impossible? Getting two toddlers to sit still at the same time for a photograph.

Here is our photograph(s):

Fashionista: I'm out of here.

The Bean: No seriously guys. She's gorgeous, I must kiss her.

OH MY GOD!!!! PUFFS!!!!!!!!!! I need my fix.

Why did she get more than me?

This'll show you, you greedy biatch. POW. The rest of the Puffs are mine.

What do you mean this is the last of the puffs? (Side note: this was the best shot we got of them together.)

Must have more puffs...

Are you sure there are no more puffs? I'll sit still.

Stumped

I've got nothing. So please pardon this break while I try to find my funny again. In the meantime, go ahead and follow the blog on Facebook if you want a notification of when I manage to get a new post up.

I Went Away...But Can't Post Because of the Sex Dolls

I am desperately trying to write a post about my first true trip away from the child. A momentous occasion on many fronts.

But I can't.

I turned on TLC and have been sucked into episode after episode of My Crazy Obsession. Every time I try to concentrate on writing, they show a piece more bizarre than the last. Culminating in one about a husband who buys sex dolls (some used!!?!?!?!) - a habit condoned and encouraged by his wife. Because it's not sexual for them (uh, maybe not for you lady) and has brought them together since now they have something to talk about again (cut to the scene where they are having tea with one of the dolls and the two living humans are talking to the silicon doll and not each other).

So you can understand why I am finding posting so difficult. The level of judging and ridicule these people deserve requires a large amount of my time and brain power. I have nothing left for you people.

But I will pull myself together enough to share with you the photo I received this morning from my husband ASSURING me the child and he both made it through the night alive without being under my watchful eye.

VERY. REASSURING. Isn't it????