suze orman’s got nothin’ on me, baby

saving money… good
don’t matter how you do it
just don’t forget wipes

I just realized why I’ve been saving so much money lately. It’s the Poop Budget.

Here’s the scene:

Pile wee one and wee-er one into the car
Arrive at Target/HEB/Old Navy/Wherever
Disentangle wee one from car seat, tell him to pretend he’s a magnet so he will stick to the side of the car (and not run in traffic)
Disentangle wee-er one from car seat, cram her chubby self into the pouch.
Carefully walk through blazing hot parking lot, find shopping cart, enter store.
Look down at wee-er one, realize she has just pooped.

Now we have a few different options:

a) try to shop as fast as you can before wee-er one starts to freak.
b) wrangle everyone back out to the car and change her diaper, then wrangle everyone back into the store, where she will inevitably poop again.
b.2) wrangle everyone back out to the car and attempt to change her diaper, then realize you have no wipes.

b.2.a) wrangle everyone back into the store, quickly buy wipes, go back out to the car to change diaper, go back into store to shop, and know in your heart she will inevitably poop
again once you get your cart full.
b.2.b) wrangle everyone back out to the car and attempt to change her diaper, then realize you have no wipes, watch your head go supernova, then go home.

I almost always "choose" option b.2.b and boy does it save me some cash!

anybody have a whistle?

a stasis of laze
can’t blame weather anymore
but blaming self? Ha!

I don’t know what the matter is. I’m just sitting here. I did this last week when the wee one was at school, too. I have a book to refamiliarize myself with before the edits begin, another book to finish writing, a kitchen to clean, laundry to wash, a nursery full of non-baby detritus that needs to be organized, floors to sweep and vacuum, piles and piles and piles of papers and bills and envelopes and magazines that need to be sorted and/or trashed. And what do I do when I have the time to get some of this done?






All morning I’ve been enjoying a circuit of reading televisionwithoutpity, nursing, reading entertainment weekly, nursing, and catching up on my TiVo. All while I am surrounded by piles of crap and tumbleweeds of dog hair. I should be embarrassed to admit I can live with the mess, but I’m not, and I can. The problem I’m having right now is the inability to write. But it’s not really an inability. When I actually sit down and do it, I feel great – like how I imagine people who jog must feel after they’ve achieved yet another lap around the lake. It energizes me. It makes me happy. It makes me feel like I’m breathing crisp, cool air. It brings me back to myself. So why am I not doing it? Why am I blogging instead? Why am I fastidiously reading all TwoP Farscape recaps and wondering how much money Alynda Wheat makes?

Could it be that this is my vacation and I don’t really know it? If so, I shouldn’t feel guilty, right? Mama hasn’t been on vacation in a long, long time. I just imagined my next vacation would include a beach and a cold fruity drink, not watching my ass swell on the couch every Tuesday and Thursday.

Oh well, I’ll take what I can get.

I guess.

the Roomba discussion

you too can be them
it is era of Jetson’s
robots for housework!

There is discussion around the haiku of the day household about maybe buying ourselves a robot to do the damned vacuuming. No one else will do it because our current vacuum a) doesn’t work and b) is very, very smelly.

So the plan is that the robot will force us to clean up the mess on the living room floor in the evenings. And when I say "force" I don’t mean by threatening us with angry robot epithets, I mean we’ll have to keep the place tidy or risk breaking our $200 robot vacuum cleaner when it attempts to suck up a lego or a sock.

The other part of the plan (once we humans have rid the floors of the larger debris) is to have the robot vacuum cleaner scoot around the house while we are all sleeping. Thus, we wake up to a dog hair-free living room, a crumb-free kitchen, and a cranky-free mama. Huzzah!

But can this fantasy come true? Will the robot vacuum live up to the hype? Is it worth $200? The wee one is already very disappointed that the robot vacuum is really just a small, circular device, and not – as he says – a real live robot, that will chase him and play hide and seek. Will I be equally crushed when it doesn’t remove the hair and nastyass dog ear-droppings from the floor? Or will it be like the TiVo – a miraculous device that I would kiss over and over if it weren’t for the fears of electrical shock?

Ah, Roomba. Is it meant to be? Or are you just a naughty temptress, beckoning me with your rumored sucking prowess?

Once you go robot do you ever go back?

We shall see….

She’s eeeeevil

morons on parade
I would laugh at them if it
didn’t make me sad

I saw a pick-up truck today with a bumper sticker that said, "I’ll forgive Jane Fonda when the Jews forgive Hitler."


I totally forgot that Jane Fonda was guilty of performing medical experiments on live human subjects all while she systematically exterminated 6 million people. Man. What a bitch.

passing on the thanks

an attitude shift
no more kicking in the mouth
well, not for today

I just wanted to pass on this note I got today:
Dear [haiku of the day blog readers],

Wow! Thank you so much for funding our reading resources. My class is
already off to a great start, and your contribution will keep us in the
right direction. We are looking forward to our new reading materials!

Thank you,

Courtney Betancourt

Southmost Elementary

4th Grade

Nice work, everyone. We’ve done a little something to make the world better. Yee haw for that!

who shall we kick in the mouth today?

a beautiful day
too bad my mood doesn’t match
menstrooooation, hmph

OK. When you breastfeed practically every hour on the hour you are not supposed to get your period back for, like, ever. Granted, the wee-er one has learned to pace herself (we have four-hour stretches every now and then!), but we’re still exclusively nursing.

With the wee one, I didn’t get the big P until he was 10 months old. We’re at 11 weeks right now. Eleven friggin weeks and I’m the poster child for why you should keep various items of absorption in your glove box, and why you should never, ever attempt to wear white pants even when you think you’re in the free and clear. Hmph.

So I’m grumpy.

In the spirit of this grumpiness, let’s think of people who deserve a kick in the mouth! Yay! (I’m going to skip the politicos. We know they all deserve a kick in the mouth – and most of them prison time, too.)

1. The guy in the red pick-up truck, towing lawn mowers. There’s a guy like this in every town. He thinks 85 mph is an appropriate speed for driving down residential streets. Kick in the mouth.

2. The person who invented that really hard plastic covering that things like RF cables and toys come packaged in. Kick in the mouth.

3. Tony Kornheiser. Kick in the mouth.

4. Whomever is responsible for canceling Farscape. Kick in the mouth.

5. The mysterious party responsible for equipping my car with a cloaking device that causes me to constantly have other cars pull out in front of me. Kick in the mouth.

6. Designers of baby PJs with no crotch snaps. Kick in the mouth.

7. The person who brought the Mumps over to the US from the UK, and then infected a kajillion people in the Midwest and then somehow infected the unfortunate little girl in the wee one’s class at school, causing us all to freak out. Kick in the mouth.

8. People who think that planting humongous bushes in parking lots is a fabulous idea. Kick in the mouth.

9. The person at the cable company who continues to send an HD signal to my non-HD TV, causing certain shows and football games to have giant chunks of the screen cut off on the sides. Kick in the mouth.

10. The people responsible for forcing my neighborhood to have hive mailboxes instead of individual ones. Kick in the mouth.

Anybody you want to kick in the mouth on this gorgeous day?

It was actually pretty fun. No really.

it’s still very hot
but shamu roller coaster
made us forget. not.

I just thought you might like to know that you are reading the blog of an ACTUAL REAL LIFE Sea World gold passport holder.

I will pause while you gasp in reverence.

That’s right, we splurged on season tickets. But, shoot, if you’re going to go more than once a year, the season ticket is the way to go. And seeing as how we went yesterday and barely managed to stay two hours before all four of us had our own individual meltdowns, we’re definitely going to need more than one visit to actually, you know, do anything there.

Our trip yesterday consisted of:

11:30 AM: Let’s go to Sea World! Yay!

Noon: Wait. How far away is San Antonio again?

1:45 PM: Oh, right. Far.

2:00 PM: Why is the wee-er one screaming like this? Is she hot? Tired? Wet? Pissed she missed the first free beer tasting at the "hospitality house"?

2:30 PM: Why is mommy so cranky? Is she hot? Tired? Wet? Pissed she missed the first free beer tasting at the "hospitality house"?

2:35 PM: Right. Mommy forgot to eat lunch!

2:40 PM: Seriously. Why is the wee-er one crying like this?

2:45 PM: Hey, here’s an air-conditioned place to eat lunch!

3:30 PM: Yay lines! Yay $7 chicken strips! Huzzah!

3:31 PM: Seriously. Why is the wee-er one crying like this?

3:32 PM: Let’s ride the small Shamu-inspired roller coaster! [the wee one happily goes crazy]

[the wee one rides Shamu again, climbs on a pirate ship thing, rides a spinning teacup thing]

4:00: Seriously. Why is the wee-er one crying like this?

4:01: [Mommy and Daddy confer]

4:02: Let’s go home! Yay home!

And, so, the next time we go to Sea World, using our fabulous gold passports, we will try to see an actual killer whale instead of a plastic one who’s face you sit in, and we will also time our trip to coincide with the morning hours, AKA: The Non-Crying Time (Usually).

Shew. I’m still exhausted and I didn’t even get to see one damn sea lion.

How gross am I?

compelled to scritch-scratch
there is no way to stop me
cradle cap must die

I have been a fingernail biter forever. Nothing has stopped me, and nothing has ever made me want to grow out my nails. Until the Cradle Cap arrived.

Now I long for luxurious talons so that I can scratch all that cradle crap off my wee girl’s head.

But it’s not just that.

Now that I’ve started scratching it off, its become like a game. I feel a thrilling zing when I can scratch off a particularly large chunk. Sometimes I’ll set the chunk on the burp cloth and just look at it, marveling at how big and gross it is. Then I’ll dive in for more.

The wee-er one doesn’t seem to mind, but I know I should stop. For one, it’s disgusting to scratch off cradle cap flakes and then keep them (if even momentarily) to thrill yourself with their size. And for two, if you scratch the Crap it could get infected. I know this. I know this! And yet I am compelled to go at her little head as if I am an archaeologist carefully uncovering historical artifacts.

Man, those obsessive-compulsive tendencies really come back to bite you in the ass, don’t they?