So you think you can walk

toes grip for dear life
frankenstein arms positioned
mama is so proud

Three steps!

There was a one step, one step crash and then a one step stumble. And I was the only one home to see it! I guess it was the So You Think You Can Dance episode we were watching on the TiVo that inspired her. She was staggering and flailing JUST LIKE that wonky jazz routine to The Triplets of Belleville soundtrack.

We’re going to spend the rest of the afternoon taking laps around the living room and by tonight I fully expect her to be helping me clean this place up. Or else practicing for her jazz debut. 

The jidges are so impressed.

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I’m so old

oh teeny-boppers
your assholery appeals
only if it’s real

So I think it’s been established that I’m old and somewhat crotchety. (Though getting laughed at when I show my ID at Spec’s hurts my feelings. I’m not THAT old.)

Because I’m old, uh, -ish, I’m not always on top of things so forgive me for this question, but here goes:

Is Avril Lavigne for real, or what? I mean, I’ve been listening to her latest album and I think it’s hilarious. I imagine Veronica Mars singing most of the songs because there’s this kind of punchy, spunky, irony that I think is on purpose.

It seems to me that it’s teeny-bopper music making fun of teeny-bopper music. That would make it, what? Meta teeny music? You know, like Shrek but instead of a fat green ogre ruling a world of fractured fairy tales (while still starring in a fairy tale) it’s a squeal-y girl making fun of bubble gum pop in such a way that it appeals to bubble gum lovers and old cynical bitches, too?

Or am I just thinking about this way too much?

If Girlfriend is faux bubble gum, then I love it so much. But even if it isn’t, it’s still something that I wish would have existed fifteen years ago. God, it would have lightened up all those Morrissey/Depeche Mode mix-tapes my boyfriend gave me.

how’s it swingin’?

inevitable
should have happened long ago
outgrowing the swing

The wee-er one is approaching her first birthday (!) and I think she’s officially outgrown her swing. Well, I’m pretty sure she officially outgrew it a while ago, but, to paraphrase Chicago: she loves it and I love it and it loves her and I love it for loving her and she loves it for loving her.

It’s (usually) the fastest, easiest way to get her to nap and it even helps relax her before going to bed at night. We’ve used it SO MUCH MORE with the wee-er one than we did with the wee one. By the time he was a year he would have nothing to do with it. So I don’t have any experience "weaning" a child off of the swing. We’re to the point now, though, that her head grazes the mobile of stuffed animals that hangs down, so I know I need to get her out of it before it becomes a safety issue.

Then I guess I’ll have to buck up and learn how to teach her to sleep on her own. Which is, again, something we should have done months and months ago. Alas. I’m not ready to say farewell to the swing.

You know, this time last year I would have never predicted outgrowing the swing would be my mid-June worry for 2007. I don’t think I would have predicted anything for 2007 because I couldn’t get past my big, fat, hot, broken pelvis pregnant misery. Have I mentioned how happy I am to not be pregnant this June? I do a little dance every time I think about it. And then I have to stop dancing because the wee-er one is hollering. Still. I’ll take a hollering baby over an asshole pelvis any day.

I’m off on a tangent aren’t I?

Anyone know of a swing for older babies?

No, no! Don’t tell me. We have to wean the swing. She has to learn to sleep on her own. Well, on her own with a little help from Rob Zombie, Justin, and Amy Winehouse. (It’s going to be all my fault when she’s a teenager and every time she’s at a rock concert she mysteriously falls asleep. Heh.)

uh, yeah

So we’re totally just going to get one puppy.

I cited the, uh, "support" from my blog readers plus a bunch of websites where vets said something akin to "Anyone who adopts two puppies at the same time is a dumbass." My hubby now firmly agrees with me: just one is just fine.

There’s a joke to made here about children but I won’t do it. That will jinx me into getting pregnant again.

Because we are crazy

put down deposit
have exactly two more weeks
before hell breaks loose

We drove out to just north of Lampasas yesterday to take a look at some puppies. In between stopping for the wee one to have water poop, struggling through weird afternoon traffic, and only getting a little bit turned around, we finally made it (nearly 3 hours later!) to our destination.

So maybe I was delirious from travel. Or maybe I’m having some kind of baby flashback from this time last year. Whatever it is was, it caused me to lose all sensibilities and agree to adopt TWO puppies.

We’ll make our way back to Lampasas to pick them up in two weeks, when they’re 8 weeks old and fully weaned. Until then, we bide our time hoping the vet checks turn out well, thinking of names and questioning our sanity.

I think my husband talked me into two puppies not because he wants two dogs, but because he knows this will hasten the demise of our carpet and thus require putting in some nice new floors. Or maybe he just wants an excuse to use the fancy new vacuum I got him for an early Father’s Day present (haha, he got a vacuum for Father’s Day). Or maybe, he’s just getting back at me for the vacuum thing.

They’re mini Australian Shepherds and should grow to be about 30-40 pounds.

Oh, we are in trouble.

Pup2

Pup1_2

well, now my ass is chapped

it’s too bad that boobs
somehow make me invalid
you hillbilly prick

I am not amused. Maybe the dumbass just picked the wrong couple of days to mess with me. Or maybe this is something that would bother me even it wasn’t 95 degrees sprinkled with humidity and hormones. Whatever.

So we bought a new house a few months ago, and as it settles and we settle, things get noticed. These are things that fall under our warranty; things we want fixed. For example, the air conditioner dampener was installed backwards so our system keeps seizing up and we have to go without cool air for a day until the dude can come half-ass fix it because he doesn’t have what he needs to replace the dampener. This is something I would like fixed. Pronto. And there are other things… a back door that sticks so that the wee one can’t open it to get in and thus screams like an axe murderer is after him until someone can open the door.

Etc.

My husband and I sat together the other night and used up valuable, precious alone time to fill out our warranty request. We emailed it off and waited for someone to call to schedule the fixes. Simple enough.

So the guy calls at like 2 in the afternoon and asks to speak to my husband. I reply that my husband isn’t at home, he’s at work, but I’d be happy to talk about scheduling a time.

"Oh, no, ma’am, I have to talk to your husband to schedule a time."

"Why?"

"I need to find out the best time to come do a walk-through to see if your requests are warrantable."

"Well, I’m the one who’s here all day, so you’re going to need to schedule that visit with me."

"Well, ma’am I really need to schedule it with your husband."

[this is when I start getting testy. Because, really, WTF?]

"Oh, OK, do you do walk-throughs before 7am or after 7pm? Because that’s when he’s here typically."

"It’s going to have to be sometime Thursday, in the afternoon, before 5."

(again, WTF, asshole? If you ALREADY KNOW what time you have to come, why are you giving me shit?)

"Well, sir. You’re going to have to make that appointment with me. I’m the one who’s here. I’m the one who can pencil you in between meals and naptimes."

***long pause***

"How does 1:30 on Thursday sound?"

"Terrific."

[end of phone call]

And then, THEN, the guy shows up yesterday, rings the doorbell, shakes my hand and says skeptically, "So you’re the one I’ll be dealing with today?"

Oh my fucking god. Because I am a woman, a *gasp* mom who stays home, I am incapable of discussing a broken air conditioner and a sticky back door? It took everything in me to stop myself from apologizing for my boobs and lack of external genitalia. I wish I had, though, just to see the mortified expression on the guy’s face.

The kicker to this whole story, though? My husband came home for lunch a few minutes after the asshole got here, so he ended up being the point of contact ANYWAY. And now the asshole is calling my husband to schedule maintenance visits and my husband has to call me to verify the times and I have to say, "no, that’s a shitty time" and my husband has to call the guy back and on and on and on. Because a vagina makes it impossible for me to talk to this guy on the phone and schedule a visit from the fucking painters.

It’s lucky I’m so lazy or else I’d kick this chauvinist dumbass right in his chauvinist scrotum.

Why do simple things have to be so difficult?

$&*!#@

I pine for your suck
where art thou, fancy vacuum?
the stairs, they need you

I was sitting here, trying to think of something witty to blog about, but really I’m just very grouchy. I don’t know why, but I suspect it has something to do with not leaving the house all week and yet still having piles of crap everywhere.

There’s some kind of snowball effect of not leaving the house, of having no playdates, of too much TV, and not enough groceries. Instead of snapping to it and cleaning the kitchen, washing some laundry, making a few beds, basically prettying up the place a bit, I just stare at it all and try to wish it away.

I sit at the kitchen table and grouse about too salty pumpkin seeds and no brownies. I sit in the living room and grimace at the filthy carpet. I lay on my bed and close my eyes so I don’t have to stare a piles of dirty clothes. I go online and buy a vacuum but make no note of when it will be shipped.

Why not get off my ass, then, and take care of some of this? I have no answer. I know I’ll feel better if the house looks better. But right now it’s oppressive. And the more suffocated I feel by all of the crap, the more I want to just sleep all day and forget about it. It’s much like the extreme heat effect you get out here in Texas. When you step outside and it’s 95 or 100 degrees, you feel the air being sucked out of your lungs; you feel the heat burn your eyeballs; your body’s physical response is to curl up in a ball and lay down and wait for everything to cool off. This is how I feel in my house. Not hot, but suffocated.

I know the wee one isn’t very happy with me, either. Because of his weird vomiting spell earlier in the week, I’ve canceled the playdates we set up. I just want to make sure there’s nothing festering before we slobber all over other kids, you know? But this means we’ve had SO MANY DAYS of not playing with other kids. That leaves me and the wee-er one as play mates for the wee one. Neither one of us appreciate wrestling, and I can only play pirates for so many hours before I want to become one myself and ship off, alone, for uncharted islands.

Next week the wee one has a half-day camp every day. I hope he likes it, but I’m afraid he’s going to be so excited to play with other kids his giant head will explode. Fingers crossed that doesn’t happen. And fingers crossed that the wee-er one’s four lateral incisors FINALLY come all the way in so that she will fucking sleep. Oh my God I am so tired of waking up every hour all night long and then being up for good at 6am.

Man, I have to shake this funk. I guess the best way to do it is to clean house and then get the hell out of it for a while. Can’t write a book while I’m grouchy. Well, I could write a grouchy book, but that’s not what I have to work on right now.

Hmph.

Oh, here’s one good thing – The Loop is returning to Fox on Sunday. Crapsnackers, that’s exciting!