Ashley. Unscripted...

The trouble with Teh Google

2011-11-22T21:58:00.001-05:00

Disclaimer: Those are not my sinuses. I don't have those cutesy little curlique things where my nose would be.

This should totally be my favorite time of the year. It's finally changing from hotter than two rats making love in a wool sock to slightly less hot than the innermost circle of hell. The leaves are changing colors. It's fall. The holidays are right around the corner. To be trite and cutesy, it's the most wonderful time of the year.

Except it's not.

I can't breathe. I am presently on my third round of antibiotics. That's right. Two ten day courses have not helped quell the battle that is presently raging in my sinuses. Now we're trying a 17 day course.

The air pressure changes and my nasal passages close up faster than, well, damn. I'm out of funny analogies. I am on sinus infection #3 of the Fall 2011 season.

And I don't get the normal fun sinus infections that normal people get. I get the gushy bloody nose, pounding like a migraine sinus headache, ears pounding like a insert really dirty word here, coughing like an 8 pack a day smoker, talking like one of Marge Simpson's sisters infection. And sadly, this is not one of the times where I tend to embellish. It's all true. I answered the phone at work last week and someone thought I was a dude. Dude, I am totally not a dude. (I may be a gay 12 year old boy trapped inside a 30-something year old woman's body, but genetically, I am not a dude.)

It's time I take matters into my own hands. My poor regular doctor is ready to wash his hands of me. I know he rolls his eyes every time he sees my name on his schedule.

I remember loving the ENT that did CFKatWO's tubes. I call him. I go see him. He sees me. He says, "Holy crap your nasal passages are inflammed." Well, he didn't say it quite like that, but that's what he's thinking. I KNOW. He sends me for a c/t scan. C/T scans freak me out. This is where he made his first mistake.

Rock Star ENT asked me to get a disk of the images from my CT. I do this. I bring the disk home. I pop it in my dinosaur desktop. I see scary things. I compare scary things with scary things on Teh Google. I have now diagnosed myself with a variety of things. Nasal polyps being the most benign. Adenocarcinoma or some scary sort of brain tumor being the most crazy. I try to pull the disk out of dinosaur desktop and it won't come out. It. Won't. Come. Out.

After some wrangling with a paperclip and the face plate of the processor, I get it out. I'm scared I have scarred it for life, and I'm going to have to explain to Rock Star ENT on Monday why the disk was erased.

I will know more on Monday.

I'm not good at waiting. So I am going to look at those images a few hundred more times and try to find a conclusive answer on Teh Google. Yes. I should stay away from it. But I can't. It's not in my nature.

Raw.

2011-09-25T19:49:00.001-04:00

It's been a year.

If I had known then what I know now, I don't think I would have gone through with it. Actually, I KNOW I wouldn't have gone through with it. I knew that if it went badly, that the fallout would be bad. But I had absolutely no idea just how bad it would be. I had no idea just how deep the depths of despair actually are.

I'm talking about my round of IVF.I entered it with such grandiose expectations. I don't think I was misinformed, or improperly pumped up about it. I'm a woman of science. I knew what I was getting into. I knew the odds. That's why I was so excited. I was the ideal, textbook if you may, candidate. I was so desperate to be pregnant, that I wouldn't let myself even speculate on the fact that it might not work. I was too scared to. I was terrified of what it would do to me.

I was right to be scared.

About ten days after my embryo transfer I took a pee stick pregnancy test. It was negative. I told myself, no way would it work. You've had so much water to drink today. There's no way it would be positive. In the back of my mind I knew, but I kept shutting that part of my mind off. After having the blood test done and being told that it would be several hours before I knew anything, I went home and peed on another stick.

Negative.

I finally allowed myself to think about what had until this point been unthinkable.

My worst fears were confirmed hours later with a phone call. Time stood still in that moment. Everything around me stopped. I had two perfect embryos. Two perfect soon-to-be-babies. I saw them floating around on a screen. Those were supposed to be my twins. I had been calling them Flannery and Faulkner, because again, I wasn't even thinking that there could be a negative.

Now they were gone.That phone call was the start of a huge downward spiral for me. I retreated deep into myself. Only a few people were able to reach me there. I would have moments of clarity where I would feel that everything was going to be alright, but then those demons would reach back up and pull me down again. I was too weak and too sad to fight against them.

This battle has raged on for the better part of the last year. The good moments are beginning to outweigh the bad again. But the last two weeks have found me chasing those demons again. So many things about this time of the year are reminding me of where I was this time last year.I want to scream at last year's me, "You can make it through this. You are strong. You are powerful. You are bigger than this whole process." But of course, I can't do that. Last year's me wouldn't hear of it. Last year's me would laugh in my face and tell me I didn't know anything. And when last year's me got that phone call, I would hold her in my arms and tell her that she would be okay. That this too WOULD pass.

And it will. Eventually. It still hurts. It still hurts a lot, but I'm a long way away from last year's me. The bitterness has left me. I am fully capable of holding a brand new baby and rejoicing in the joy that it brings. I have a beautiful brand new baby nephew. He is perfection. I'm so glad I have pushed through a lot of the pain and am able to enjoy him. I have celebrated the births of many friend's new babies. And I could not be happier for them. Anytime anyone needs someone to hold their squishy, delicious little bundles of joy? I'm your girl.

I don't know where I go from here. I do know that I can never do IVF again. Never. Ever. There are other options that may be explored, at a much later date. For the moment, I have a five year old that keeps me firmly on my toes. He's taking French in kindergarten, and it won't be long until he's cussing the Hubster and I with French dirty words.

I'm battling my demons. I will not let them drag me down again, at least not without an epic battle.

I am strong. I am powerful. I AM bigger than this. And I will be okay. Maybe not today, probably not tomorrow. But I will be okay.

Tales from Unscripted High (as in High SCHOOL you sick twisted freaks)...

2011-09-14T22:22:00.004-04:00

Long, long ago, in a town far, far away, we revisit our beautiful princess. Our princess had a dream. This dream was one that was shared by little girls all over the world. Our princess wanted to be a cheerleader.

(Our princess had repressed those memories, but recently a Facebook cheerleading alumni group ignited some looooong since hidden memories.)

It is important to note that our princess lacks any athletic prowess. In fact, our princess sucks at anything involving movement in a coordinated manner. This is not why our princess wanted to be a cheerleader. That's right y'all. Ashley. Unscripted... had but one reason in mind for wanting to wave her pom poms in front of millions of people. The Uniform.

Seriously. Who wouldn't want to flaunt their goodies in a short pleated skirt, bloomers (with matching hair ribbons), and socks that matched 14 other girls?

Our princess had cheered in middle school. So she had some experience. But this was the big leagues. This was potentially VARSITY. In tenth grade.

Try outs came. Our princess was dealing with a heartbreaking break up. She channeled her pain into her "moves." And guess what? SHE MADE IT.

She made it. She looked absolutely adorable in the uniforms. She rocked those pom poms. Sadly, there was one majah problem. Our princess? She had no rhythm. She stood out like a sore thumb when it came to doing any sort of moving around in public view. But she did look damn cute with her chemistry book studying in between quarters.

And Tim Gunn? Totally would have approved of me our princess in her skirt.

Story Time

2011-07-06T20:36:00.004-04:00

Gather round children. It's story time. That's right boys and girls, Ashley. Unscripted... is here with a story from her childhood. It's a scary story, so if you are easily frightened, or are lacking in continence, it's probably a good idea to click away.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far, far away, there lived a beautiful princess. This beautiful princess had but one chore that she had to complete every day. It was her royal duty to see that her royal cat received it's royal dinner. The royal cat's name was Prissy, and she was the most beautiful, long-haired, gray kitty in the entire kingdom.

One evening, our princess makes her trek to the royal porch where she knew Prissy would be waiting for her royal dinner. Our princess was very shocked and surprised to see Prissy sitting on the rail of the porch. Although shocked, the princess was delighted to see her beloved royal cat and began to pet her.

As our princess was happily petting her kitty, she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. To her surprise, here comes Prissy walking up to eat her dinner. The princess was terribly surprised and confused. If Prissy was walking up to her on the porch, then what in God's name was she petting?

It was a possum. A creepy, scary possum, that was clearly in need of some attention.

You could hear the screams of the princess in all the neighboring kingdoms.

The. End.

The moral of this story? Possums are scary sons of bitches, but maybe they just need some love. Nah, they are indeed scary sons of bitches.

I can't feel my ass.

2011-06-15T20:42:00.003-04:00

**Language warning for the pearl clutchers and small children**

Level 3, Day 6 is complete. This is after a brief hiatus due to a large, scary ovarian cyst named Gertrude (I told you all my girl parts suck). Level 2 was tough. Level 3? Level 3 takes no prisoners. If I burned a calorie for every time the word F**K came out of my mouth while doing this level? I would weigh two pounds right now.

In level 3 we meet something called the "attitude butt lift." When Tracy says "attitude butt lift", what she really is saying is "this one is going to make you cry, you weak little pussy." For serious. And when she says, "we'll only do thirty of these", you want to breathe a sigh of relief. But that's misleading. You would rather do eleventy hundred of them than just thirty. Because each and every one of that thirty will make you cry. And it's not really thirty. It's usually a two part move, so you're really doing sixty.

As I sit here typing this, filling the room with my post workout smelliness, I can't feel my ass. Seriously. Can't feel it. I'm thinking it took a vacay. And my thighs are pretty pissed off at me as well. But they'll just have to get over it. Because I? Am well on my way to bringing sexy back. Bitches.

Sum, sum, summertime...

2011-06-10T14:48:00.002-04:00

It's that time of the year again folks. The weather turns warm, and people automatically think that no matter what size or shape they are, it's perfectly fine to wear as little as possible when going out in public.

It's a beautiful, super hot, Friday afternoon. I am working tomorrow morning, so I am off this afternoon. CFKatWO is at school on a pool trip of his own, so I'm thinking this is the perfect opportunity to take my Tina Fey book (hysterical by the way, you must read it if you haven't already) to the pool for a little sun.

There I sit. It's early on a Friday, there aren't many people hanging out at the pool. It's perfect. Until my bliss is disturbed in the worst possible way. Well, that's not entirely true, I'm sure my bliss being interrupted by the sounds of someone drowning would be much, much, much worse than this, but still. I've always been one for hyperbole. And digressing...

I'm not paying much attention to the man approaching my side of the pool deck. That is until I am blinded. Blinded by pink zebra stripes. That's right boys and girls. This guy? Is decked out in only a pink zebra striped speedo. He proceeds to do some stretching before jumping in the pool. Come on, everyone knows you need to stretch before a tough workout. And stretching in a zebra print banana hammock is ALWAYS a good idea.

So what do I do? I grab my phone of course. No, I don't start snapping pics. I fear that I would have been blatantly obvious. And the last thing I want is a pink zebra budgie smuggler in my face demanding that I delete said pics. Plus, I fear what someone would think of me upon finding my lost phone and perusing through my pics. No, I begin texting everyone I know to tell them of my plight. One dear friend offered me bleach to erase the terrible vision from being permanently imprinted on my cranium. Another asked how big the package was. (Dirty, dirty, dirty girl. I am NOT looking that closely. Plus, the pattern is a little distracting. And dizzying. Especially in the sun.) The rest? Just laughed at my ordeal.

I am impressed with Pink Zebra's stamina. I guess that nad sling really does make you more aerodynamic (aquadynamic?). He did laps for a long time. And he did change it up, throwing in some back stroke, and using one of those board things. But then I remembered he was wearing a pink zebra print nut sack and I ceased to be impressed.

But this fashion icon's story didn't end when he got out of the pool. No. Our hero dried himself off, and jumped into a pair of knee length jorts.

I suppose I should be greatful that they weren't booty jorts...

Status Report

2011-05-16T20:30:00.003-04:00

I have just completed day 3 of Tracy's Omnicentric Metamorphosis Level 2. Level 2 is scary. Level 2 will make you cry. Level 2 makes me feel STRONG.

My legs? Feel awesome. Granted, my ham strings are hella tight, but still. My ass? Is tightening up. And lifting. My arms? Are getting defined. My shoulders? Sculpted. My hips and abs? Getting, skinny.

I have lost four pounds. I have lost 2 inches from my hips, 1 from my waist, 1 from each thigh.

I feel strong. I feel powerful. I feel hot. Granted, it hurts to move when I've been seated or lying down for awhile, but it's a good hurt.

And I have a wicked girl crush on Tracy.

Dear Tracy, (A Luf Letter)

2011-05-04T21:00:00.004-04:00

Guess what bitches! I'm back. Yep. It's been entirely too long since I've paid attention to my poor, lonely little blog.

But here I am. And I'm on a mission.

I've tried workout plans and diets in the past, only to wind up failing miserably. And by miserably, I mean gaining back anything I lose and then some. Well, no more. I have met my match.

This? Is my new BFF. My new idol. My new girl crush.

This? Is Tracy Anderson. Celebrity trainer extraordinaire. She also makes her miracle work available to the public. I bought her Metamorphosis series. I'm on day 4 of a 90 day (ass kicking) work out plan. Normally, I am ho hum about working out. Now? I am excited about it.

But it's not without it's drawbacks. The cardio portion? Is dance cardio. If anyone has ever seen me dance, they would remember the striking resemblance between my dancing and that of Elaine on Seinfeld. Oh yeah. That's me. One big dry heave.

But guess what? No-one's watching. Of course no-one is. I've double locked the doors and shut all the windows. Navy Seals would have a hard time breaking into my dancey dance lair.

And muscle soreness? Oh hell yes. Two days ago, breathing hurt. A lot. But now? Pain is good.

So guess what peeps? You get to go on this journey with me. This means yelling at me when I say I'm going to quit. This means screaming at me to put down the milkshake.

I'm excited.

Especially if it means I can look like this:

Making every day pretty

2011-01-05T20:41:00.003-05:00

I'm typically not one for New Year's resolutions. I'm more likely to say, "This year I'm going to drink more!! Eat more!! Partake in more debauchery!!" But 2010 kicked the shit out of me. So many crappy, crappy things happened last year that I feel like it's time for a renewal of sorts.

The whole IVF failure was only a part of the bigger picture of suck that was 2010, but that was where I realized that I had lost who I was. My identity was gone. The girl I had been before was gone. I was left with an emptiness so focused on one goal that everything else fell to the wayside. I truly lost myself.

For me, 2011 is going to be about gaining that back. That's why I have made the resolution to make EVERYDAY pretty. That means doing something each and everyday that makes me feel pretty. If I look pretty, then I feel pretty, then everyone is happy. First and foremost, this means getting my fat ass in shape. Which is why Kate is sitting all pretty at the top of this post. She's one of my serious girl crushes. If ever I'm in doubt? I think of her.

What else makes me feel pretty? Clothes. I love anything and everything to do with fashion. And makeup. I'm the one who anticipates the March and September Vogue and Elle magazines just to see what showed up on the Runways, and if there is anyway possible that I can replicate that. (I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I should have gone to design school.) I spent too many days just throwing crap together to get out of the house last year. No more.

Another silly thing that makes me feel pretty? Music. If you happen to pass me driving down the road, I'm likely sitting in my car, iPod plugged in, stereo turned up LOUD. The louder, the prettier. And I'm probably singing at the top of my lungs. And I probably look ri-damn-diculous, but you know what? Some of my favorite moments of the day are spent in my car singing along to the songs that make me feel hot.

My "Pretty Playlist"?
"Mr Brightside" The Killers
"Anodyne" MWK or the David Cook version (oh to be that microphone stand when he sings that song, :::swoon:::)
Pretty much anything Kings of Leon does
"Say Goodbye" Dave Matthews (Holy. Hell.)
"She Will Be Loved" Maroon 5
Tori Amos makes me feel pretty in a dark and twisty way.
"Ohio Bloodbuzz" The National
"Boston" Augustana
"Girl is on My Mind" The Black Keys
"Skinny Love" Bon Iver
"Avalanche" David Cook (hold me...for reals)
"Black" Pearl Jam

Load up your iPods, sing it loud, and go feel pretty!!

The one in which I focus on the important issues...

2010-12-20T22:39:00.004-05:00

I consider myself to be not just a woman with a bebeh eating uterus, but a woman with a huge social conscience. Current events? I care about them. Big time.

And there is an issue of majah importance that I feel should be discussed.

Tom Brady with long hair, yay or nay.

I understand his new look is drawing some serious scrutiny. I'm gonna go ahead and give it the very first Official Ashley. Unscripted... Two Thumbs and Two Big Toes Up.

That's right. I likes it. That whole dirty, unwashed look? Yum. O.

(I can see my husband hanging his head in shame right now. Love you dear.)

And while we're talking about scruffy, unwashed hot guys, allow me to take this opportunity to wish my boyfriend the happiest of birthdays.

(That look on his face? He just saw my FB profile pic.)

Answers...sort of.

2010-12-01T17:16:00.003-05:00

Today was back to the doc for our You Suck at IVF appointment. (Technically, I don't think that was the name of it, but same thing really.) I was terrified going into it that we were going to be told that my eggs suck, and that there's no hope. The Hubs doesn't seem to understand why I jump from point A to point Z in a matter of 5 seconds. I like to plan ahead, be prepared so to speak.

We're sitting, waiting, then in comes RSD wearing a sad face. "You were supposed to be pregnant." No shit. (But since I love her, I say that in the nicest possible way.) She then proceeded to tell me that we were what she had considered to be "Gimme" patients. We were supposed to be one of the couples that got pregnant. Everything about our cycle was textbook perfect. Perfect eggs, perfect fertilization, perfect beautiful embryos. But clearly, something was not right. Not by a long shot.

When looking at my lab work, there was absolutely no evidence of implantation. Almost as if my uterus was this vast wasteland where embryos go to die. So the problem doesn't lie with the eggs. The problem doesn't lie with the sperm(s). The problem could be more severe.

It is possible that we fell in the 40% of women that simply didn't get pregnant because it wasn't their "time." Or, there could be a major impediment to the implantation process. It could be an immunological thing, meaning my body recognized the embryos as foreign bodies and proceeded to attack them (basically, my uterus ate them). Or it could be a clotting issue, meaning that the placenta is not able to perform. The phrase "sub-clinical lupus" was thrown out there, as well as "thrombophilia". (Note to anyone, do NOT google thrombophilia unless you're doing a school project on it and you're a million times positive you will never potentially be affected by it.)

There are treatment methods for both of these issues. So, it's not really a bad thing, other than the freak out that there is potentially something wrong with me. Of course, these treatments involve infusions and needles, but bring it. I can deal. It's worth it.

She also said that the few times she's seen these issues, they've been in women who have already had a child.

The plan now is to have bloodwork drawn on Tuesday. (I have to fast for 16 hours ahead of time. Hubster is planning on having steak and lobster Monday night and laughing at me. I plan to kick him in the junk repeatedly.)

Once we get the results back, we'll go from there.

So yes, we have some answers. A.)My uterus is a bitch. And B.)My uterus eats bebehs.

I am so thankful...Part deux, I really am thankful

2010-11-25T19:50:00.003-05:00

As I'm sitting here quickly approaching a turkey coma, it's time to reflect on what blessings I have in my life for which to be thankful.

I am thankful for my beautiful, brilliant son, the CFKatWO. I am thankful that everyday he provides me with something hysterical to post as my Facebook status. This morning was no exception. We're sitting all snug and cozy on the couch, watching the Macy's parade. "Mommeh, I wish I could see my butt." There you have it. My kid's Thanksgiving wish. I love that kid.

I am thankful for my loving husband. However, I would be more thankful if he would tell me that he's opened the blinds in our closet before I go walking in there with my shirt over my head and flash the neighbors. He says I should be paying attention, and should notice that they're open. Really? You expect me to pay attention? I spend most of my day in AshleyLand. (It's a beautiful place.)

I am thankful for a job that does not cause me to sit in my car and cry every morning before going in to work like I did with my previous job. I am also thankful that this job provides me with insurance that includes fertility coverage since my girly parts forgot how to work on their own.

I am thankful that I discovered my creative side. I am thankful I bought my first pair of knitting needles, and am thankful for the sewing machine I got from Santa last year. I'm now able to channel my frustration into something creative and beautiful as opposed to cigarettes, booze, and loose men. (Although the latter of the two do sound like fun...)

I am thankful that 2010 is almost over. Because seriously? This year has sucked a fat one. However, I am thankful that a lot of my issues this year have taught me that I am a hell of a lot stronger than I ever would have thought I was.

I am so thankful...Part 1, a.k.a The Ashley. Unscripted... Man Harem

2010-11-24T22:03:00.008-05:00

It's that time of year again. Preschoolers and kindergartners all over the country are drawing turkeys out of their handprints and wearing construction paper feathers on their heads. I don't know about your kids, but CFKatWO is thankful for his family. And outer space. I mean, really, who isn't, right?

I realize that I have give my female readers a bit of the shaft lately. (Heh, heh, heh. I said shaft.) Well, not really. I know this female can appreciate the hotness of the ladies I posted. So, in this 3-part "What A. U... is Thankful For" series, may I present Part 1.

A. U... is Thankful For...her man harem.

1. El presidente
(Well, at least of the Man Harem)
Yep, that ~~obsession~~, um, love hasn't waned. Still love this guy.

2. The "I Didn't Think They Were Hot, But CLEARLY I Was W.R.O.N.G" entry
Pictures do not do these boys justice. I used to comment, "Kings of Leon, I wish they were hot." Well, I got my wish here because these guys? Are. Hot.
Welcome to the Man Harem boys.

3. The New Boys
I was headed back to work after being violated by the Vag Cam when I heard this catchy tune on the radio. (This is significant because very rarely do I listen to the radio. Usually The iPod of Shame is playing in my car.) After googling the name of the band, I began to swoon. Mumford & Sons? Welcome to the Harem. And no boys, you did not f*** it up this time.

4. Reason #876 Why I Love Guy-Liner
Dear Brandon Flowers, you had me at Mr. Brightside. (For the life of me, I could not remember the name of that song just now. I had to google it.) Clearly, you wrote the book on the Do's of Guy-Liner.

I could go on, probably for days, but I'll leave you all with these guys.

Yum. O.

I'll take Things That Suck A LOT for $1000, Alex.

2010-11-17T23:25:00.002-05:00

It's a normal Wednesday night. Hubster and I are hanging out, just having enjoyed what might have been the greatest episode of Modern Family ever. He's watching some college football highlight show, I'm knitting and perusing teh interwebs. A commercial comes on the tv. It's ultrasound images of beautiful, perfect fetuses (fetii?) in beautiful, perfect, pregnant women.

"Hi! This is Insert Name of YOUR IVF nurse here from Insert Name of RSD here. Congratulations! You ARE pregnant."

Hubster looks at me, "what was that?"

Um, I believe that's the phone call we didn't get.

Dear RSD, why don't you just stab me in the heart next time? It would hurt a whole hell of a lot less than seeing that commercial did.

Confession time, I'm not doing well. I'm so not handling this failed IVF cycle well at all. I'm trying to at least pretend that I am. But I'm not. I try to act like it doesn't kill me everytime I see a pregnant woman. But it does. I can't help but ask, why not me? Why was it so easy with CFKatWO? What went wrong?

Every morning I wake up, and one of the first things I think about is how long before we try this again. Physically, I am so not ready to go through that again. Mentally and emotionally, I am SO not ready for that again. But here's the thing, while going through that, I had hope. There was the hope that it would happen. Right now, I don't have that.

And please, don't get me wrong. I am loving my time with CFKatWO. He is currently fascinated in watching me sew. He doesn't quite get why I won't let him handle the sewing machine or the rotary cutter, but he's so cute just hanging out and watching. I love that kid more than life itself, but I know how much he wants a brother or sister. Well, let's be honest. He wants a brother. He does NOT want a sister. (But I bet secretly he would adore a little sister.) It broke my heart a few days after we got our results, he put his head on my stomach and said, "Hi brother!" Gah. Really? Is all this pain necessary? Just give me one baby. Or three. I promise, I will never, ever complain one single minute of a pregnancy. Morning sickness? Schworning schwickness. Sleepless nights? Bring. Them. On. Hell, I'll grow a third boob just so I can breastfeed triplets.

Why does this have to be so hard?

A ghost of Halloween past...

2010-10-31T19:36:00.004-04:00

A repost, one of my finest (at least in my own mind) pieces of work.

Let's revisit Halloween 2007, shall we?

Language warning for the faint of heart

Halloween is one of those days during the year when you realize that there is no faith to be had in the human race. The stupid, clueless people far outnumber those of us with half a brain. Take for example the moron that just rang my doorbell at 9:30pm. Our lights are off. We've been out of candy for the last hour and a half. "Trick or treat." You're kidding me right? You're seriously lucky you didn't wake up my child or your child, WHO SHOULD BE IN BED BY NOW, would have learned a few new vocabulary words.

I'm sitting outside on my front porch this evening watching the crowds walk by and I find myself wondering, what in the hell is humanity coming to?

Grumpy Halloween Observation #1-The Town Whore Costume
Apparantly this costume was all the rage this year. I'm thanking God right now that my child is a boy and I will never have to have the argument that "letting your ass and boobies hang out for all to see is not appropriate for an eight year old." (God help me if I do have to have that argument.) And what kills me is I saw parents with some of these kids. Seriously? What self respecting parent lets their child out of the house like that? What also scares me is who seriously think shit like that looks good? Come on. Seriously?

Grumpy Halloween Observation #2-Could you at least appear to make an effort?
Would it have killed you to put on a mask or even a cutesy little headband with cat ears or something on it before you grabbed your Wal-Mart bag, or in the case of several I saw tonight your large purse, and went out? That's not trick or treating. That's called begging, and it's not becoming of you. Of course I give those people candy because those Wal-Mart bags once held eggs to be thrown at the houses of people who asked them why they couldn't have made more of an effort.

Grumpy Halloween Observation #3-Your newborn can't possible appreciate those Reese's cups.
Chick shows up with a newborn, "trick or treat." Seriously? At least the newborn had a costme on.

Grumpy Halloween Observation #4-Where is the Shut The Hell Up truck when you need it?
Idiot woman: "How old is your son?"
My husband: "He'll be 15 months old in a few days."
Idiot woman: "Oh, my child 11 months and is already taller than your child."
Seriously? Why don't you just go ahead and say, "Neener neener neener." I know you want to. Who in their right mind thinks that is socially acceptable?

Grumpy Halloween Observation #5-Fireworks and Halloween are NOT a good combination.
What moron thought this would be a good idea? Aren't most Halloween costumes highly flammable? I mean, who hasn't seen that segment on the Today show where they light all the costumes on fire and they all go up in a blaze of synthetic material glory? And come on, don't you think the neighborhood dogs are freaked out enough already? I know my neighbor's dogs didn't appreciate my son the shark coming up to their fence and laughing at them. (Ha ha ha bitches, serves you right for those nights you kept me up all night.)

Like I said, leave it to a day like Halloween to bring out the idiot in everyone, well not me of course.

I would like to say to the adorable little girl who said, "ma'am is it okay if I walk on your lawn?" I puffy heart you and your parents for raising such a wonderfully, well-mannered child. Please take all these Reese's cups just for that.

Happy freaking Halloween.

Fiddle-dee-dee. Tomorrow is another day.

2010-10-26T19:00:00.004-04:00

This day? Is going to go down as one of the worst days in my 32 years. After 4 painful hours of waiting, I get the "we're sorry, you're not pregnant" call.

Four weeks of putting my body through serious hell for nothing. Nothing. I would like to take my remaining bottles of progesterone in olive oil and smash them on the ground, taking great joy from the noise they make as they shatter. I would like to build a bonfire and autoclave my own sharps container. I want to scream. I want to sob. I want to lay down and not feel anything at all for a while. But I am not going to do that.

Yes, I am completely devastated. But, I'm trying to put a positive spin on this. I haven't shed my last tear, but I've got to keep things upbeat. That's the only way I'm going to make it.

We don't have any concrete plan right now, definitely don't want to make any rash decisions. But we are sure that for the next few months we're going to take several months off of any hormonal assisted reproductive attempts. I'll start taking my temperatures again, just to keep up with what my body is doing. Hell, it got pregnant on it's on once before. How do I know there's not another miracle out there waiting on us? Then around the spring, we'll revisit IVF.

In the meantime, I'm going to get my fat ass in shape. I'm going to do a lot of knitting. I'm going to master my sewing machine (dammit). And I'm going to enjoy every second with my wonderful family and amazing friends. The outpouring of love and support we have seen has been completely and totally overwhelming.

I love you all.

Status Report

2010-10-24T12:06:00.004-04:00

(A personal favorite of mine)

It's now been almost 2 weeks since my retrieval, and I could probably be classified as clinically insane right now. The first thought on my mind when I wake up in the morning is, "am I pregnant?" The last thought on my mind before I fall asleep at night is, "am I pregnant?" It has completely taken over my life. Every minute of every day is controlled by obsessing over every single pinch and cramp. No, this is not healthy.

In the interest of full disclosure, I peed on a stick the other night. However, this was a very dumb and stupid move. Not only was it ridiculously early, but it was late in the day and I had had a ton of water to drink throughout the day. No pregnancy test would show a positive, unless I was pregnant with octuplets. So obviously, it was negative. I tried to reason with myself that I was just testing to see if my trigger shot was out of my system (for those of you not down with the IVF lingo, this is the shot of the pregnancy hormone I did before my retrieval to "mature" my eggs. This is the hormone that pregnancy tests are looking for.) And honestly, because I was so extremely hydrated, the trigger might not even have shown a positive.

But of course, common sense and book knowledge does not apply when you're in the middle of the IVF madness. This negative test sent me in a horrible depressed spiral that lasted for around 24 hours. It didn't help that CFKatWO's teacher asked me if I was pregnant, and told me that he has been telling everyone how mommeh has been giving herself shots so he can have a brother AND sister. **sob**

I am much more rational now, well as rational as possible when you're still hopped up on hormones. We're down to the last 48 hours. By this time Tuesday, I should know one way or another. I. Am. Terrified. Seriously terrified. But not terrified enough to pee on another stick. No way.

So stay tuned...

And now, we wait.

2010-10-14T21:37:00.003-04:00

Today's hot chick is one of Hubster's favorites. Probably because we look sooo much alike. You know, what with the fertility drug bloat that I've got going on right now. I. Am. Hawt.

Well guys, my IVF journey is all done except for the waiting. This morning was our embryo transfer. Today was the day that I never thought would get here.

After recovering from my drugged out bliss on Monday, I awoke Tuesday freaking out that none of my eggs were going to fertilize, that they would all fail, and all of this would have been for nothing. Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long for the call that we did indeed have 5 beautifully fertilized embryos. Got another call yesterday saying that we still have 5 beautiful embryos, and I was given my directions for this morning.

Hubster and I find ourselves back in the clean room at RSD's office. He's all decked out in scrubs, I'm looking supah hot in a hospital gown complete with shower cap looking hat. They bring us a picture of the bebehs that are being transferred. There are two of them. Each are 8 cell embryos. One is grade A+, the other is grade A. In other words? They are perfection. Yes, I cried. And their picture is now pasted up on my fridge.

The transfer process was relatively easy. I had to take 10mg of Valium beforehand, which I have to say was pretty worthless. Although I think I was so hopped up on adrenaline that horse tranquilizers wouldn't have helped this morning. I also had to drink what felt like a swimming pool full of water as well. So I have to pee, and I'm not Valium-mellow. I did get to show Hubster the dildo-cam. Heh heh heh. I don't think he found it as amusing as I continue to do.

So now? We wait. We wait until October 26 for my pregnancy test. That's 12 days. 12 long days. Luckily I'm going back to work on Monday, so that should keep my nice and busy. For now, I'm resting and knitting and trying not to obsess or google things that I shouldn't google. Oh, and I'm talking to my embryos. A lot.

My poor, violated ovaries

2010-10-11T15:57:00.003-04:00

There you go boys, enjoy. (Anyone looking at my hard drive would be seriously confused by the combo of hot chick pictures and random David Cook shots.)

For those of you brave enough to read on. Of course, be warned that I am hopped up on pain meds, and the anesthesia is still in my system, so I'm a little loopy. Well, more so than normal.

This morning was the egg retrieval. This is where they go in with the vag cam and a needle to remove all these eggs that have been rapidly growing over the last 10 days or so. This comes after a week of having to go in EVERY SINGLE DAY for blood work and ultrasounds. And lots and lots and lots of shots.

Hubster and I go in this morning. We're quickly separated. Me to go get an IV and be whisked away to surgery. Him to go treat himself like an amusement park (hopefully) one last time. The whole process happened so, so fast. One minute I'm waiting on them to come start the IV, the next I'm coming out of the OR.

I was concerned about the recovery part. The last time I had this particular drug cocktail was my wisdom teeth surgery back in college. Fentanyl/Versed Ashley is Very Very Annoying Ashley. I remember being very upset with my mother because she would not let me go into the pharmacy with her to get my scripts. Then I wanted watermelon sorbet from TCBY. Mom tries to tell me that I can't eat anything because I can't feel my lips. Who needs lips to eat! She complies, probably just to get me to shut up. Or maybe just for the sheer entertainment factor involved in watching someone who can't feel their lips attempt to eat. Oh yeah. Big mess. (I also announced to the entire oral surgeon's office that I was drunk off my ass. Nice.)

But I digress...a lot...

So now I'm home, they retrieved 7 eggs, which freaks out this over achiever. Of course, all the nurses and RSD told me that 7 was perfect. 7 was a great number. And I realize that it only takes one. Tomorrow I should know how the fertilization process is going. And then on Thursday some of these guys will be transferred back into the ol' uterus.

As for right now, I have to pee. But it hurts. And I am afraid to get up. And my pain meds are on the other side of the bed. And pharmacists make the WORST patients ever.

I want every last one of you out there in Blogland to keep your fingers crossed for happy fertilization.

Someone slap me.

2010-10-05T18:01:00.003-04:00

Seriously. Someone slap me. I've had a pretty pitiful "Woe is me" day today. After my fourth doctor's appointment in seven days, I kind of had a breakdown this morning. IVF is hard. I knew it wasn't going to be easy. Hell, I knew it would be tough. I just didn't expect it to be so physically and emotionally draining. I have had several moments of just feeling completely out of my skin, not to mention that I just don't feel good. At all.

But enough of that. I need to stop being an asshole. There is a huge reason for all of this, and eventually, when this is all said and done, one way or another it will be so worth all of this. I have patients who depend on multiple daily injections just to survive. I'm being an annoying whiney-pants, and I need to stop.

So there. I'm calling myself out. Shots, vag-cam, what have you, I'm just going to grin and bear it.

PS: Don't EVER Google image search "asshole." EVER.

Let's do some shots!

2010-10-01T21:45:00.003-04:00

No, not that kind of shots. The other kind. The pointy, hurty kind. Our IVF cycle is officially in full swing. And I've got the bruised belly to prove it.

After another super fun appointment with bloodwork and dildo-cam, I got the go ahead to begin stabbing myself three times a day. (I should mention that I nearly knocked the dildo-cam off of it's little ultrasound machine when I banged it with my elbow. But don't tell my doctor, please.)

Injecting yourself is a bit freaky. These are subcutaneous injections, so the needle itself is small. But one of the meds? Follistim? Burns like a bitch as it's going in. I did my first injections at work, and I know I shrieked the first time I injected that one. Now that I'm a seasoned pro? I still shriek.

Being the sadist that I am, I used watching mommeh give herself a shot as a tool to get my kid out of the bed on time. He was excited, but that was short-lived. "I CAN'T LOOK!" Thanks for the support, man.

Tomorrow it's back to the doctor for more bloodwork and another fun ultrasound. We may even get to add another drug into the mix in the next few days as well.

I'll be honest, this is tough. Seriously tough. But if this is what it takes to give my child a sibling (or eight-I kid, I kid), then this I'll suck it up. But that doesn't mean that I won't whine. That's not in my nature.

Scared of my own shadow

2010-09-26T21:03:00.002-04:00

This is it people. Two weeks from today, my ovaries will have been brutally violated. And between now and then? Starting Wednesday? I get to shoot myself up with hormones at least twice a day. For the indefinite future.

***DISCLAIMER: I am not complaining. I repeat, I am not complaining.***

I came home from work on Friday to find a huge box of drugs on my porch. In this box were also big bags of needles. Lots of needles. Lots and lots of needles. Big needles. Scary needles.

Needless to say, I have spent most of this weekend in a bit of an emotional panic. I'm scared. I'm scared of the shots. (I am a weenee with a capital WEE.) I'm scared of the retrieval. I'm scared of the transfer. I'm scared that there won't be any embies to transfer. I'm scared that once they're transferred, I'm going to talk to them so much that they're going to go off in search of a quieter uterus. (My uterus is anything but quiet.) Basically, I'm scared of putting my body through this, and then it not working. I'm not ready for that. Hubster says don't think of that, but I can't think only that it's going to work, because that's not being completely realistic. So many emotions, not quite sure of what to do with them. I think I'll stick with being excited. For now.

From the deepest depths of the ol' uterus...

2010-09-02T21:14:00.003-04:00

Alright boys, enjoy the completely gratuitous Kate Beckinsale hotness.

Everyone else, it's uterus time again! Yesterday was my "trial transfer" in anticipation of the real deal in a few weeks. This was Rock Star Doctor's chance to measure my uterus so she will know where to drop the embies when the time comes.

For my 7:30 am appointment, I was told to come with a full bladder. I chugged the prescribed 25 ounces of water, and went on my merry way. They call me back immediately.
"Is your bladder full?"
Well, it feels that way.
They clearly think I'm lying, so they do an ultrasound. Not. Even. Close. I am given a big ass cup of water and sent back to the waiting room to drink.

I get called back again.
"Is your bladder full?"
If it wasn't before, then it definitely is now,
Again, they think I'm lying. Ultrasound time! And again, not even close. Back to the waiting room I go.

At this point I realize that I am going to be late for work. And guess what, I still don't have a phone!! Luckily I'm able to email Hubs on my ipod and have him call work for me. (I had totally planned on being early. Little did I know that the Bladder Police would be out to get me.) I continue to wait. And wait. And wait. And the need to pee keeps getting worse and worse and worse.

FINALLY, they call me back. Apparently, my knock-knee-ed "I gotta pee" walk has convinced them that I am ready to go. In comes Rock Star Doctor (and the heavens open up and sing hallelujah). As she's explaining the procedure, I am terrified that I am going to pee on her. I wonder if this has ever happened to anyone before. I would really hate to be the first.

I don't pee on RSD. And apparently, my wonky uterus actually looks good. Woot. Yay wonky uterus. Ultrasound tech comes in for some more Dildo-cam action. (That would be trans-vaginal ultrasound for all of you proper people out there. Bwahahahahaha, no proper people would be reading this blog. They started clutching their pearls at the word "uterus.")

And that was that. But it took two and a half hours. However, we have our retrieval date tentatively set (10/10/10, tell me that's not good luck?), which would make our transfer date the 13th of October. Holy crap, that's soon. I am excited. And giddy. And nervous. And desperately trying to stay away from teh Google. No good ever comes from googling medical procedures.

However, I might have to google more Kate Beckinsale pics, because damn. She's hot.

I can't always be perfect.

2010-08-30T18:50:00.002-04:00

As shocking as it may sound, I am not always a bastion of perfection. Every so often, I do something stupid. And in this case, I really outdid myself.

Picture it, a lovely Saturday afternoon. We decide that we should go get ice cream. This is not something that should lead to drama. Well, not for most people.

CFKatWO is being a pain in the ass. You would think that someone about to partake of ice creamy goodness would be cooperative. Not my child. I finally manage to get him to sit still long enough to get him buckled in his carseat.

And away we go. We're riding down the road, on our merry way, when suddenly **thump, thump** we hear. Hubs and I look at each other. Suddenly, my blood runs cold. "What was that?" he asks. Oh no.

"Um, I think it was my phone."

"Your phone?"

"Um, yeah. My phone."

Hubs turns the car around to see if we can find the phone. You see, in my trying to get my kid in the car, I put my phone on top of my car. And forgot about it. I watch him cross the street, he's kicking the grass as he's walking. Oh yeah, he's pissed. We find the back of the phone, but that's about it.

Looks like we're making a quick stop at Verizon before the ice cream shop. I love the expression on the chick's face when I tell her why we're there.
"Did you have insurance on the phone?"
Um, no. Why would I need insurance???
"Just wait right here and we'll be right with you," the look on her face clearly reads, "we are so about to screw you over."

So yeah, they can help me. They can sell me a phone for the full retail price. Wow, really! That's awesome! I can pay $369 for the phone that you just sold that guy that was here before me for $50. Where do I sign! At this point, I'm not above begging. "There's nothing else you can do?"

"Well, we do have this 1987 bag phone if you'd be interested. It's only $10." I kid, I kid. Although I would have reacted better to that than what the guy actually said. "Well, you really did just get that phone."

Thanks asshole. I am aware of that. Sorry, I didn't plan on putting my phone on the car and driving away with it, making it a projectile.

So now, I'm partying like it's 1994 and waiting on my "certified refurbished" phone to arrive. Great, I get the phone that some jackass returned after he left it on the roof of his car, only he had insurance so he got a brand new phone and I get his sloppy seconds. Or something like that.

So yeah, sorry to burst your bubbles folks, but even I do something stupid every once in a while.

The journey starts here, tomorrow starts today, and other random cheesey cliches...

2010-08-12T20:52:00.003-04:00

Before I start, I would like to give my straight, male readers (if there are any out there other than my husband) a completely gratuitous gift. Because this post is going to be all about uteruses. And vaginas. And ovaries.

The IVF process officially started today. My "pre-screening" appointment was this morning. This was a fairly simple appointment, unless you happen to be MY VEIN IN MY LEFT ARM. Holy Jeebus. Seven vials of blood later, I'm feeling a little weak. (Totally kidding, but you know how I tend to lean towards the dramzs.) I swear, when the lab tech started pulling out vials, she kept on pulling. And pulling. And pulling. I swear, my eyes were freaking saucers at this point. Seven vials.

But wait, there's more. After that, I'm whisked away for an ultrasound. The word ultrasound conjures memories for me of finding out that CFKatWO had a penis. Those are happy memories. But yeah, this particular ultrasound? Not nearly as pleasant. One word, vaginal. Yep. I had to snap a pic of the [insert technical name of the wand-ey thing they use for those trans-vag ultrasounds] with my phone to send to the Hubs. I mean, seriously. It was just sitting there, with a latex glove on top of it, giving me the one finger salute. And I will NEVER be accused of being proper. Or reverent. Of course, the u/s tech comes in and I'm not quite nakey yet. She was probably thinking, "this chick has on a skirt. How long does it take her to get undressed?" Heh, heh, heh, good thing she didn't step in 2 seconds earlier. That would have been tough to explain.

"Um, excuse me, ma'am? Why are you snapping a pic of our dildo-cam?"

(I will NOT look at Google analytics search terms for this post.)

I was sent home with a script for birth control pills. (That was fun, seeing the looks on the faces of my co-workers.) They are going to get my cycle all regulated before they shut everything down with a big, fat needle. Which reminds me, when you're a pharmacist, and you know you're about to be getting lots of injectable meds? Don't go looking at the needles in your spare time at work. Don't do it. Please.

Next appointment? Super fun. The "Trial Transfer." We get to find out the depth of my uterus.

Woo hoo! Good times!!

An Infertile Myrtle's Take On "Teen Mom"

2010-08-11T20:48:00.010-04:00

You know you watch it. Go ahead, admit it. You're hooked. Tuesdays at 10, your tv is on MTV. If for some reason you can't stay awake, you make sure you catch it at least one of the other 987 times it comes on. I know you. You can't lie to me. You're just like me, trying desperately to look away, trying to resist the siren song of truly trashtastic television, when all you really want to know is, "WON'T SOMEONE THINK ABOUT TEH CHILDRENS???!!!"

It's even more fun to watch this show when you are in possession of a wonky uterus, and your husband's sperms are immature little shits. (**whispers an apology in case they're listening** Who am I kidding, they haven't listened for the last two years, why should they start now?) This show makes my eyeballs bleed. It makes my head get all 'splodey. Yet I keep watching.

In case you have never seen the show (liar), let me take this moment to introduce the cast of characters, in order from least to most offensive.

1. Maci
I like Maci. She seems to have her (odd shade of orangey) head on straight. Baby Daddy is a douchecanoe, but she seems to have a clue. However, I do find fault with her naming that poor, beautiful baby boy Bentley Cadence.

2. Catelynn/Tyler

I feel bad calling these kids offensive. They make me sad. After all, they knew they weren't able to give their child the kind of life that she needed. They chose adoption, and got a lot of grief for it. Mainly from this beautiful specimen of humanity:

Sorry, ladies. I'm afraid that guy, Butch, is taken. Butch is Tyler's dad. And he is also Catelynn's step-dad. And he also has the fiercest mullet I have seen in a long time. Butch? Is a dick. I know, shocking right?

Anywho, T&C are struggling with the (extremely mature, and should be greatly commended) act of giving their child up for adoption. Their families suck. And they're teenagers who think they want to get married, but the dramz. Oh, the dramz.

They do break my heart. Seriously. It's hard for me to watch, but I do have a few words of advice. C? Eyebrows. Please don't be afraid of them. T? Or as the Hubs calls, him "House of Pain"? Turn the hat around. It looks stupid.

3. Farrah
Oh Farrah, Farrah, Farrah. I go from one extreme to another with this girl. On the one hand, her mom is Crazy Cakes. Ladies and gentlemen, exhibit A:
"Talk to the hand bitches. Don't make me bring out my floorlength fur coat and get all medieval on your asses."
Seriously though, this woman is nuttier than a freaking fruitcake. Assaulting her daughter was just the tip of the iceberg of this woman's crazy.

I also feel bad for Farrah because her Baby Daddy is dead, and that is sad, because dead things are sad. And clearly the child is having a rough go at it.

But then I want to slap her. She leaves the (adorable) screaming, crying baby alone in a dark room. She leaves the (adorable) baby in her carseat in the hallway in front of her new apartment. She leaves the (adorable) baby in the SINK. ALONE. So she can turn on the hot water and burn herself. EEK.

But she's freaking Mother of the Freaking Year compared to our last couple.

4. Amber and Gary

I hate this hoar. Hate her.

And this guy. Actually, no, I think he has a vagina. I hate him too.

These two are worthless. WORTHLESS. And Gary, ~~while a sexy piece of manmeat~~, you know what, I just can't. From now on, this is how we will view Gary:

And this is Amber:

(I like to think of the fly trapped inside as Gary.)

Amber beats the crap out of Gary, Gary takes it, Gary decides he's not going to take it anymore and leave, Amber cries, Gary stays. Amber beats him up again. Repeat. And scene. Meanwhile, their child is crawling around, eating things found on the floor of restaurants. Yeah. I hate them.

As trashtastic as this show is, it's hard to watch. There are times when I have to change the channel. My infertile heart breaks a lot while watching. The injustice of infertility slaps me in the face while watching this mess. Ugh.

Does that mean I'll stop watching??

Never.

Sometimes things just suck.

2010-08-05T13:18:00.002-04:00

Today we went back to see Rock Star Doctor. The Hubs did the whole re-wank thing again a few weeks ago, and today was time to find out if things have improved.

They haven't.

So, looks like we're headed for IVF.

I'm a ~~little~~ lot ragey. I'm sad.

I'm trying to be positive, I'm trying not to think the worst.

But seriously? This sucks.

I can't even be funny today. Next time though, I promise.

Warning: This will be heavily laced with expletives.

2010-07-26T20:13:00.002-04:00

This day? This day has sucked. A lot. Allow me to tell you my story.

Picture it, a hot, summer morning. Cute girl, wearing cute clothes, in a cute car, driving along, rocking out to a little Kings of Leon, prepared to get her work week started. (Cute sunglasses as well, I feel I should add to further set the scene.) There is a van in front of Cute Girl, making it's way, minding it's own business as well.

Out of nowhere, here comes a white mustang, flying down the road, driving in the wrong lane. Holy crap, our heroine thinks as she sees the van in front of her get hit. Holy shit, she thinks as she sees the car headed her way while the van is flipped around and pushed across a lane of traffic. Holy fuck, I'm going to die, she thinks as she quickly swerves to the center of the road to avoid getting hit head on.

SMASH

Cute girl's cute car is smashed. Mustang goes flying by, over an embankment, down into the river. Cute girl's first thought is that the mustang lost control. Next thought is OMG, is the lady in the van okay. Next thought? Where the hell is my cell phone?

The next few minutes are a bit hazy. I find my cell phone in the floor of the backseat. My iPod (playing David Cook at this time) is on the floor of the passenger side. Someone is knocking on my window. I tell this nice lady that I am okay, and ask about the other people involved. She tells me the lady in the van is probably going to the hospital. Then she tells me about Captain Fuckhead, otherwise known as the guy that hit me.

It appears that Captain Fuckhead was driving under a suspended license, so he freaked out and tried to run away. Yes, he tried to run away after running his car off the road, down an embankment. Immediately I think, nice. If he doesn't even have a valid license, what are the odds that he has insurance. Yeah, slim to none.

Nice Lady hangs out with me until The Hubs can get there. (As it turns out, Nice Lady actually stopped the Asshat that hit me. She is one bad ass Nice Lady.) Hubs gets there, ambulance takes Van Lady away, then I get the satisfaction of seeing Super Doucheholio being dragged along in cuffs and put in the back of the cop car. (If the cops are looking for my opinion, they really should have used a little more force, a la COPS, you know, banging his head into the side of the car. I'm a fan of police brutality at that particular moment.)

As we're hanging out at the scene, waiting to get insurance (mine, because remember, Captain Asshat has none) info straight, a car pulls in beside mine. Two women get out, crying and carrying on, wanting to know what happened to the mustang. I point towards the embankment, "it's down there." Cue more crying and carrying on. They ask about the driver. I point to the cop car. (Did I mention that AssGoblin that hit me was a sobby mess? I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. One of the cops told him to shut it, which I did appreciate. A lot.)

After what seems like hours, in 157 degree heat with 1000% humidity, our tow truck shows up. As the tow truck driver who (in honor of CFKatWO's favorite movie) I will call JOE-Mater (Tow-Mater's cousin) is about to hook up my car, another car pulls into where we are, between my car and the tow truck. Um, excuse me? Hubs immediately tells her to, um, move your freaking car. She needs to ask me something. As she's asking me about the mustang (seriously, with all this love and support, you would think this Douchedonkey could have had a driver), I'm pointing her in the direction of the cops, Hubs is getting pissy with her. She starts getting an attitude. Oh. Hell. No. This is not the time to mess with me.

So now, my beloved car is sitting at a body shop awaiting judgment. I have a rental, that is so not my car. CFKatWO is excited that I have a "new" car. And I have a whole lot of headache to deal with now.

At least I'm okay, cars can be replaced and all that, but I'm still seriously pissed off. I busted my ass to get that car, and then some irresponsible fuckhead smashes it. Yeah. This day has pretty much sucked.

State of the Sperm Address (Complete with the Uterine Response)

2010-07-02T11:13:00.002-04:00

Yeah, I hear you. I haven't blogged in over a month and when I finally do I'm talking about uteruses again. (Would someone please tell me what the correct plural for uterus is? Because uteruses looks not right.)

It was back to see Rock Star Doctor yesterday to get the result of Hubster's bloodwork. He's fine, hormonally speaking of course. We don't really have an answer as why his sperm are so wonky. Well, technically they're just immature and lacking in necessary receptors. How fitting. The majority of the sperms (I KNOW that one's not right, but it makes me giggle. Hey, I never claimed to be mature in any way, shape, or form.) are like a bunch of teenage boys. They're going out in the world all gung ho crazy, and not paying any attention (being "receptive" so to speak) about the needs of anyone else (namely my perfect speshul eggs). They're all like "BOOBS!" and "BEER!" and "FOOTBALL!" meanwhile my eggs are not getting any younger.

Wow, that was a digression I wasn't prepared for. Anywho, Hubster gets to go back to the doc and peruse their literary and movie collections again in a couple of week to see if those asshole sperms have decided to get their shit together and grow up. I asked him to show me where the Wank Room was, but I think he was ignoring me, or doing that thing when he acts all deaf and can't hear anything that comes out of my mouth. Just like I did that same thing when the doctor jokingly asked if she should write Hubster a prescription to play more golf, since that helps with his stress and all. Um, doc? Shoes help with my stress. Can you write me a script for a shiny pair of Louboutins? Because that would totally help my stress level.

But, I can also start hating on my uterus again. And my fallopian tubes, or rather my fallopian tube. RSD looked at my HSG x-ray again and concurred that only one tube is functional. ALSO, my uterus? Yeah. It's funky. It's "unicornuate." That's right. My uterus is a unicorn. Which explains why CFKatWO was breech, and throws any and all hopes of me having a VBAC out the window. So I'm only fertile half the time. Even if the sperms grow up and get on with their lives, they're only going to be able to get to the prize half of the time. And guess what? I'm not the most patient person. (I know this surprises you all.)

So we now have a plan. Once we get the re-wank analysis, we will have a clear path. If the re-wank is good, and the sperms are grown up, receptive sperms, then we have two options.
Option 1 is doing what's known as intrauterine insemination. They take the sperms and shoot them where they're supposed to go. This will involve fertility drugs to get funky girly parts to cooperate and ovulate on the side that works. Option 2 is skipping straight to IVF. If the sperms are still immature little douches, then we're looking directly at IVF.

We talked to the financial people, Hubster cried a little. (Thank JEEBUS that my insurance offers infertility benefits.) Multiple births was thrown out there. Hubster cried a lot. Then I told him he would be able to give me a shot in the ass. No more tears. He appeared to like that idea. Sadistic asshole. (I say that with love.)

In the meantime, CFKatWO has informed me that he wants both a brother and a sister. He would like them to come at the same time, and he would like Mommeh to have one in her belly and daddeh to have the other in his belly. That sounds like a plan to me. (Of course, he then asks, "How dat bebeh gonna get in your belly?" I had to change the subject, quickly, and instructed him to ask his father.)

Deep Thoughts...by Ashley. Unscripted...

2010-05-29T20:49:00.003-04:00

Typical Summer Saturday morning. Husband is playing golf, CFKatWO (Child Formerly Known as the Wee One if you're new here) and I are at the pool. As I'm sitting at the pool, I'm doing my normal ~~judging~~ people watching. We have quite a few interesting suspects this morning.

Lifeguard Boy, is he hot, is he not? I'm trying to decide. CFKatWO walks up to him, "Hai! I'm three." (We really need to work on this kid's shyness.) Lifeguard boy responds, "I'm 17." Question answered. Not only is he decidedly NOT hot, but he is jailbait. Moving on.

Swimming Lessons Teacher, holy awkwardness Batman. I hear her serenading Lifeguard Boy. Clearly she is closer to his age than I am. I hear her interacting with other people. Wowza. Awk-ward.

Oh look! Lifeguard Boy is letting CFKatWO help him test the pH in the pool. Kid is giddy. Look now! Lifeguard Boy has a frog. CFKatWO is petting the frog. Friends for life.

EEEEK! Is that poop in the baby pool? Did my kid do that?

CFKatWO and I are chilling out on our chairs. Beastly Chick is swimming laps in the pool. She's trying to be all Michael Phelps (without the whole marijuana thing to make her more fun, clearly). She splashes the kid and I. And by splash? I mean soaks us. Beastly Chick has now become Michael Phelps Wanna-Be Bitch. Look! Here she comes again. And we're drenched again. Really? REALLY?

Anywho, this post had a point that was long ago lost. As I'm sitting here ~~judging~~ people watching, I have a thought. What if someone here at this pool is doing the same thing I'm doing? What if one of these people here has a blog and is writing a mental blog about me.
It would probably read something like this:

Oh EM GEE! That woman does NOT need to have on a bikini. Albeit, it's a very cute black J Crew bikini, she does NOT need to be wearing that. Those thighs are FRIGHTENING.

Oh EM GEE! Could that kid whine anymore? "I don't want to get in the water! I want to play in the baby pool! I want to get in the big pool! I have to go potty!"
And why didn't she bring him some toys so he would leave my kids toys alone.

Oh EM GEE! Did her kid poop in the pool? He totally did. Look! She and the kid are walking away from the little pool. She totally didn't.
And her key didn't work, I bet she's not a member here anyway.

Look at her spraying her kid with sunscreen. Hmmph. My speshul snowflake was properly coated thirty minutes prior to sun exposure.

I'm sure this could go on for days.

And for the record, no. My kid did not poop in the baby pool.

A(nother) Luf Letter

2010-05-18T21:31:00.002-04:00

Dear Doogie Howser,

I love you. Like a lot. Like a lot a lot.

Long, long ago, when you were the youngest kid in med school, I would swoon every (was it?) Wednesday night. I felt like you would totally understand me. After all, we were both the smart kids, right? No-one normal understands us, right? I never thought Wanda was right for you. Snooty beeyotch.

Time passed, you got hotter. And even more talented. Of course, we have the teensy tiny issue of the whole gay thing, but really, does anyone else think that's a big deal? I don't. (BTW, your boyfriend? Um, delicioso. He's invited to this party too.)

So, um, call me? Please?

***Smooches***
Ashley. Unscripted...

I'm full of anger.

2010-05-14T22:12:00.002-04:00

I'm angry. Oh hell yes. I'm raging. Some things have happened in the last few days, and I'm hella pissed.,

BUT, in the essence of not oversharing on the interwebs, rather than go the freak off on the douchebags that deserve it, I shall instead pawn that anger off onto other vehicles.

That's right bitches. It's time for Ashley. Unscripted...'s Ragey Hate-filled Diatribes Against People That Suck. (Damn that's a long title.)

Person that sucks #1:

BP Execs
I am totally that girl that cuts her plastic six-pack plastic rings. I can't bear the thought of one of Diego's bottle-nosed dolphins (of whom my child can recognize based on pictures alone) getting there long bottle-ey nose stuck in something that could have been my fault. Which of course means, I have tons of rage for a company that is now trying to place blame elsewhere for all the poor little shrimp and other cute little sea creatures (that I would shriek hysterically if one of whom came near me in the water) that will die due to your suckage at life.
***Ashley. Unscripted... throws empty wine cube at BP***

Person that sucks #2:

Elisabeth Hasselbeck

I loved you on Survivor. Seriously. You were all awesomesauce and cute and fabulous. Sadly, time in the real world has colored my opinion of you. You, my friend, are an idiot. There's no nice way to say it. You're going to pick on another hot sister friend who has clearly had a rough go of it? It must be nice up there in that big, glorious glass house of yours.

People That Suck #3:

Ladies and gentlemen, THIS IS going to suck hardcore.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I have loved American Idol in the past. Hell, the majah object of my lust got his start on that shit show.
Let us take a moment to reflect back on the beauty that once graced that stage:
Hmmm, excuse me for a moment.

Anywho, AI jumped the shark a long time ago. But really, this season just pisses me off because it's so fucking lame. The ONLY reason (well, other than the time I've invested in it) I have continued watching isi that I have yarn riding on Phil Dweezey, or whatever the hell his name is.

Honestly, there are plenty of other things that piss me off right now. Tiger Woods, Jesse James, Lebron James, Katy Perry being on top of the Maxim list, I could go on. But I won't. Feel free to leave your own hate filled diatribes in my comments. Hell, I may publish some of the good ones.

It appears an apology is in order.

2010-04-29T20:51:00.003-04:00

I hate being wrong. Maybe because it happens so seldomly (note to self: watch out for that lightning strike). I also hate when I judge someone/something too quickly and find out that my judgments and all my judgey thoughts and statements were in error. Today was one of those days when I found out that I have been horribly, horribly wrong. And for that reason, I'm going to issue an apology.

Here goes.

Dear Uterus,
I'm sorry. Please forgive me for judging you so harshly. Forgive me for calling you selfish, obnoxious, mean, ugly, and all those other terrible names I reserved specifically for you. I know you're sitting there looking all smug right now, basking in my wrongness. Go ahead, have your moment. I guess you deserve it. I was wrong, you were right. It's not you, it's me. Please find it within yourself to forgive me.

Okay, now that we have that out of our way, let's chat, shall we? Today was the follow up with the reproductive endocrinologist. Remember her? Rock Star Doctor, or RSD for short. RSD enters the room (and yes, choirs of angels are still singing). She's not one to mince words.
"We have a male factor."

Wha-wha-what? I thought I had a selfish uterus. Nope. It appears it's the sperm that are speshul. Pinheaded even. (Well, not really, but I saw that word on the sheet and fixated on that.) Really, really speshul. On paper, it looked really scary. (Can I give my husband mad props here for letting me blog about this? Thank you for being a good sport.)

We have a bit of a plan, some OTC antioxidant/fatty acid supplements (gotta fatten those bad boys up), some bloodwork (at last someone else gets to have crackhead arms), and a repeat performance of the old Wank in the Doctor's Office performance.

It looks like unless there is some spermy miracle, we're headed for IVF, later on this year probably.

For now? I'm going to have my ragey moments, throw some things, yell, scream, cry. And then? I'm going to drink some wine and eat some sushi.

Ever feel like this?

2010-04-21T20:20:00.003-04:00

Do you ever feel like your life is a movie that someone else is watching while laughing hysterically? I do.

Take yesterday for instance. I'm working, doing my thing. Man comes in, drops off prescription, takes his seat to wait for the script. He then proceeds to begin singing at the top of his lungs to a walkman. And by "top of his lungs", I mean yelling. I'm not really sure what he was singing, but I think it had to do with the scent of a woman, or something like that. I'm thinking, since he's singing so loud, he's not going to hear us call his name out. But he does. As soon as his name is called, he hops up. Which leads me to think he was singing along to the music in his head. Awesome.

Over the weekend Hubs and I went to a birthday party, then decided to hit up a local bar with some friends. As a result of this, I am missing some jewelry. No, I didn't leave it in the bar. (And not to worry, it's just cheap costume stuff from Tar-jay, but it was freaking cute.) It came home with me, yet I have absolutely no idea what I did with them. Nice.

Remember CFKatWO? The one that doesn't sleep? The same one who also doesn't like pizza, or cheese, or most other things that normal people like? Yeah, that one. I get to school today to pick him up. I always dread looking in his cubby. There is usually good reason for this. Today is no different than most. Except today, it appears worse than most. Oh yeah, CFKatWO was "written up" today. What for? You ask? It appears the child was stripping down showing off his undies for all to see. I am terrified at the prospect of this child in college.

In other CFKatWO news, same school, different day. His teachers have developed a reward system, or "treasure box" for good behavior. I hate this treasure box. Hate it. Loathe it. Maybe if my child actually demonstrated good behavior it would be a different thing altogether. Oh no, everyday starts with the prospect of picking a treat from the box in the afternoon (he has his eye on a particular green dragon), and ends in dashed hopes because the idea of flashing his underoos is more exciting. He was having none of this on Monday. I had to threaten to leave him more times than I'm proud of. He wanted a treat, dammit. He screamed, he cried, he flailed in the floor until I had to pick him up. And OF COURSE this was at the prime pick up time when lots of people got to witness his feats of strength. It was even more fun in the parking lot when he decided to turn into a surf board and become virtually impossible to put in his carseat. Oh yeah. Good times.

So in case you're the one watching this hysterical movie, wouldn't it be more interesting to see, I don't know, um, David Cook walk into my pharmacy looking for directions and a personal escort back to my house? I know I sure would.

Testicles, scrotum, nutsack, junk...A rose by any other name...

2010-04-09T21:32:00.003-04:00

My Husband? He owes me. A lot. I'm talking Louboutins and David Cook a lot.

The Child Formerly Known as The Wee One has always taken a huge interest in his penis. He's been fascinated with it ever since the day he found it. I guess that's a guy thing. I wouldn't know, seeing as how I don't have one.

The other night, CFKatWO and I are hanging out. He grabs my boob. Hard. Um, no kid. You don't need to be doing that. I say, "we don't touch mommeh there." Which of course leads to "Why mommeh?" Good question, why? How on earth am I going to explain this one to a three and a half year old? "Well, CFKatWO, those are private. Much like your penis is private-" I'm interrupted by fits of giggles. "You said penis mommeh."

Clearly we're going nowhere. Eventually I explain the whole "private parts" concept. He wants to know what my boobs are called. I try "breast." He doesn't get that one. Finally I give in. "They're boobs." This is apparently hysterical. "Where are my boobs mommeh?"

Meanwhile, Husband is hanging out downstairs. Unbeknownst to him, his wife is wanting to stab herself in the ears with a Transformer.

Fast forward to tonight. CFKatWO and I are getting him ready for bed. As he's putting his Pull -Up on (kid still pees like a mountain lion at night), he grabs for the penis but gets the other stuff instead. "What dis called mommeh?"

Testicles, kid. Testicles.

Dear Husband, that $2900 charge on the credit card for shoes? Yeah. I earned that one.

Sleep? It's for the weak.

2010-03-26T20:04:00.002-04:00

Tonight we are embarking on a new bedtime routine for The Child Formerly Known as The Wee One. You see, bedtime has always been my absolute least favorite part of the day. , The Child has quite the knack for dragging bedtime out and making it last for-freaking-ever. Two books turn into ten, one hug and kiss turns into 18, and before I know it more than an hour has passed and Mommeh is searching for a Xanax.

This has all been fun, in and of itself, but now we have a new monkey wrench thrown into the situation. You see, for the last two or three (I've really lost count what with the sleep deprivation going on here) nights, The Child has gotten up at 2 or 3am. Yes, that's right. 2 or 3am. He comes downstairs, comes into Husband and my room, and crawls into bed with me. Actually, he crawls into bed and climbs on top of my head. And falls asleep. And we stay this way for a couple of hours. Him sleeping, somewhat soundly, me struggling to breathe with a child on top of me and a foot lodged somewhere between my left kidney and right lung.

Tonight however, Husband and I have a plan. Child now has a clock on his wall. A fancy schmancy clock, complete with stickers in the proper places to tell him what time he can leave his room. We have tried to educate him on the whole big hand/little hand dealio. Yeah, stop laughing at me. I'm desperate here.

We'll know in less than 12 hours if this was a colossal Mommeh & Daddeh WIN! or a monumental Mommey & Daddeh FAIL.

Hey Infertility? Guess what, it's ON.

2010-03-25T11:43:00.003-04:00

Today I took a giant leap forward into reclaiming my girly bits and getting on with the whole business of getting pregnant. We're working on more than two years now. Um, hello Soon To Be Former OB, something obviously isn't quite right over here in Uterus-Land. His responses to me have been that a.) we're not having enough sex and most recently b.) we're having too much sex. Um, seriously? That's all you can do for me?

I decided it was past time to take matters in to my own hands and made an appointment with a reproductive endocrinologist, heretoafter referred to as Rock Star Doctor (RSD for short). After filling out reams of paperwork, we're set. As we're waiting for RSD, Husband and I notice a lifelike uterus. It's obviously a sickly uterus as there are polyps, tumors, and fibroids all over it. Poor little uterus. "It looks like some sort of space ship," was Husband's response. He is also making suggestive comments about the poster of the female reproductive system. Yes, we're mature.

In walks RSD, and I swear, it's like the Heavens opened up and angels began trumpeting. I immediately felt at ease with her, I also felt that she clearly was in control here. This lady knows exactly what she's talking about. (Judging from the Aw-inducing posters of Baby Reunions, she's quite good at what she does.) She shares her initial thoughts of our problem, and a plan is set forth. They drew some blood, I now have Crackhead arms seeing as how Angry Vein in right arm didn't want to cooperate and they had to use Happy Vein on the left side. Husband has his own appointment, about which I am forbidden to write about. Let's just say that lots and lots of jokes were cracked by both him and the office staff.

So here we go. The journey has officially begun. Wee One has informed me that he wants two sisters, Violet and Spongebob. Here's hoping that one day soon he will have at least one on the way.

I guess it does rather look like a spaceship.

I'm pretty much full of it

2010-03-19T20:44:00.002-04:00

Tonight is a night that I've been looking forward to for a few weeks. The Hubs is away at a bachelor party in Vegas, Hangover style (minus a Tiger, Mike Tyson, and a naked Asian guy jumping out of a trunk let's hope). I have to work tomorrow morning. The child is at the in-laws.

I'm left to my own devices, home alone. Sitting here with a glass of Shiraz and my Gossip Girl season 1 dvds, and all the fair isle knitting my little heart can stand.

There's only one problem. I'm home alone. Sitting here with a glass of Shiraz and my Gossip Girl season 1 dvds and all the fair isle knitting my little heart can stand. It's too quiet. I should be yelling up the stairs for the munchkin to stay in his bed. I should be racing up the stairs to answer his cries of "mommeh, wipe my butt!"

Oh yeah, I'm full of it. I talk a huge game. I'm all, "woo hoo! Alone time!" Alone time is overrated. I miss my baby.

Thoughts from my car

2010-02-17T20:28:00.003-05:00

Being a working mother, scratch that. Being a mother, all mothers are working mothers, time alone is at a premium for me. Some days my twenty minute commute to work and the commute back home again (or to daycare) are the only waking minutes during the day that I have to myself. This makes for some pretty indulgent fantasizing. No, no, no all you dirty minds out there. Not that kind of fantasizing. Normally.

***cue the Wayne's World-ish flashback sequence music***

Ladies and gentlemen, THIS. IS. AMERICAN IDOL.

It's the finale of American Idol. Guess who's one of the final two? That's right. Yours truly. Curtain opens to the opening strains of Gaga's Bad Romance. In this fantasy, I have rhythm. (Yes, I realize how much of a stretch this is.) As I start singing, I hear the crowd going nuts. I'm thinking, heck yeah. This is all for me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see flashy movement. Holy. Crap. It's the Gaga herself. And me. Singing a duet. EEEK! I muster up the nerve to finish the song, complete with dance steps. When it's done, Gaga tells me how awesome I am, and how much she loves me. **swoon**

It's almost the end of the night. I'm onstage again wearing some to-die-for Alexander McQueen (God rest his soul) gown. I'm thinking I'm about to do a duet with some random. Cue intro music. In walks David Cook. I melt into a puddle of Alexander McQueen wearing Ashley. Unscripted... goo.

***and scene***

I can almost see The Husband shaking his head at me now. "These aren't the kinds of things you tell people," he would say. That's where you're wrong, husband of mine. This is just the kind of thing that the people out there in Blogland will appreciate. Or think I'm wack-a-doo, or both.

I plan to make this an ongoing series. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

A Luf Letter, Olympic style

2010-02-15T20:21:00.003-05:00

Dear Bode Miller,

I love you. Like a lot. Like a lot a lot. Yeah, I know some people said you were pompous and arrogant in the last Olympics. And some other people may have said you were douchey. But I didn't listen. I ignored them and told them to keep on sippin' that Hateraid. After all, they were just jealous, right?

I don't know a lot about skiing. Actually, all I know is that you use skis, and poles, and go fast, and snow is cold. I also know that if I attempted it, I would probably kill myself. I know that I would also really look like an asshole trying to attempt it. But that's okay. There's only room for one skier in this relationship. I'll just stand there and look pretty while you bring home all those medals and stuff.

So, to reiterate, I luf you. A lot.

Call me.

Love,
Ashley. Unscripted...

PS: David Cook doesn't have to know. Shhhhhhhhhh!

Love, Love, Love, I want your love.

2010-02-14T15:06:00.002-05:00

It's Valentines Day. I remember getting excited for it back in middle school. I remember hating it in college when I lived in the sorority dorm and was single, and everyone was getting all sorts of flower-ey goodness delivered to them and I was just getting drunk. These days, it's all about getting the Wee One's Valentines to school on time and then not letting him completely crack out on candy overload after school.

Anywho, this post has a point. Somewhere. Oh yeah, that's right. In honor of V-Day, may I present to you, Ashley. Unscripted...'s List of Things She's Loving (Right Now)

1. The Olympics

I think this picture best represents the Olympic spirit.
I mean really, doesn't Apollo just make you want to stand up and cheer, Go USA?
Don't worry guys, I'm not leaving you out this time.

Wouldn't want you guys to feel left out of all that Olympic spirit. Sadly, there are no pictures to be found of the absolutely beautiful Andorran Olympic team. And this really does make me sad.

2. Bonding time with The Child

Nevermind that this currently means turning on Wow, Wow Wubzy and hoping that it's a good substitute. Actually, nevermind any of that crap. Wubzy has just been turned off because the child is not listening to me for the 18 millionth time today. And now he's whining and crying screaming and I am well on my way to being batshit crazy. Nevermind that I purchased the FAIL toy of all time today and it's driving me, husband and child all crazy.

3. The Wine Cube

Yes, it's wine in a box. Have a problem with that? Suck it. As if I needed anymore reason to love Target, this little guy right here has given me one. It's perfect for dealing with that, "holy crap I almost finished that whole bottle by myself" guilt. (And anyway, one small bottle is in actuality only two large glasses. Come on now.)

3. My sewing machine

I am slowly, but surely getting the hang of my most awesome Christmas present. Granted, I am a long, long, loooooong way from producing anything that looks technically perfect, but I haven't sewn my pants or shirt to the project I'm sewing yet. And the amount
of blood that is spilled has significantly decreased since my first attempt. (Straight pins are sharp, who knew?)

4. Snow Storms in the South

I'm sitting here typing this and looking out at the last remnants of the Great Southern Blizzard of '09, or Snowmageddon as I've taken to calling it, I'm reminded of the hysteria we were enduring on Friday. Normally, when the weatherman says snow, we all roll our eyes and laugh at him. We don't get snow. This time? What do you know, they were right. They even estimated too low. Here at the Unscripted house, we got 9 inches. That's completely unprecedented here. Wee One's school closed way early, before the stuff even started to fall, which meant I had to leave work early. Husband's work closed early, roads were closed, it was madness. Sheer madness. I loved every single minute of it. I even saw a snow plow when I made a pilgrimage to Target yesterday (for the above mentioned wine cube). The Child liked it for all of ten minutes, then he was over it and didn't like the whole cold, wet part of it. And now? It's pretty much gone. Probably for another 37 years.

Happy Valentines Day, y'all.

Pity party, table for one please

2010-02-07T20:51:00.004-05:00

Alright boys, go ahead and back away from this post. She's talking about her uterus again.

Since today has been a bit of a drag, I've compiled a list for your reading enjoyment. I present to you, my lovely readers,

Ashley. Unscripted...'s Things That Suck Less Than Infertility

Yeah, I went there.

And by the way, Uterus? It's time to stop being so damn selfish. It's "uter-US" not "uter-YOU."

Thank you for allowing me this moment of complete gratuitousness. (Judging from my spell check? That is a word.)

People/Things that are annoying me, February edition

2010-02-01T20:43:00.003-05:00

I guess I'm easily annoyed. I prefer to call myself "overly sensitive." I also have a problem not expressing opinions when they pop in my head. (The first time I typed "pop" I added an 'o' and it said "poop." And I gigglesnorted. I cannot lie.)

I'm thinking of making this a monthly feature.

1. Taylor Swift
I don't get the hype. Really. I'm sure I'm about to piss some people off right now, but seriously. I think her music is crapola. How much high school angst is there to sing about? Really. And the whole, "golly gee willikers guys! I'm so surprised I just won my eleventy billionth award! Back when I was in grade school back on the farm we used to dream and wish about being up on a big stage!" Yeah, she's just a kid, but give me a break already. Stop with the shocked and awed routine. I don't buy it anymore. And I'm sure she's a great role model and all that jazz, but I'm just waiting on a sex tape or something to come out to show that she's actually human. Until then, she annoys the piss out of me.

2. Stupid Facebook copy & paste status updates
I don't care which scandalous sounding place you keep your purse at night, I don't care what your "fine" is, and I am not keeping any of it a secret from the guys. And yeah, I'm all for cancer research, I support my troops, and I am against secret dragon attacks (that one actually cracked me up). But really. It's the equivalent of the old fashioned chain letter, which is about as much fun as leprosy. (And about as contagious.)

3. HGTV and any other home renovation/do it yourself television programming
These shows on their own probably aren't very annoying. But when you throw in a husband that is addicted to them? I want to stab something in my eyeball, or ears. Or both. The people on these shows crack me up. They are so obviously reading their "lines."
spoken in a monotone, "Wow. This kitchen is great." fake smile
Really now? Can't you at least fake interest in the property?
The WORST one however, is called Holmes on Homes. Great premise, this guy goes around fixing things that other contractors have effed up. But I swear, he is the most boring man I have ever seen on tv. I swear, he spent a whole hour talking about holes. HOLES. Snooze. Fest.

4. Weathermen
You promised me snow this weekend assholes. This is not the first time you've failed to deliver on your empty promises. Try explaining to a three year old why he can't build a snowman. Then try explaining at least 18 more times, because you and I know he's not going to accept your first seventeen explanations. If I was wrong at my job the number of times that you guys are? Yeah, I wouldn't have a job anymore. What gives? I think you should only be able to say the "S" word if you KNOW that it's going to happen. I'm talking 100% chance. And if it doesn't happen? Then maybe they should do a televised flogging of the guilty weatherman on tv. And let three year olds and their parents do it.

K.I.T. and R.H.A.S.

2010-01-21T20:36:00.002-05:00

It's a Saturday morning. The Child and I have been playing hide and seek for what feels like an eternity. In reality, I think it's only been ten minutes, but let's be honest. My kid sucks at hide & seek. Yes, that sounds harsh, he's only three. But really. He's bad at it. While I'm "hiding" I stumble across a few of my high school yearbooks. Oh yeah, here's a new way to entertain The Child. Let's play Find Mommeh's Bad Hair and Even Worse Outfit In a Sea of Horrible Hair and Clothes. He's game. And he finds me right away in my freshman yearbook.

"Mommeh, you wook boooteeeful!" Oh how sweet, he already knows how to lie to me, because boooteeeful that picture of me is not.

I flip through some more pages and have to admit, a lot of you people are friends with me now on Facebook. Let's just say that time has been kind to us. The 90's? Were most definitely not.

But it wasn't the pictures that gave me the biggest chuckle. It was the autographs. Surely when I was 14 or so, I couldn't imagine almost 32 year old me looking back and reading all this. And of course, it was like I was right there, eating lunch in our gym lobby. (Lunch of course consisted of a bag of Bugles and a Dr. Pepper.) I can still smell it.

Let's analyze some of these autographs, shall we?

"I've had fun having class with you!!!" Translation? I have no idea what to write in your yearbook. I prefer the, "I enjoy being in class with you. You always seem to liven it up." Me? No way. Hee hee. See, at least this person put some thought into it.

"You're such a sweet/pretty/fun/insert generic compliment here person!!" Again, no idea what to write, this just makes us both feel better, at least until we're 32 and we see how hollow this statement really is.

"K.I.T! 123-4567!" Translation: please don't call me. Please.

"It's been a great year!" This would be the sister statement to the had fun in class one. At this point you realize the person signing your yearbook has already signed 50 others and just isn't even trying anymore. (I'm pretty sure I wrote my fair share of this one.)

And of course, the ubiquitous RHAS! or PAS! Translated, "raise hell all summer" or "party all summer" because you know the person writing that in your yearbook was the ultimate high school bad ass.

In all seriousness though, most of my friends were pretty creative. There are several signatures that transcend the last 15 years or so and make me smile. The most poignant however would have to be the statement, "I love life" from a friend who passed away shortly after our freshman year of college. A beautiful attitude from a beautiful person.

Go dig up your yearbooks, enjoy a laugh at the expense of your own bad hair. (Shocking confession, I found a couple of pictures of myself in jorts.)

And of course, LYLAS!!

Heartbreak.

2010-01-13T21:14:00.002-05:00

I'm writing this from the warm comfort of my home. That home is standing in my comfortable town, where the infrastructure is completely intact. My streets are clean, we have clean running water, we have safe, reliable sources of food. However challenged our system is, we have health care readily available. For my fellow man in Haiti? They do not have these. They didn't have these options the day before yesterday, but at least at that point things had room to improve. Today? Not so much.

My heart is broken for these people, for this country. These people went from having nothing, to having less than that. Now they are broken, shattered. Their country lies in ruins at their feet. Their countrymen lie dead in the street. There is no hospital for them to go to. The aid that is on the way to them will have to fight a battle to get through the ravaged landscape to get to them.

I see the faces of these beautiful children, of these parents, of these sisters, brothers, friends, and I cry. I weep for what lies ahead for them. Their pain is palpable. It emanates from their eyes in the pictures.

I want to do something. If I was without familial responsibilities, I would be down there as fast as I could to help. This devastation will be felt for years to come. If you are able, do something. Help this nation. Help these people. If nothing else, say a prayer. Say two. Spare a moment of silence to think of them.

Semantics?

2010-01-05T18:56:00.002-05:00

I'm getting ready for work this morning, the Today show is on, nothing unusual. I'm half listening, half checking my facebook, half drying my hair and putting on makeup. Wait, that's too many halves. Maybe that's why my hair didn't look quite right today, but I digress.

As I'm multi-tasking, Matt Lauer says something that makes my ears perk up. Something about a young boy surviving a cougar attack. Five years ago? I would have thought, oh my God! How awful! Some big jungle cat attacked this little boy!

This morning? I think, oh my God! How awful! An older woman in skin-tight leopard print spandex attacked this little boy. Then I giggled.

As it turns out, it was the jungle cat variety, but sadly, that's not what I thought to begin with. Every year new words are added to the dictionary, and old words get new meanings, hence the mental image conjured with the word "Cougar."

Some recent examples?
Staycation I hate this word. Like really hate it. It wreaks of lameness. Just say you're not going anywhere, or you're staying in. Why the need for the new word?

Carbon footprint Again, not a fan of this one either. Much like the word cougar conjures an inappropriate image, this one does for me as well. I picture a big ass Big Foot walking all over the place leaving muddy, black carbon-ey footprints everywhere. (I told you there was a lot of crazy in my head.)

Waterboarding Now this one I like. I first think of the ocean, and sand, and by association fruity drinks and personal bartenders. Then of course, I realize they mean torture, but what a pleasant term for it. I can get on board with that one.

Unfriend I love this one. For those people that dare to annoy the piss out of you with their obnoxious facebook status updates (I think I did a post about these people.), there's always the option of unfriending. I am guilty of the unfriend. I have also been unfriended. Of course, being unfriended usually drives me batshit crazy as I try to figure out who in the hell would dare to cut me out of their facebook life.

Sock Puppet Seriously? For reals?

And from the 2008 edition, webinar (lame, just the word makes me yawn), fanboy (love), and my personal favorite word of all time, w00t.

Now, go use one of these words in a sentence. You can't say I never taught you anything.

Resolutions, Schmesolutions

2010-01-02T08:16:00.002-05:00

It's that time of the year again, the time when people everywhere make a list of things that they plan on doing to better themselves for the next year. By January 15, most have broken the majority of them. What's the point? It's as if you're setting yourself up for failure. But, you know me. I'm not one to be left out. I've decided to make some resolutions of my own.

***drumroll please***

1. I resolve to be a more patient and attentive mother. Yes, my child drives me batshit crazy at least once daily, but I will try to deal with it in a better way than wanting to either a.)bang my head repeatedly on a wall, b.)stab myself in the ear with a blunt object repeatedly, c.)legally change my name from "mommeh" to something unpronounceable to three year olds, or d.) drown my sorrows in a bottle of vintage cab sauv. (Or e.) all of the above)

2. I resolve to get pregnant. Enough already with the infertile crap. I'm over it. My kid needs a sibling.

3. I resolve to learn how to use my new sewing machine, and use it well. I have big plans to take over the fashion world, but first I have to learn how to sew in a straight line without the thread getting all dark and twisty and making me want to run through the list of options mentioned in resolution 1. I eventually want to start an Etsy shop, but I've got a long way to go before getting there.

4. (This one is for The Husband.) I resolve to be better about spending money. We can let him think that by "better" I mean "less." It will be our little secret that "better" actually means "buy better stuff." Shhhhhh. Don't tell him.

5. I resolve to be a better blogger. I've kind of sucked this year on that front. There's too much material floating around in my head. I need an outlet of some sort. All this crazy has to go somewhere.

I could resolve to eat better or exercise more, but that's not the stuff of resolutions. That's stuff I should be doing on a regular basis.

Crappers, kid just kicked my computer. There goes resolution 1 already.

Tiger, Tiger, Tiger...(With my sincerest apologies to William Blake)

2009-12-02T18:37:00.004-05:00

Tiger, Tiger, in the car
She's got clubs, you won't get far.
What on earth posseses you
To do the things you're going to do?

With what crack pipe did you smoke?
Didn't think you were that type of bloke.
Dude, your wife is really hot.
This other chick? I'm thinking not.

And why send the creechy texts?
They'd make me laugh, not think of sex.
And when your wife was on to you?
That was the best thing you could do?

What the dealio? What the hell?
You really thought this would end well?
Really man? What's in your head?
You're lucky man, you could be dead.

A woman scorned is never fun.
Especially if you try to run.
You're lucky that she isn't me.
The light of day you'd never see.

Tiger, Tiger, if in her shoes,
Some special favors I would use.
All that money that you earn?
Would be half mine with which to burn.

Somewhere the late, great William Blake is rolling over in his grave. Sadly, when this story first broke this poem, well, the original, was the first thing that popped in my head. Yeah, I'm a nerd like that.

And for your literary pleasure, here is the original poem, from which I was inspired,

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake, 1757-1827

What I'm Thankful For, by Ashley. Unscripted...

2009-11-28T20:07:00.002-05:00

Ah, Thanksgiving weekend is drawing to a close. The turkey carcass has been picked over, the mashed potatoes that your husband left in the oven overnight rather than putting them in the fridge (oven was off of course) are now sitting in the fridge rather than having been thrown out, and the cranberry sauce is still in the shape of the can it came in while sitting in a tupperware container in the fridge, probably growing hair (or at least by the time I find it again it will have hair). It's time to reflect back on the year that was 2009, time to think of the things for which I am truly grateful. Of course it goes without saying that I'm thankful for my husband and son. Obviously. I'm talking about the more obscure things that I'm thankful for, the things that aren't so obvious.

First and foremost, I'm thankful for my former boss, the boss from hell, or Captain Douchebag as I affectionately referred to him. Even though this guy has absolutely no redeeming qualities as a human being, and let's be honest. I'm pretty sure he kicks puppies for fun, I'm thankful for him. I'm thankful that he opened my eyes to find the wonderful new job I have now. I owe him a debt of gratitude for inspiring me to get the hell out of dodge and find a new job where I feel that I can actually make a difference in someone's life. Thank you Captain Douchebag, I salute you.

Next, I would like to thank the terrible, horrible, no good, really bad builders who were building the house we were supposed to move into. Thank you for lying to me repeatedly and eventually going bankrupt. Without you, I never would have found my dream home. Without you, I would not have developed a closer relationship with my in-laws who I lived with for six months (*note, no sarcasm here, this is serious*). I love this house more than I ever would have loved the lesser house you were pretending to build us. I just feel bad for the people stuck in an unfinished neighborhood due to your shoddy workmanship and shady business practices.

I am also thankful for Lady Gaga. Not only do you come out with some pretty damn catchy music that entertains my three year old in the car, but you dare to be different. You step wayyyyyy out of the box, and you do it well. So Gaga, as I drive to work each morning singing "Bad Romance" at the top of my lungs, I praise you. Thank you for being you.

I'm thankful for Facebook, for allowing me to keep up with old friends and frenemies, for allowing me to get my blog out to the masses, for giving me endless material to mock and judge. I'm also thankful to Twitter for allowing me to shamelessly ~~stalk~~ follow the celebrities of my choosing. It's all about discretion, people.

I'm thankful for the shows Glee and The Big Bang Theory. My inner high school nerd is finally validated by the characters on those shows. If those shows mated and had a love child, it would be Ashley. Unscripted... in high school.

Happy holidays everyone. Gobble, gobble, gobble.

Facebook Do's & Don'ts

2009-11-24T20:40:00.002-05:00

I think it's time for an etiquette lesson. For reals. I'm sitting here perusing the "People You May Know" section on my Facebook page, and I have seen some disturbing things. Seriously people, why?

Rather than judge, like I normally would, I think I can use this opportunity to help the masses. Oh what the hell, I'm still judging, just trying to make it sound "nicer."
And who am I kidding? This isn't a "Do's and Don'ts" post. It's a "Things That Drive Me Bat-Shit Crazy on Facebook" post.

1. The Shirtless Profile Picture
Seriously? No-one wants to come to your gun show. And if they do, I'm questioning their contribution to society as we know it. Put a shirt on, stop flexing your (non-existent) muscles. No-one cares.

2. The Skank-Tastic Profile Picture
This is probably the person who wants to be friends with The Meathead described above. I get wanting a cute profile pic, hell mine is adorable. I appreciate that. But I don't want to see you doing your best sausage impression in a dress that is 8 sizes too small. Girl you've got more rolls than the Wal-Mart Bakery. Nothing that tight looks good. Ever.

3. The Motivator
Please stop with those quotes you stole off the inspirational posters in the breakroom where you work. I. Don't. Care. The only thing that would motivate me on Facebook would be ~~David Cook writing on my wall that he thought I was hot and wanted to run away with me to Jamaica~~. *ahem, excuse me* The only thing that would motivate me on Facebook would be, well, nothing. I don't go to Facebook for motivation. I go to Facebook to waste time that could be spent doing more productive things, like checking my email or Tweeting.

4. The Married Couple
I don't understand why you would need one account for two people? It's free, isn't it? Sure, Husband and I have a lot of the same friends, but we do have other friends. Plus,~~David Cook might feel strange writing on my wall if it belonged to Husband and I.~~ *cough, cough* Plus, I just think it's weird.

5. The Salesman
Dude, I'm not buying your shit because you either sent me a Facebook message asking me to, or because you made it your status and repeatedly updated it, taking up my entire wall ALL. DAMN. DAY. Maybe if you would, I don't know, stop Facebooking and actually get out there and do your job, then maybe, JUST MAYBE you might be a little more successful.

6. The My Life Is SOOOOO Perfect All The Time Friend
Seriously? Especially if I know you have small children right around the same age as the Wee One. I know your life isn't all sunshine and rainbows. It's more like meltdowns and wine bottles. I want to ask these people if they're even real. Dude, it's Facebook. What are you trying to prove?

7. The I Capitalize The First Letter Of Everything Poster
This Is Seriously Annoying. It's A Pain To Even Type Like This. Why Do People Do That? Please. Tell Me.

Are you guilty of these? Then stop. Seriously.

My new favorite article of clothing

2009-11-13T20:36:00.003-05:00

So, in my last post (two weeks ago, yes I am aware of that) I alluded to the fact that I have a new job. That's right. I have left the creepy confines of traditional retail pharmacy. I have come out from behind the counter. No longer will I have to direct people to the hair dryers or bug spray. There will be no more arguments with people who are pissed at me because their doctor's incorrectly told them that a certain drug was on our $4 list. I'm out. I could have done cartwheels as I walked through those sliding doors for the last time. My time in that particular job was a roller coaster ride. One day I was being recognized for being new talent in the district, the next I was getting written up for an anonymous blog (moment of silence). One day I'm being told I'm a phenomenal pharmacist, the next I'm being threatened with a write up because I had a woman, who threatened to meet me in the parking lot and seriously injure me, escorted out of the store. (Yep. Boss gave her $100 for her trouble.) But anyway, I digress. The important thing is, I'm out of there.

I began the job search several months ago. Husband and I knew that the right job was out there, I was prepared to suck it up at the Shop 'N MakeMeWanttoVomitattheProspectofWorkingAllDay for as long as I needed until I found the right job, or at least until Boss From Hell fired me for something fun like not filling a forged script.

There was always one job that I have wanted, ever since my last year of pharm school. One morning, I'm perusing job openings, and there it is, the holy grail of jobs, at least for me. I swear, tears formed in my eyes. I felt giddy like I've never been giddy before. Guess what? I got that job. Holy crap, I got that job. And you know what? I love it. I love it SO much. Being a pharmacist is fun again. It's like redemption for all I went through at the Buy 'N MakeMeFatBecauseI'mEatingMyTroublesAwayOnAisle9.

This brings me to my new favorite article of clothing. I have a new lab coat. A fancy one. One of those that is similar to what physicians wear. I feel all warm and tingly when I have it on. Well, that's a bit extreme, but I do catch myself watching my reflection in windows and doors. Hee hee. It's the small things.

And in case you're wondering? I think Tim Gunn would be very pleased with my selection of lab coats.

My Failings as a Mother

2009-10-27T19:05:00.003-04:00

Rain, rain, go away. Today Wee One's class was supposed to go on a field trip. The class was supposed to go on this same field trip last week. Due to bus issues, the trip was rescheduled for today. Little did we know that today would hold record breaking monsoons (well, maybe not that much, but you know how much I like to exaggerate). Rain=no trip to the pumpkin patch (again) for Wee One's class. Cue grumpy and disgruntled three year olds. Cue teachers screaming for xanax and booze.

When I walk in to pick him up this afternoon, I felt a chill in the air. I swear I could hear a combination of the Jaws theme and the Twilight Zone song playing in the background.

"Mrs. Teacher wants to talk with you," one of the teacher's aides tells me.

Gulp.

Mrs. Teacher is the sweetest person. Seriously. Mrs Teacher does not look happy.

It appears that my child has had a rough day. It appears that my child was a demon today. Why do I feel like I'm the one getting sent to the principal's office? Because that's exactly what I feel like. There was hitting, there was the throwing of toys, there was lying, there was whining. He was a regular Maury Povich episode today, minus the whole Baby Daddy nonsense, of course.

Discipline is hard for me. I don't ever want to see my child upset or crying or not 100% happy. Yes, I am a very unrealistic person. Don't get me wrong, I do discipline my child, I just hate every minute of it. It's hard for me to stick to my guns. I melt into a big puddle of mommy goo when I see that little lip poke out or those big tears start to form. I know that in the end, it's the best thing for him. If he's not disciplined things are going to be much more difficult for him when he's older. And it's not like he's a bad kid, he just had a bad day. But I tell you one thing, I don't like to see the regularly sweet as sugar Mrs. Teacher mad/upset/having a bad day as well.

The pumpkin patch trip has been re-rescheduled for Thursday. Please, please, please God let this one go off without a hitch.

The State of My Uterus

2009-10-21T20:57:00.003-04:00

Uterus. Say that word over and over again a few times. It's kind of an ugly word. Uterus, uterus, uterus. What's the plural? Uteri? Uterii? Uteruses?

Sorry, there really is a point to this post. Somewhere. I'm standing in my usual spot behind my computer at work (well, it's officially NOT my spot anymore, but more on that in a bit). Woman comes to the counter, "Oh! You're pregnant!"
Um, no, I'm infertile. Not pregnant.
No, that's not what I said, but believe me, that's what I thought. Why do people even say that unless the person is strapped into the stirrups giving birth? To make matters worse, I even had on my skinny cords. I. Did. Not. Look. Remotely. Pregnant.

That point? Yeah, sorry. It's here. Somewhere.

It's been almost two years now, and still nothing. It still sucks. It still sucks a lot, but I've made something of a peace with it. The last year has been supah stressful. We've sold a house, started building a house, lived with the in-laws, gave up building the house because our builder sucked big, hairy balls, we bought a new house, we moved into new house, my job became hell on earth. You know, nothing major. OB seems to think the stress has nothing to do with my failure as a woman (no, I really don't feel that way, I'm just being dramatic). I am begging to differ.

So, where are we? I mentioned the job? Yeah, I'm moving on. The weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders. I am soon to start my dream job. I am giddy. It is also coming at a good time in the whole trying to conceive saga. I'm about to start a new job. It's not a good time to get pregnant. We are going to take a break. We're going to chill out, relax, and enjoy the beautiful, smart, hysterically funny, sometimes ginormous pain in the butt, child we have now. Six months from now? It's on.

You hear that uterus? You got six months.

Trapped, with no possible chance for escape.

2009-10-13T20:30:00.002-04:00

I swear, sometimes I think the Blog Gods deliberately put me in situations to see how I will write about them. That happened today. If I hadn't already lost all faith in humanity, it would would have been gone after this episode.

I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon. I am actually leaving early enough to where I won't be rushed and should get there in plenty of time, for once. Yay me. Start the car, a funny looking, random light flashes on my dashboard. I try resetting it, car yells at me. Apparently something is funky with my tire. I get out, look at them, they look fine. I call the Husband. He tells me to go to the dealership after my appointment and have them look at it. So much for the fifteen minute edge I had.

Get to the dealership, they look at me like I have three heads when I try to explain what the deal is. Um, no, I don't know how to check the air pressure in my tires. No, I don't know how to put air in my tires. Yes, these are things that I should probably know how to do, but alas, I don't. Can you do it for me? Um-kay, thanks. I'll just go sit in the waiting area.

So, I'm sitting. In anticipation of having to wait, I brought entertainment for myself. Little did I know I wouldn't need it. Minutes later, in walks a threesome, a surly looking teenager, her mother, and her grandmother. Grandma immediately starts protesting that the tv is on a news station. "We need to get this tv changed. I need to watch my stories." Okay, I lied. She really didn't say she needed to watch her "stories," I made that up. She DID say that she needed to change the tv to her soap opera. She wanders over to the check-out desk and demands that the clerk change the tv. Loudly. The poor clerk had no idea how to change the channel, as it has been stuck on Fox News for the last ten years. (The joys of Red State living) Grandma is not accepting this as a response. She begins yelling, and by yelling I mean shrieking, that someone better get over here and turn the tv for her or she will do it herself.

At this point, the bitch in me wants to say, "Ma'am, I was watching this. Please do not turn the tv." I didn't, but I wish I had. She finally finds someone to change the channel for her. Then she begins bitching about the volume, "this ain't no silent movie theater! Turn the damn thing up."

Seriously? Shoot me now. I give her the stink eye. Surly Teenager begins smacking her gum, and continues smacking her gum for the entire 8 hours that I was trapped in there. Okay, so it wasn't eight hours, more like 45 minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

Why? Why? Do I have an annoyingly obnoxious people magnet in my forehead? Where do these people come from? And why do they apparently seek me out? Anyone?

Karma's a bitch, bitch.

2009-10-11T20:16:00.002-04:00

I know I'm guilty, I've done it before. I've judged another mom over her kid's behavior. But honestly, that was a long time ago. Now, I see the poor woman struggling with a miniature tyrant and I offer a friendly smile. Kids suck sometimes. Well, not the kids, but their behavior.

We are currently on vacation. My child is NOT a fan of change of any sort. He doesn't do well with changes to his routine. Throw in the fact that he's been sick this week, so he's already out of sorts, oh yeah, and the fact that he's THREE, and you have a recipe for disaster. He's testing his limits, he's NOT listening to a word Husband or I say. And he thinks this is funny.

This afternoon? Nightmare. We were walking around near the beach, on a pier, looking for the occasional dolphin. He decides he's had enough. He takes off running. I catch up to him, try to get him to smile for a picture (seriously, I'm in NO pictures from this weekend). I grab his hand, he musters up super human three year old strength and pulls me to the ground. I fell on top of him. Somehow both of us escape serious injury, although my knee still hurts. I'm feeling pretty shitty right now. We try for ice cream. He winds up covered in it. Seriously, covered in chocolate ice cream. We head for the playground. There are several other kids with their parents. I should mention that these kids are apparently little angels who never do anything wrong, who never speak out of turn, who always listen, and never, EVER walk around with chocolate ice cream covering them from head to toe.

Wee One pulls his shoes off.
"Put your shoes back on."
He ignores me.
"Put your shoes back on. Now."
He continues to ignore me.
I chase him down, wrestle him to the ground, and get his shoes on him. He's shrieking like I'm beating him.

He's playing on one of the jungle gyms. So is another little girl. "Get off. This is mine," he tells her. She looks hurt.
I sternly say his name and give him THE LOOK. Guess what he does? Right. Ignores me.
"You can't play here," he tells this little girl again.

I begin using THE VOICE along with THE LOOK. You know the one, the one where you're yelling, but your teeth are clenched, so it doesn't sound like you're yelling? Yep, that one. He begins shrieking again.

WE. ARE. GOING. HOME.

At this point, I notice this woman staring at me. Like seriously, staring holes in me. She is pushing her angelic, not quite one year old, child in a swing. She continues to stare as I wrestle my child to the ground again. I raise my voice again. Yep, still staring. I keep waiting on her to whip out her phone and call child protective services on me. Her child smiles and giggles pleasantly.

I want to say, "you know, he was like that once. Oh yes, we thought we had the perfect child, we thought he would never drive us crazy. I said I would never, ever yell at my child, especially not in a public place. Just. You. Wait." Instead, I pull out my iPod and start Tweeting about my horrible child. She is STILL STARING at me.

So, let me just say, judge all you want now. But just wait. One day, that will be you. That will be your child shrieking and yelling bloody murder because he wants his shoes off, or he wants to run play in traffic. Just wait. You will lose your composure, you will yell. Just wait. But guess what? I'm not going to stare at you. I've been there. I know how it feels. I'm just going to smile at you, because honey? The fun is just beginning.

I suppose it's only fair

2009-09-26T20:33:00.002-04:00

I admit, I probably deserve it. I did spend three days last week blissfully floating in the Atlantic Ocean, the only care in my head was what to order from the bar next. It's only fair that The Hubs got to go away this weekend. I was excited about my weekend with my favorite three year old. We were going to have a blast. Right.

I should have crawled back into bed before I even got out this morning. From the minute the Wee One started knocking on his door, Mommeh! It's time to wake up! I could tell it was going to be quite the day. Upon opening his door and letting him out for the day (I'm only *slightly* paranoid about him getting out of his room and trying to come downstairs in the dark, so I have a doorknob cover on his knob AND a gate up outside his room. Yes, he can navigate the stairs pretty well now, but it makes me feel better. Don't judge me.) he proceeds to attach himself to my hip. This was totally fine for an hour or so. We get some great cuddle time watching Blues Clues and Max & Ruby (have I mentioned my hatred for Ruby and her bitchy friend Louise?) I got a good laugh (to myself) as he began singing the Wonder Pets theme song, "Lenny, F***, and Ming Ming too." I explain to the child that I need to take a shower so we can get ready to go to the mall. I get to the shower, turn the water on, get my hair slightly wet, when I hear,

"MOMMEH!! I need to go poopie!"

Lovely. He had already pooped once this morning, so I thought I was in the clear. (The problem with potty training is that he won't go by himself at home. He'll say he needs "piracy" but he's lying.) By the time I get my towel wrapped around myself, he's let one slip. It ends up getting everywhere. I want to cry.

It takes me nearly two hours to finally get ready (normally a 30-45 minute process from shower to finish). It's difficult when a three year old is wanting his hair blown dry and wanting makeup. We get out the door, make it safely to the mall, he even goes in his stroller without protest. This is too easy, I think. We get through a couple of stores, I buy what I need to buy. He wants to go in Build-A-Bear. Okay, I think. This will be fun. Right.

First, he wants a dinosaur. They have no dinosaurs. We settle on a black bear. Then he wants to get in the fluff thingy. Yeah, like get inside it ("with the snow" he says). We make it to the register. He doesn't want the bear anymore. He sees a bear with a batman costume on and he freaks the f*** out. Holy hell. (Yes, I should have left the store at this point. I will learn this one day, but we had stuffed the bear, they wrote his name on it, blah, blah, blah, I felt obligated to buy it.) This fabulous, wonderful, incredibly nice woman in front of me in line hands me two $10 coupons, "get him batman." She smiles as she hands me the coupons. I want to hug her. I seriously almost do.

Wee One, BatmanBear, and I go to Mickey D's for lunch. He tells the woman at the table beside us that he's going to have a baby sister. "Congratulations!" she tells me. Um, no. Sorry. I laugh. Not pregnant (dammit). She laughs, "kids say the craziest things, don't they."

Later in the afternoon, we're in Publix. "It's MY BIRFDAY!!" he's shrieking at the top of his lungs. Guess what? It's NOT his birthday. The (cute, but oh so young) bag boy is laughing at Wee One. "Want a three year old?" I ask him. He thinks that's pretty funny. Um, dude, I wasn't kidding.

Oh what a day. It's amazing though, how you forget all of that when that warm, squishy, wriggly little body cuddles up to you while you're reading a bedtime story, "I wuv you mommeh." Like Scarlett said, tomorrow is another day.

I was on a boat...with my flippie floppies

2009-09-21T20:33:00.001-04:00

Reality sucks, did you know that? Two days ago, I was blissfully floating on a boat, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by some very interesting characters.

Picture it, a four door sedan filled with five women, and their luggage. (I did quite well shoving all my shit in one suitcase, might I add.) We're headed down the road for a weekend of debauchery aboard a Carnival cruise ship. As you can imagine, a cruise ship is ideal for people watching, and judging of course. We encountered some interesting characters. Allow me to introduce you.

Jello-Thong Chick
One piece jump suits aren't really flattering on anyone. Especially if they're a strapless top/tight pants combo. That's what this chick had on that caught my eye in the first place. Sure, she was a tiny chick, but still, the outfit was horrific. Fast forward to lunch on the boat. She's sitting across from us with her (not hot) boy toy. He's got a plate full of cruise food. Her? She's eating a tiny bowl of jello with a side of lettuce. I smell anorexia. Oh look, she's taking a bite of Boy Toy's cheesecake. Maybe she's more the scarf and barf variety. Fast forward a few more hours. We're all sitting on the deck, enjoying the sun. One of my sisters in law hits me.
"LOOK! It's Jello girl!"
I look. Not only is it Jello girl, but Jello girl is wearing a thong. Yep. A thong. I'm no prude, but not finding the need for the thong on a boat full of children. (And her ass? Looked like jello. Just sayin.) And a nickname was born. Sadly, we didn't see Jello-Thong Chick again. I was a little sad.

Douche 1 and Douche 2
This dynamic duo came as a package. A couple. Aw yeah. Cue the porno/strip club music here. As we're sitting on that same deck, shortly after our visit from Jello-Thong Chick, we notice a couple sitting on a chair, together. We notice they're making out. And when I say making out? I mean pretty much having sex right there. Apparently what we thought was just the top deck was in actuality The Ass Deck. We sit and judge, rather loudly for a bit. They aren't at all disturbed by the masses of people around. Ah, young and in love. A few hours pass and it's time for dinner. We have the late seating, and we're stuck in almost the back corner of the dining room (apparently our reputation preceeds us). Guess who's sitting behind us? That's right. Douche 1 and Douche 2. And they have two kids with them. And they're still making out. For reals. There was some finger licking, some face licking, some heavy petting, some happy touching. All in front of God and the rest of the boat.

I guess the kids were too much for Douche 1 and Douche 2 to pay attention to, what with all the necking and such (do people still "neck?"). The kids came to dinner alone the next night. Yeah, they were 8 and 9, and pretty much on their own on a cruise ship. Lovely adult role models they had. Douche 1 and Douche 2 were nice enough to come to dinner the last night of the cruise. They even wore their nicest jorts and cut off t-shirts.

Puddin' and Company
We began judging our dinner companions before we even realized we would be dining with them. Two older couples and one random chick who happened to be the daughter of one of the women. Random chick is covered with body glitter and is dressed like she's late for the strip club. Her mother, who's name just happened to be Puddin' was quite proud of her bubbehs. We spent the next three nights praying that the bubbehs didn't come out to see us. The other couple were pretty much unremarkable except for a conversation on our last night at sea. I don't know how in the hell the word "fellatio" was worked into conversation, but it was.
"What's fellatio?" Husband asked.
"I'll show you later." Giggle. Says the wife.
Um, barf?

All in all, it was a wonderful weekend, filled with naps, food, and fruity drinks. Getting back to reality? Not as much fun.

THAT mom? Yeah, that's me.

2009-09-14T17:02:00.005-04:00

Picture it, a large chain bookstore, Monday afternoon, only one cashier in sight. You're with your three year old. You've already argued with the three year old about leaving the Thomas the Train table. Nevermind that the three year old has almost the exact same table at home that he doesn't play with, nevermind that he has the same exact trains at home that he doesn't play with. Those aren't as much fun as this one. You manage to get your child moving, and off you go.

You're going on a cruise this week, so you need some reading material. Silly you for thinking that your child was going to let you actually peruse the shelves. At this point you're judging every book by it's cover and picking the prettiest ones. There are two people ahead of you in line to check out, and remember, there is only one cashier. She is taking an excrutiatingly long time ringing up the lady in front of you. Lady in front of you is taking an excrutiatingly long time trying to decide if she wants to renew her discount club membership to this bookstore. By this time, your child is clear across the store. Remember, your hands are full.

Finally, FINALLY, it's your turn. You lay your books on the counter and grab your child who has just pulled a display box of light-up Halloween pens off of a table. Lady steps up to the counter, "I need you to find this for me." Cashier tells you, "I'll get these for you in just a minute. Ex-" As you feel part of yourself die, you speak up, "NO. I believe we were here first." Meanwhile, you hear a tiny three year old voice saying, "Mommeh, I made a mess." You look down. Child has pulled two racks of gift cards off the shelf. They're all on the floor. The cashier starts to make another excuse. A tear threatens to run down your face. She rings you up, but gives your child the stink eye. The other lady is giving you her best, "I could cut a bitch" look.

In any other situation, you would have already cleaned up the mess your child made. At this point, you're just hoping to get out of the store without any blood being spilled, particularly your own. You sign your credit card slip (oh great, they have your name), grab your bag and your kid's hand, and book it (no pun intended) out of there.

You get to your and realize, this is the only book store of it's kind in your town. Next time you need books, you're going to have to travel. It's not like you can go back to the library after the colossal tantrum the child threw in there the last time.

Dear Power Company,

2009-07-21T20:22:00.002-04:00

I am writing to request that you better schedule your power outages. You see, when you decide to allow the power to go off at 7:15, that cuts into my child's Dora time. Yes, I realize that it was thunderstorming, and that these things happen, but seriously. 7-7:30 is sacred in this house. It is very difficult to explain to an almost three year old that Dora has gone to bed early, and no you won't be able to see them swimming with their bathing suits on.

This will lead to my child having to be entertained by me. I hate that it will break his heart when I try to explain to him why I'm not able to "swim" across the hardwood floors. (I told him I wouldn't be able to get back up if I got down there. The reality is that my boobs hurt just thinking about "swimming" on the floor.) After "swimming" we will have to play Cars. Child and I will argue over who is Lightning McQueen and who is Chick Hicks. After this is settled, we will run around and around and around the house screaming "KaChow!" and "Ka-Chigga, Ka-Chigga!" The Husband will be annoyed. My headache will grow worse.

What? You don't need all this information? You just want my address for the location of the outage? No such luck. You get the whole story.

Finally, I will convince my child that it's time to go upstairs to read his bedtime books after he's tried to flip the lights on for the millionth time. Where will you be at 4am this morning when every light in my house pops on at one time because my child has flipped them all on? Probably at home in your dark (due to your own will) house.

But sure, go ahead, report my outage. Call me back when my power's been back on for an hour. Thanks for caring.

In the meantime, you can find me running in circles. Ka-chigga. Ka-chigga.

Coming out of the closet, so to speak.

2009-07-11T21:01:00.002-04:00

I've always been that girl. That girl who was pretty much good at everything, well, except for sports, and dancing, and pretty much anything that requires coordination. I've always worked hard, but I've never really had to try, if you know what I mean. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, I see you rolling your eyes. Don't hate. Just read.)

So, this charmed life, you could say, led me to think that it things would always be easy. If they weren't exactly easy, I could work my ass off and make things happen, case in point pharmacy school. I didn't get in the first time I applied. I got my life together, sorted out what I wanted to do with my life, got my grades up, and reapplied. I got in. I met the boy who would turn into the man who would be my husband my sophomore year of college. We dated for a looooong time, got engaged, were engaged for a loooooong time, then got married. It was the picture perfect wedding and honeymoon. (I still long for those nights on the beach in Montego Bay and Alfred, my personal bartender.)

We always knew we wanted kids. After being married and enjoying each others company for about a year or so, we decide to start trying. We were lucky. Four months of trying and what do you know, Wee One is on the way. I was NOT one of those "I love being pregnant" women. I was pretty much miserable most of the time. But I forgot all of that as soon as I was handed that little bundle of joy (who I was sure at the time could never do anything to annoy me or make me mad).

Some time passes. We decide it's time for another child. Wee One is getting older. He needs a playmate. So we start trying. And trying. And trying. That was 18 months ago. We've officially been diagnosed with what they call secondary infertility. And let me tell you, it sucks. It sucks a lot. And it hurts, a lot. Every time my child looks at me and asks me where his brudah Diego is, or his sissy is, it breaks my heart into a million pieces.

We've done some testing. Physically, everything appears to be fine. So not only am I infertile, there's no medical explanation for it. Lovely. You can imagine, for the girl who could do everything, this is quite the slap in the face. I know it will happen, one way or another, eventually. But it's hard not to be consumed with it. It's hard not to think about it as soon as your eyes open in the morning and right before your eyes close as you fall asleep. It's hard not to dream about being pregnant, to feel pregnant, only to wake up and realize it wasn't real.

I feel guilty. I feel guilty for complaining about my pregnancy symptoms with Wee One. Morning sickness? Bring it on. Sausage toes? Yes, please.

I'm putting this out there as a sort of cathartic process. I've been silent about it for so long. And I don't know why. It's not something to be ashamed of. In fact, I'm sure some of you out there are reading this and are dealing with the same issues.

Let me assure you, oh pregnant friends of mine. I celebrate your joy. I am blissfully happy for you. Don't feel like you have to walk on eggshells around me. Let us rejoice over new life. Let us celebrate something that is truly meant to celebrate.

Wow, that felt good. If only I had done this months ago. LOL

I may not make it out of this alive.

2009-07-06T22:53:00.003-04:00

Setting the scene...Picture it, peaceful county branch library, all is calm, all is right. Hot summer day. A mother and her almost three year old child enter the library.

I decided a month or so ago that Wee One needed a library card. This has proved to be an excellent idea, seeing as that I am seriously OCD and get tired of reading the same books over and over and over again. This way I can trade them in after a week or so. PLUS, there is an endless supply of knitting books to check out. Win, win situation, right? One would at least think.

Wee One has not yet grasped the concept of the Library Voice. Nor has he grasped the Inside Voice, the Quiet Voice, or even the Whisper, but I digress...I'm in a hurry. I still need to run by Publix to grab stuff for dinner. We grab a crapload of books and head for the check out desk.

"Wanna go downstairs mommeh."

No dear, we don't need to go downstairs.

"WANNA GO DOWNSTAIRS MOMMEH."

No dear, we don't need to go downstairs.

The child totally takes advantage of my compromised position. I have eleventy billion books in my arms. He takes off running. I throw the books down on the checkout desk and take off after him. As I grab his hand, he begins to scream,

"YOU PUNCHED ME MOMMEH! YOU PUNCHED ME."

Seriously? What the fark?

No, I did not punch you child. I would NEVER punch you.

"YES YOU DID! YOU PUNCHED ME! YOU HURTED ME."

Oh dear God, let me get out of here without someone calling Child Protective Services on me.

And for the record, no, I did not punch my child. I simply reached for his hand.

Le sigh.

Cannot. Concentrate. Going. To. Throw-up.

2009-07-01T12:27:00.002-04:00

Can I get a big, fat SQUEEEEEEEEEE? OMG. OMG. OMG. Can't. Breathe.

I don't know if I've told you all about the little (tiny, minute even) crush I have on David Cook? Hmmm, maybe I did, I don't remember.

So, I'm (kind of) cleaning up in my bedroom, tv is on, I hear the anchorwoman talking about State Fair tickets going on sale today. My ears perked up. I know David was going to be there (yes, we're on a first name basis now). I calmly grab my credit card out of my wallet, calmly call my husband to tell him I'm purchasing two tickets right now, and calmly search the interwebs for the site. Actually, it went a little like this:

"OMG. Where's my wallet? Where's my credit card?" As I'm fumbling around I knock my purse on the floor spilling the contents all over the place. I try to dial my husband. My hands are shaking with excitement. I can't dial the numbers. He picks up the phone and sounds all calm. HOW CAN YOU BE CALM RIGHT NOW? When I tell him what I'm doing, he laughs at me. He thinks I'm funny. Okay, to the laptop. Where's the site? Where's the site? WHY CAN'T I FIND THE TICKET LINK? WHERE THE FREAK IS IT? Oh, right there.

A few minutes later I am the proud owner of two seventh row David Cook concert tickets. Someone hold me. Seriously.

Does this make me a crazy fangirl? Probably. Does this make me super hella excited? Oh yes.

So much for privacy

2009-06-28T19:52:00.002-04:00

We're deep in the midst of potty training the Wee One. Good times, let me tell you, good times. He does pretty good most of the time, as long as it's pee we're talking about. Poop? Right. He's successfully gotten the poop on the potty a few times, maybe three that I can think of. Most of the time we wind up throwing out a pair of undies. So far we've lost Wall-E, Nemo, and a pair of Diegos. Yeah, I probably could have salvaged them, but seriously? An almost three year old's poop is pretty stanky.

Another issue we have with the potty training is that Wee One is extremely particular. Don't try to take him to the hall bathroom if he wants to go upstairs, or into my bathroom. Don't ask him to sit down to pee if he's in the mood to stand up. (One of his friends was doing this at school last week, thus we must do the same thing.)

That particular-ness brings me to this morning. Hubs is in the shower. Wee One and I are playing around in the living room. Wee One announces his need to pee. However, he wants to go in MY bathroom, which just happens to be where Hubs is showering. Before I could stop him he's busting through the door (he may have little legs, but damn he's fast). I hear him erupt in a fit of giggles.
"DADDEH!! You got a penis!!"
I start to laugh.
"Look at dat penis!! Mommeh, daddeh has a penis." More giggles (from both of us).
"Daddeh, dad's a big penis! You gots a big penis!"
I'm pretty much dead at this point. Hubs is trying to shield himself.
"Let me see dat penis Daddeh!"

Did I mention that the child is a little more than obsessed with penises (peni? penii?)? I should also add that Hubs is seriously embarrassed that I'm blogging about this, but come on it's a great story.

What a long strange week it's been...

2009-06-27T08:52:00.002-04:00

Holy cats this week has been weird. I blame Jon & Kate. I must say, their defiling of the institution of marriage was a bit anti-climactic for me. What they lost in love, they gained in douchey-ness. Dude, what's with the earrings? Seriously? What are you trying to prove? Sorry, but I can't think of any respectable woman who would hit that. (Nor can I think of any respectable woman who would use the phrace "hit that" but I digress.) And Kate? It's time for a haircut. One that does not look like some kind of bird of paradise resting on your head. For reals. The first time one of those losers shows up on The Hills, I'm building a bomb shelter in my basement. That is truly a sign of the apocalypse.

Perez, Perez, Perez, you know we have a love/hate relationship. I think I am ready to quit you. Your over the top hatefulness and unmitigated douchey-ness (alright, who's counting how many times I use the word douchey-ness?) is getting old. Yep. Looks like the clock is ticking on your fifteen minutes. Hear that ticking? Yep, it's almost up.

I will refrain from making any Mark Sanford comments. That whole story is too weird for words. Although, I really wish the radio stations here would stop playing "Don't Cry For Me Argentina." It was funny the first time. Now, it's gone a little stale.

I think it was Wednesday night that The Hubs and I were laying in bed quoting Ed McMahon, or rather quoting Phil Hartman quoting Ed McMahon. "You are correct sir." "Yesssssssssssssss." Little did we know what was going to happen on Thursday.

Can we talk about how hawt Farrah Fawcett was? Seriously. I want her hair. I heard somewhere that they had to try really hard to make her hair look bad for a movie she was doing. They didn't succeed. Every single picture I've seen of her is beautiful. Flawless. Rest in peace, Farrah.

I lost a piece of my childhood on Thursday. Being a child of the 80's, I grew up with the musical stylings of Michael Jackson. My dad had the Thriller record (remember those, those big round black pieces of vinyl? You played them on a record player?). Even as a child, I recognized the sheer musical genius in those songs. The best part for me as a big sister was that my younger sister was absolutely terrified of "Thriller." All you had to do was start the song and she would run screaming in terror. She was also very much afraid of Michael Jackson. She calls me Thursday evening, " I guess Michael Jackson isn't hiding behind mom & dad's bed anymore." Nope, guess not.

How weird is it that he's dead? It's hard to wrap my head around. Yeah, he was completely bizarro, and seriously troubled, but he brought so much to the world of music. How many artists wouldn't be around today if it were not for his influence? My thoughts on his legal troubles? I don't think we'll ever really know what really happened. My personal opinion is that he was so childlike in his thoughts, and his reality was so skewed, that he didn't think he was ever doing anything wrong. It's just a sad story all the way around.

If you've been reading my blog for long, you know how much I love and adore David Cook (insert token ****swoon**** here). That's because of Michael Jackson. If he had never done "Billie Jean", Chris Cornell would never have covered it, and David Cook would never have sung it on American Idol, and I may never have fallen in lust with him. For that Michael Jackson, I thank you. LOL (My husband thinks I'm crazy.)

Soooo, as I sit here watching Cars (for the eleventy billionth time this week alone), I'm hoping that this coming week is much less eventful in politics and pop culture. I'm also hoping my child stops peeing in his pants, but that may be a lofty aspiration.

One of these days, I will learn.

2009-06-23T13:30:00.003-04:00

It's getting serious peeps. I'm going to have to start selling off body parts to pay for the therapy my child is going to require from all of the mommy bonding things I plan for us. It's not pretty people, not pretty at all.

Since it's the high temperature around here is 176 degrees with a humidity at 500%, I thought it would be fun to go to a local splash pad. I've heard other moms talk about how much fun their little ones have running through the sprinklers, splashing in the water, and just enjoying being outside. There's one difference in their children and mine, however. Mine is terrified of water. Not just terrified, freaking deathly afraid of the water. As soon as we get down to the sprinklers he starts to shake. He jumps in my arms, and let me tell you 35 pounds of kid on a hot day is unpleasant. Especially when said child is clinging to you for dear life.

I was able to get him to enjoy playing in one of the smaller sprinklers, at least until one of the large sprinklers went off spraying him and soaking me. **sigh** He decided he wanted to go play on the playground. I was not for this at all seeing as how there were freaking huge kids all over the place. I was right. Some obnoxious kid totally runs over my child as he's climbing the stairs. After she knocked him over, I totally yelled at her. Ugh. After he flips head over heels (nearly giving me a heart attack) down the slide I decide that's enough torture for one morning.

There was one thing that I found seriously disturbing though. There were all these sprinklers, and in front of a lot of them were kids, mostly boys, um, standing right over them. These were older pre-teen-ish boys, standing their getting their jollies off the sprinklers. To make things much, much, much worse? There was a grown man doing the same thing. When one sprinkler would go off, he would move on to the next one. Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

I am disgusted.

2009-06-18T11:07:00.002-04:00

Alright people, I am FIRED up today. I came across the link to a blog on a Parenting message board and want to cry after reading what I read. As much as I would love to link it for you, it appears that the author has removed the offending posts.

What has pissed me off so royally? This wonderful mother of nine is boasting of her child training techniques. These methods involve beating a 2 year old with a back scratcher for 30 minutes. What did this child do to invoke such punishment? Did he throw a toy through a window or television? Did he hit his lovely mother in the face with a baseball bat? Nope. He wouldn't say "Hi Mommy!" when he woke from a nap. **GASP** **HORROR** How dare he? While she's beating him, she's also teasing him with toys and candy. She contemplates withholding dinner, but realizes that since he's ONLY 2 that probably wouldn't be good. Sadly, she doesn't think beating him is a bad thing though.

The thing that kills me? She's doing this all in the name of God. She's beating and dehumanizing her children so that they fear God. My BIGGEST pet peeve is people using God as their reasoning for these types of things. Be it hate, abuse, violence, war, what have you, as long as they're doing it in the name of God it's okay.

I don't know about you guys, but my God? He's not down with the hate. My God is a loving God. He taught me that we should love one another. He's not down with child abuse. He taught me to suffer the children so that they come to Him, not beat them and break their spirits. He's also not down with the violence. Killing someone because their love is different from your love? Not cool to MY God.

Sorry, I don't normally go off on religious diatribes, but I've been seething about this all morning.

Where's That Asteroid When You Need It?

2009-06-15T20:42:00.003-04:00

***If you are easily offended, read no further***

What is up with all the vapid, annoying, attention whores in the media these days? Seriously? Do you ever wish you had an asteroid at your beck and call to send to clean house, so to speak? I'm not normally a bitter, violent person, but come on. If you're name is on my list, keep your eyes on the skies.

1. Speidi

These no-talent assclowns are first on my list. Why in the hell are these losers "famous?" Who told him that the flesh colored pube-beard (sadly, not pictured here) looked good? Everytime he breathes on camera it makes my skin crawl. She's no better, if being an idiot were truly painful (for the idiot), she would be on iv painkillers. Ugh. I loathe them.

2. Carrie Prejean, aka The Former Miss California

While I completely and totally disagree with this twat's view on gay marriage, that's not why I despise her. (As a matter of fact, the new Miss CA shares the same view, but somehow managed to express that view in a much less hateful manner.) I hate her holier than thou attitude. I hate her "Perez Hilton was Satan tempting me" attitude. I hate her hypocrisy.

I could go on, but this one makes me seriously bitter and angry. I just hope she's out of the spotlight for good, but sadly I think there's no such luck. She's going to be cast as some tortured martyr now and is going to be shoved down our throats for the rest of time.

3. The Bastards From My Insurance Company

Few things suck worse than infertility. One of them is opening a bill from your hospital and seeing that you owe $1200-ish for a diagnostic procedure. Because, guess what? It's NOT A COVERED SERVICE. Thanks guys, thank you so much. Why am I paying out the ass for insurance, and it doesn't do me a bloody bit of good. Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

I could go on and on, but my day suddenly got brighter. Looks like David Cook is on Larry King tonight. Squeeeeeee!

And if you're still reading this, you can't be mad at me. I warned you before you started.

Lyrical Genius

2009-06-10T10:39:00.003-04:00

My child is a lyrical genius. Well, actually I think he's just a potty-mouth, but at least he's creative. I heard several new arrangements of some well-known songs and tv themes on the way to school this morning.

Sung to the tune of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star"
Pee-pee, poo-poo, pee pee, poop!
Sadly, I don' t think this one is an original. I've heard friends say that their child sings the same song.

Old McDonald had a farm, pee-pee, poopie, pee!

And my personal favorite, sung to the Max & Ruby theme song,
Max and Poopies!! Poopies and Max!

It doesn't help that I giggle rather than correct his language. This drives the Hubs insane. But seriously, Max and Poopies? Seriously? That's brilliant.

I am doing a good job of broadening his musical tastes. He's been able to recognize David Cook and Keane for quite awhile now. Yesterday on the way to the zoo, a song comes on. "Dat's OAR mommy!" And he was right. Genius, I tell you. Genius.

Zoo FAIL

2009-06-09T15:03:00.003-04:00

Why is it that everytime I try to bond with my child, it winds up being a colossal FAIL? (Monkey Joe's incident of April, anyone??)

I'm off this week, so I thought I'd keep The Wee One out of school today and have a fun morning at the zoo. I should have known we were in trouble right from the time we got in line to get in. I notice a huge (and by huge I mean freaking ginormous) mob of people waiting to get in. Wee One and I get in the other line. That's when the trouble starts. I hear the guy two people ahead of me say, "I've got this group right here." Seriously? It appears that this douche was standing in one line, and his equally douchey friend was standing in the other. They were trying to see who got to the front first. Then they took their humongo group and broke in line. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? The whole time I've got a two and a half year old crying because he has to pee. There's a special place in douchebag hell for people like that. The nice lady behind us has gone to get in the other line and tells me to come get in front of her. Bless her heart.

Wee One is still shrieking to pee, so we go to the bathroom. I spend the whole time telling him not to touch anything. He spends the whole time touching things. Ugh. And of course, by this time he's peed in his pull-up, so this was a wasted trip.

We continue our journey. Did I mention that it was 975 degrees outside? And there are eleventy billion people in the zoo at this time?? Forget that there are tons of fabulous animals to see. Wee One has his priorities.

"I wanna Icee."
"I want ice cream."
"I wanna wide de twain."

We rode the train. Being the bad mom that I am, I wasn't fighting the masses of people for an Icee or ice cream. And of course, in keeping with that bad mom-ness, we go to see the gorillas. The gorillas are pretty bad-ass, if I say so myself. I love them. Wee One?? Not so much. We go into their little exhibit and see one laying right by the glass. We walk up. He moves. Wee One shrieks and runs away. I pick him up and take him to see the other one. He shrieks and screams. But I wanna see da gowilla!! Sorry, that was me whining.

We continue our journey. Wee One wants to pick up leaves, smush bugs (no bug is safe when this kid is around, which makes the fact that A Bug's Life is his favorite movie a little disturbing), whine, try to climb on a zoo employee's golf cart, whine some more, and wash his hands at the farm. Oh yeah, and whine a LOT more.

We're approaching the end of our journey. We're meeting the Hubs for lunch. Did I mention that it's 1907 degrees outside?? Someone decides he doesn't want to walk anymore. Seriously? I can't carry 35 pounds of preschooler in this heat. I will die. He walks, but he's not happy about it. Imagine my delight when we get to the car and I find that the person next to me has parked SO close that even my tiny child can't fit in between the two cars. After climbing over the passenger side to get both him and myself in, I think I have added a few new words to his vocabulary. Who does that? Seriously?

At this point, I'm hot, sweaty, and smelly. I'm ready for naptime.

Look who's back!!

2009-06-09T15:02:00.002-04:00

It appears that I forgot I had a blog. LOL

Not to fear, I'm back.

A (colossal) Bonding With Mommy FAIL

2009-04-08T18:28:00.002-04:00

All I wanted to do was spend some quality time with my child outside of my house. That's all I asked. My first thought was to go to the movies, but the movie we were going to see was playing later than I wanted, so I thought, "oooooh, one of those fun indoor slide places just opened up. That should be fun." Sure, it's Spring Break, that won't matter. That was my first mistake. I knew we were in for trouble when the cars were lining up to go into the parking lot like a line for a Jonas Brothers (gag) concert. The next sign we were in bad company? The dumbass in the parking lot trying to parallel park their stupid Hummer between two tiny cars. Seriously?

We go inside. Wee One is giggling with glee. I'm quaking in horror at the masses of people in this place. Holy shit. It's like everyone in this town decided to go to stupid bouncy slide place today at 3:30. We pay our entry fee, remove our shoes and are ready to go. Of course, Wee One has not learned about waiting patiently in line yet. Big Stupid Slide Place is not the proper place for this lesson to take place. Then the fun starts.

We find a slide with a short line. Me, the Wee One, and my big ass purse are ready to slide. Yes we are. Okay, maybe not. We get to the top and someone doesn't want to go down the slide. We turn around. We are blocked from leaving by two tremendously obnoxious tweens. "Yur goin the wrong way." Really now. Thanks for the direction. When we manage to get past Beavis and Butthead, I feel a hard bump on my shoulder. Random Kid has walked right into my bag (have I mentioned that it's huge?). "You hit me," she says. Um, excuse me, what?? I prepare myself to be attacked by Random Kid's Random Mother. She's nowhere to be found, we run.

We find a smaller slide in the Inflatable Slide House of Horrors. Well, actually it's more like one of those jumpy things. Wee One and I are jumping happily when I feel someone grab my ass. It's an 8ish year old kid. At first I think it's an accident. Then he does it again. I ask the midget perv to please get off of me. He laughs. Then he proceeds to STICK HIS HANDS UP MY SHIRT. I start shrieking for this asshat (yes, he's a kid, but still he was groping me) to get off of me. Wee One and I run away again.

I see Toddler Land in the Hell Hole With Bouncy Slides. We go there. On the way I see a five or six-ish year old little girl in a camo print wife-beater, tight hip-hugging torn jeans that are barely clinging to her ass, and some trashy looking skank shoes. Seriously? Can't kids be kids? Wee One is jumping happily in Toddler Land when I notice a grandmother brushing her granddaughter's hair. And threatening her.
"If you don't get over there and let your PeePaw (she didn't really say PeePaw, I think she used something more civilized, but I'm trying to be dramatic here) take your picture your going to get a beatin'."
Lovely.
Granddaughter runs and laughs.
"Get over here now!"
Grandma Dearest screams louder. She eventually grabs the kid and beats the living hell out of her right there. I judge her openly with my mouth wide open.
"If I didn't love you, I wouldn't have to hit you."
Lovely.

At this point, I'm dying to get out of there.
"Hey Wee One, you want to go to the zoo?"
No. The zoo is gross. (Where is my child? Who is this tweenager in a two and a half year old's body?)
"Do you want ice cream?"
PINK ice cream!!
Score. We're out of there.
We get back to the car, I get him safely buckled in with some toddler porn (aka the Lands End Spring kids swimwear catalog), and we're off for ice cream. Yes, I bribed my child with ice cream. I would have done worse if it meant getting me out of that horrible, horrible place.

Amount of time spent in Bouncy Vestibule of Hades? 15 minutes.

Dear Perez, We are no longer friends.

2009-03-24T10:04:00.002-04:00

So, I've lurved you for a long time now, but I gotta tell you, I think the honeymoon is over. Why? This. http://perezhilton.com/2009-03-24-david-cook-is-a-douche

So he doesn't want some 50-something throwing her panties at him? Not douchey. He doesn't want some 50-something harrassing his bandmates and stalking his hotel rooms? Not douchey. There's more, read about it here http://topidol.wordpress.com/

Note to husband: I am not crazy. I think this proves it. Thank you.

And for the record, I will not be stalking David at his students-only show here in a couple of weeks. Nope. No hotel crawling, no bar creeping, and definitely no panty throwing. I'll see him on his next trip.

But Perez, for the record, I may talk a big game, but I really don't think I can quit you.

Injustice

2009-03-01T13:19:00.002-05:00

So, the Husband and I are sitting here eating lunch and the commercial for that damn Snuggie comes on, for like the 80th time this morning. You know what sucks? Someone is making an insane amount of money for this. Someone is getting paid buttloads of cash for putting a set of arms on a freaking blanket. Seriously? I would love to see that person's thought process.

"Gee, this blanket is annoying. I really wish I didn't have to put so much effort into keeping my arms covered. I know what I'll do, I'll sew some armholes and give it a creative name and I'll never have to work another day in my life." And voila. The Snuggie is born.

Seriously? Now you can keep your arms warm, but look like an asshole in the process. "Oooh, look at the Snuggie Family at the football game!"

And another thing, why does it have to be the OLD lady knitting? Why not the younger lady? Stop stereotyping those of us who knit.

Yes, I realize this post may be offensive to those of you who are proud Snuggie owners. I would apologize, but I'm too busy trying to keep my blanket from falling off of my shoulders.

Dear Rachael Ray,

2009-02-28T20:56:00.003-05:00

It appears an apology is in order. You see, way back when, a long time ago, I bought one of your 30 Minute Meal cookbooks. I thought, "wow. This will be awesome." I picked out a recipe and decided to prepare it for my husband and some family members. I ignorantly asked them to be ready to eat at 6pm. I began cooking at 5:15. 8:00 came and we finally were just about to sit down to eat. Your 30 minute meal took nearly three hours. I was less than pleased. I cursed your name. Oh how I cursed you. Yes, the meal was quite tasty, but that may have been because by that time I was hungry enough to chew off my own arm.

Since that day I have taken every opportunity to curse and mock you. "Rachael Ray Has a New Talk Show!" I would respond, Rachael Ray is a liar! 30 Minute Meals MY ASS. Yeah, I was a little bitter.

So, imagine my husband's shock this morning when he sees your cookbook (yes, the same one from years ago) facedown on the kitchen table with a grocery list written out beside it. Yes, I decided to give you one more try. And this is where the apology comes in. IF I had had a sous chef to wash, peel, and dice my potatoes for my deviled potato salad and the onions for my homemade sloppy joes, the meal would have taken me a mere 25 minutes. And yes, it was quite tasty.

So, Rachael Ray, I have but one simple request. If you can comply with this request, I promise to buy more of your cookbooks. Can you please include a sous chef with purchase? Preferably a cute one? Maybe one that looks like David Cook? That would be super.

Thanks girl,
Ashley. Unscripted...

Yet another thing I'll never understand

2009-02-24T11:55:00.002-05:00

We're moved!! Yay! Of course, I'm still fighting my way out from under a mountain of boxes, but we're in the house and it is fabulous.

Of course, that means the joys of changing your address with those important places like the DMV. Silly me walks into the DMV yesterday, a Monday mind you. Place is packed. Like, more packed than normal. People were crammed in there like sardines I tell you. Before I turned around and walked out to return another day, I noticed something. I've noticed this same thing anytime I enter any government agency. Why are all the people in there scary? You walk through the door and they all turn and stare at you with beady little eyes. They all look stabby, seriously. It's like you've entered their secret government agency coven. You don't belong, you never will.

Things More Fun Than Taking Wee One to Piggly Wiggly

2009-02-17T18:31:00.002-05:00

1. Firing squad

2. Being forced to listen to Sanjaya from American Idol on repeat for 72 hours straight.

3. Having bamboo shoots shoved under your fingernails

4. A root canal

Everyone with kids remember how before you had kids you would look at the toddler having a temper tantrum with horror? Remember how your child would NEVER do that? Yeah, me too. Now those of you without kids, let this be a lesson to you. NEVER SAY NEVER. Yes, I'm talking to you Mr. Asshat Who Thought It Would Be Fun to STARE At My Screaming Toddler. Why don't you take a picture, or better yet, a video next time. It will last longer.

We had already had a tantrum because he couldn't get out of the car while I was getting gas. (Note to self: get gas before picking child up from school) The next tantrum occurred when I told him we were just going to run into the Pig really quickly for milk and TP.

"WANNA RIDE IN RED TWUCK!!"

No, we'll just be in there for a second.

"RED TWUCK!!! RED TWUCK!!!"

Might I add that I detest those stupid car shopping carts. They are a bitch to steer. I'm always afraid of knocking down entire aisles of food while pushing one. Being the awesome mom that I am, I conceded and let him ride in the red tw-er-truck. Pick your battles right? Right. He proceeded to scream throughout the entire 10 minute Pig run.

"WANT CWACKERS, WANT PWETZELS, WANT CANDY, WANT CO-CO-RANBERRIES!!!" I had planned on grabbing some quick frozen ~~crap~~ entree to heat up for dinner but Miss I Need To Touch Each and EVERY Lean Cuisine In The Freezer And No You Can't Get Past Me To Grab the Lasagna was in my way, so that wasn't happening. Bitch. Then I meet Mr. Stare At That Awful Child. I seriously wanted to slap the asshat. What's the matter? Never see a kid scream bloody murder for a can of Spam?

Remind me NEVER to take the child to the store again, at least not until he's 18 and can help me carry stuff.

One of those days

2009-02-09T19:57:00.004-05:00

I should have stayed in bed this morning. I most definitely should not have gotten out of bed. Ugh. Shall I share with you the details of my hideous morning? Doesn't matter what you say, I'm going to tell you about it anyway.

The first problem I encountered was as I was about to hot roll my hair. You see, I have a grotesque amount of hair. If I don't hot roll it, it just lays there and looks very mousey. I've done this since middle school, I have it down to an art. It takes all of 3 minutes to put the rollers in. I will occasionally flat-iron my hair, but usually it frizzes out halfway through the day, so I only do this for things like going out at night (yeah, I don't flat-iron often). As I go to grab my first roller, I realize that they're cold. Yep, they're plugged in. DAMMIT! They were dead. I go to work with flat, limp, ugly hair. NOT good.

Problem numero dos occurs as I'm attempting to leave. I close the garage door. It goes a bit and stops. It starts moving again, but in the wrong direction. It won't close. I try again. And again. And again. No such luck. At this point I'm late for work. Finally I pull out a lawn chair, stand on it, and pull the damn thing down. Trust me, I was quite the site to see in my long dress, heels, and crappy hair. I curse that damn garage door all the way to work.

Upon reaching work I realize I don't have my pharmacy keys. They're in my labcoat. Where's my labcoat, you ask? Why locked in the pharmacy of course. Why doesn't this ever happen when I'm early to work? Well, maybe because I'm never early, but you get what I mean. It never happens when I'm semi-on time.

Throw in some obnoxious customers, an insanely busy day, and a bad headache and you've got one hell of a bad day. Ugh. But as Scarlett says, after all, tomorrow is another day!

A Cease and Desist Letter

2009-02-04T11:28:00.002-05:00

Dear Old Man Winter,

You are hereby warned under the provisions of all that is sacred and holy to GO THE F AWAY. Seriously. It is not supposed to be 19 degrees here. Go away, far, far, far away and take your evil cold friends with you. Yes, that means you Mr. Windy. It's bad enough that it's freaking frigid here, but your constant blustering is only making things worse. You're much more welcome on a hot 118 degree day in August.

If you do not comply with this request, well, I guess I just won't leave my house until April.

Sincerely,
Ashley. Unscripted...

Seriously, it's wicked cold here today. People come down here to escape temperatures like this. What kind of slap in the face is this stupid weather to all those "snowbirds" (I think that's the dumbest term ever, but I use it for emphasis here) from Maine to come here and wake up to the sound of their patio furniture blowing into their houses and single digit temps?

I have to go out and about today. My fingers are throbbing at the prospect. Hmmm, wonder if people will look at me funny if I wear my Uggs on my hands? Perhaps gloves would be a good investment, no?

And all you northerners, quit laughing at me. I hear you. I need these fingers for typing and knitting and tying Wee One's shoes. If they freeze off, the bloggy and knitty worlds will never be the same.

Dear US Economy,

2009-01-25T20:22:00.003-05:00

My dearest economy, I realize you've been experiencing a downturn of late. I've done my part to try to help you out, but I'm afraid I have some bad news. You see, apparantly I have a spending problem. Apparantly it's pretty bad. You know those pieces of paper you get after you buy something and use your debit card? Apparantly they're called receipts. I have just learned that you are supposed to take that receipt and write that number down in something called a transaction register that goes with your checkbook. Apparantly my plan to keep track of my money in my head failed. Big time.

So you see, after Husband gives me a check from OUR checking account tomorrow (the one that I'm not in charge of, thank goodness) to clear up this mess I've made, I'm not going to be helping you out anymore. Nope, no more shoes just because I want them. No cute coats or bags, just because. Hip new yarn store? Nope, gonna have to wait to try that one out. I'll just have to make do with the tons of the above that I already own.

So Economy, you're going to have to find someone else to help you out right now. I just can't do it. And if you see Target, can you please tell him I miss him and I'll see him sometime in the distant future. I would tell him myself, but it's too painful right now.

Love Always,
Ashley. Unscripted...

Can I get a freaking WOOT?

2009-01-22T10:21:00.003-05:00

Excuse me while I shriek for a second.

We got the HOUSE!!!

Holy excitement Batman! I could have done without all that negotiation nonsense, but in the end it worked out. We close in 29 days (but who's counting, right?).

Funny story, I was on my way to lunch yesterday and I called Husband to bitch about the fact that we had not heard anything from the builder's agent and that I was getting sick and tired of waiting. I'm ordering my lunch, minding my business, when I decide to pull my phone out of my bag (seeing that I have the hugest purse ever, I couldn't hear it if it rang). Oh look, one missed call. I missed Husband's call telling me we got the call, not even two minutes after I had hung up with him. I guess the builder sensed my frustration.

I don't think I'll mind moving this time. I drove by the house this morning, I had to swoon. It's beautiful. I am SO. EXCITED.

Oh, and the new house? Less than five minutes from Target.

Guess who's NOT a born negotiator?

2009-01-19T20:13:00.002-05:00

We found a house. We found an unbelievably beautiful, fantabulous, magnificent house. I want it. I want it NOW. We made an offer, the builder countered, we just countered back. I. Hate. This. I was not meant to negotiate. I just wanna say, okay, we'll take it!

Husband says it doesn't work that way. It could!! He also says silly things like "just because you want it doesn't mean you get it."

Keep your fingers crossed. I. Want. This. House.

What awesome looks like, Part 2

2009-01-16T21:58:00.002-05:00

In case you've been living under a rock, this is the coolest, most bad-ass man in America right now. This man, with the help of his fabulous crew, saved the lives of 155 people yesterday. As most of you know, I detest flying. It terrifies me. Just thinking about it makes me crave Xanax. I hate it. The thought of being on a plane and hearing the pilot say, "Brace yourselves"? That's my nightmare. And what about the people seeing this unfold from the ground? This is NYC. This is a town devastated by 9/11. I cannot imagine seeing something like this and the horrific thoughts that would be running through your head.

But nope, thanks to this man, the lives of the people on the plane were saved, as well as God knows how many people on the ground as well. In my opinion, this man should be the Man of the Year.

Here's to you Captain Sullenberger. Here's to you.

And can I say, if I had been on that plane? I would be on about a 30 day bender right now. Seriously. I would not be sitting on 20/20 right now.

Dream big little one

2009-01-14T12:31:00.002-05:00

My child is a genius. I know, I know, every mom says that, but mine really is. This morning we were having Mommy/Wee One snuggle time in my bed. He had brought me his favorite book, "I Love Animals." He "read" the title of it. Duh, yes, I realize he's memorized it, but seriously, he can name all the animals from meercat to macaw. He even recognizes which one is the chimpanzee and which one is the orangutan. (Memorization again, I know, but humor me people.)

Anywho, after he reads the title I say, "You're mommy's little Rhodes Scholar."

He repeats, "Rhodes Scholar." I giggle. By the time we were on our way to school he was saying, "I wanna be a Rhodes Scholar."

I love that kid.

What awesome looks like

2009-01-12T10:03:00.003-05:00

That's Kate Winslet, and she's badass. Not only did she clean up at the Globes last night, but look at her. (That's the only picture I could find at the moment, it doesn't do justice to her awesomeness.) She's freaking beautiful. She's not your typical skeletor-ish starlet. She looks like a real woman.

Hell yeah Kate. You had me at Titanic.

Reasons why I'm drinking tonight

2009-01-10T20:14:00.002-05:00

As I typed that title, I realized that this blog makes me look like an alcoholic. I'm not, I promise. I can go days at a time without drinking. I don't get the shakes or anything like that. But there are days when I fantasize about a big, tall glass of Shiraz. Hell, it doesn't have to be Shiraz. It can be anything to drink. Hell, rubbing alcohol might not be so bad tonight. (I prefer the isopropyl, it has a nice piquant aftertaste that the ethyl rubbing alcohol lacks.)

So, why am I fantasizing about that wonderful, deep reddish magical elixir? Lots of reasons.

1. Wee One
I feel like such a hideous mom today. I feel like all I've done is yell at him. To my credit, he now knows when he's doing something he's not supposed to do. He gets all sneaky. It was cute the first 867 times he did it. Now it's starting to annoy me. Seriously. All. Damn. Day. "Eat your lunch." "Sit down, ON your heiney." "Eat your dinner." "SIT DOWN." The kid is going to be stick thin and have a concussion from not eating and falling out of chairs he's standing up in. Ugh. Don't even get me started on his newfound fashion independence. Sadly, he wants to wear things he doesn't even on. This makes accomodating those fashion needs slightly impossible. I could go on, but I won't. I hate days like this.

2. House dramz
So, it looks like the last four months have pretty much been a waste. Our house still has not been touched. This makes going on two months. It's not our house anymore. We're out. Husband is calling the management of the builder company on Monday. That will be a scary call. (It would be scarier if I called, but Husband is much less screechy. They might actually understand what he says.)

I'm really pissed off about the whole thing. They haven't been honest with us from day one. Rumor has it that they're out of money. They just may be pulling out of our area. The thing that pisses me off the most is that they keep calling us telling us they're going to do such and such this week. No you're not. You have no intention of doing it. You're going to tuck your tail between your cowardly little legs and run and hide.

We spent almost the entire afternoon house-hunting today. It's fun, but it's maddening. I talk to an agent, and then feel bad when I hate, hate, hate the houses he's shown me. Why do I feel bad??

3. Mr. Bulldozer Man who yelled at me today
Okay, this really isn't cause for me to drink tonight, but I needed at least one more thing to add to my list and this was funny, so you get this gem of a story too.

I take Wee One to a local playground this morning. There's a man driving a bulldozer around, moving dirt from one spot to another. I instantly think that this will be awesome for Wee One, seeing as he loves all things construction/truck related. Bulldozer Man stops the bulldozer. I think, "Cool, he's going to let Wee One see." Nope.

"Ma'am, I'm going to be working over here."

"Okay."

"I'm going to be riding back and forth here."

"Are you going to bulldoze the playground?"

"No."

"Do you need to come on/near the playground."

"No."

"Then I fail to see the problem."

"I'm just telling you I need to be in this area."

"Okay, carry on."

Dude, I'm not going to let my wild and crazy toddler run out in front of you. You're not going to have to baby-sit while I sit on the slide and smoke cigarettes and do shots (disclaimer: this is sarcasm, there are no cigarettes or liquor in my purse). He's going to slide over and over and over again. I'm going to follow him. You're going to do your bulldozey thing, everyone's happy.

He got all pissey and started taking the long way around the playground, looking all put out with me the whole time. Asshat.

I bid you, my faithful readers, a hearty CHEERS.

The MOTHER of all tantrums

2009-01-08T20:38:00.003-05:00

Another title for this post could be, "I don't know if I'm going to make it out of this alive."

I guess it all started yesterday. I worked a 12 hour shift, meaning I didn't get to see very much of Wee One. He's asleep when I get home. Around 11:30 last night I hear a thump on the monitor and then I hear, "Mommy, help. I stuck." He had fallen out of the bed. Since I had missed my little guy all day yesterday, I decide to stay in his room with him until he falls back asleep for a little cuddle time. Mistake. I fall asleep. (Which is shocking considering the child flails around in his sleep like a freaking fish out of water.) Fast forward to 2am. He's ready to get up for the day. Oh. Hell. NO. I try to occupy him (quietly, seeing as how it's 2am and everyone else in this house is sound asleep). Not happening. We go into my bedroom, run The Husband out of the room, and fall back to sleep close to four. When we wake up at seven, the fun starts.

Nothing makes this child happy. NOTHING. I manage to get his pjs and diaper off (I have the bruises to show for it), then he starts freaking out.
"I don't wanna wear a diaper. NO DIAPER." This continues for what seems like forever. First it's the diaper, then he wants to wear the shirt he wore yesterday (which was dirty or I would have given in), then he doesn't like the size of Zip-Lock baggie his Froot Loops are in (seriously). I just wanted to cry when Husband took him to school.

Luckily, the Shiraz fairly left a glass in the bottle I've been working on, and Husband is watching the game (Go Gators!) with the Father-In-Law. Red wine, take me away.

Penis. Penis. Penis.

2009-01-06T11:03:00.003-05:00

Oh dear, I can't wait to see the beauties Google Analytics brings me with this post title.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table this morning, reading yesterday's paper. I hear Wee One chatting away with Grandma. I'm only half listening until I hear it. "Yes, Newman is boy dog."
Um, uh-oh. I obviously missed the first part of this conversation.

Little voice pipes in, "Newman has a penis mommy."

The next sound you hear is me banging my head on the table.

The Husband is not thrilled with me teaching Wee One the proper term for that part of the male anatomy. He doesn't think it's appropriate to use that word in public. Well, dear, I don't think it's a socially acceptable practice to use ANY word for penis in public, unless you're in a doctor's office or sex ed class. You don't make up a funny name for the arm or the leg. Why make up one for the penis. "Oh, if we had a girl she wouldn't be calling it her vagina." Um-kay, because "hoo hoo" sounds so much better.

A (late) look back at 2008

2009-01-05T10:53:00.002-05:00

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's January 5, I'm a little late. But it's been insane, crazy here at the Unscripted house (well, the in-law's house, but really, it's just semantics, right?). Now that I have the house to myself, I have time for a little reflection. Let's look back at some of the things that 2008 brought us...

Cue the flashback music

I guess the most obvious thing that 2008 brought us was this new blog. Moment of silence for the Subscription blog. After a brief hiatus to mourn the death of Can I Get My Subscription Filled, I was back in bloggy-land with a vengeance. I had a new platform on which to stand. While not regaling you with tales of retail pharmacy horror, I could bring you more insights into my thoughts. Lucky you.

In 2008 we sold the house to which I brought my baby home. In 2008, we moved in (temporarily) with my in-laws. In 2008 we started construction on our new home. We'll see if it's that house we wind up moving into or another, depending on our lovely builder. I was reminded of my bitter, bitter hatred of all things related to moving. I see absolutely nothing wrong with paying people to pack and move for you. Hey, these people have to make a living too. Why should we prevent them from earning money??

In 2008 I discovered a few new loves. Facebook, the Twilight series, and Gossip Girl being the big ones. Let's start with Facebook. Ah, Facebook, how I love thee. I have reconnected with tons of old friends. I love seeing pictures of everyone and reading about what they're doing now. Of course, it's also creechy at times, but that's the beauty of it. And Twilight, what to say about Twilight? Who knew that teenage vampire love stories could be so enthralling? I was hooked after two sentences. Same with Gossip Girl, you had me from the first xoxo.

2008 brought me my other baby, my car, the Beamah as Wee One calls it. I drove a lot of crappy cars to get the Beamah. My first car was a Chevy Sprint. Never heard of it? I'm not surprised. It lived with me for about two days until it died a horrible death in traffic. Nope, not an accident, it just died. Right there. I still remember my dad telling off some obnoxious woman demanding that I move my car. Bitch. The cars progressively ~~improved~~ lasted longer after that one, culminating in the beautiful one that sits in the garage right now. Yes Beamah, you annoy me when you screech at me to get gas or to put a seatbelt on the packages that are heavily sitting in the passenger seat, but I love you dearly.

2008 brought me two new ~~loves~~ lusts: David Cook and Robert Pattinson. Swoon. Who knew? Although I'm a little hacked off at Rob for cutting his gorgeous hair.

2008 made my dear, sweet child a two year old. And while my sanity is tested on a daily basis, I am so in love with that little boy that it hurts. It's so much fun hearing the new things he says, the things he comes up with. And of course, the opportunity to distract him quickly when he starts talking about his penis in the middle of a public place surrounded by lots and lots of people.

So, 2009, bring it on. Whatcha got for me? I'm excited at what the future brings.

Dear Facebook, Stop being lame.

2008-12-30T09:15:00.003-05:00

Wait for it people, I'm on my high horse here. Prepare yourself for a rant of epic proportions.

It appears that the ever popular social networking site, Facebook, doesn't like to see women feeding their babies. Well, it probably wouldn't matter if the baby were eating from a bottle, but GOD-FORBID a woman post a picture of a breastfeeding infant. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. That whole feeding your baby thing is highly offensive. I would much rather see a picture of some half-dressed skank than a baby eating. Come on. Facebook states that these breastfeeding pictures are obscene. I don't know about you, but I consider a picture of a 40-something in a dress that looks like a sausage casing to be a whole hell of a lot more offensive than a breastfeeding infant. And, no, before you start calling me a hippy, allow me to share my breastfeeding story.

Wee One was exclusively breastfed for all of six weeks. That's right. Just six weeks. You see, he had horrible, horrible reflux and what I still believe was a milk sensitivity. I tried eliminating some things from my diet, but it got too hard. I stopped. I, to this day, regret not keeping at it for longer. But I didn't educate myself enough. Instead, we spent $25 a can for formula. That sucked. Big time. So, I can honestly say I don't judge you for not breastfeeding. It's your choice. Hell, it's none of my business how another woman feeds her child.

I will, however, judge you Facebook for being lame and referring to pictures of breastfeeding women as offensive or gross or crude or anything of the sort. I don't know what kind of pictures you've been looking at Facebook, but the pictures I've seen don't show any sort of nipple. Nope, I saw more nipple when Janet Jackson had her famous "wardrobe malfunction" (WTH was that she had pinned to her boob??). I see more nipple when I go to the mall and the local mall skanks are hanging out. I see more nipple on the Moobs at the country club swimming pool in the summer. (Moobs=Man boobs, in case you were wondering.)

So, tell me, what's more offensive to you?

This?

Or this??

Dear Blog, we have to talk.

2008-12-26T21:28:00.002-05:00

My dearest Blog,

We have to talk. No, it's not like that, I'm not leaving you. I would never leave you, but we do need to talk. You see, you were once the great love of my life (aside from that whole family thing of course). I need to clear my conscience. I have a new love. This new love is taking my time away from you. Now, instead of constantly checking my site meter stats, I'm participating in my new addiction. What is this new obsession?? Well Blog, I've discovered knitting.

Who knew how fascinating yarn could be? I can lose myself for hours looking at yarns. Heavy yarns, light yarns, alpacas, tweeds, cottons, wools, you name it I love it. And knitting patterns? Wow, just wow. I'm just starting to get good at it, so I'm afraid it may take some more time away from you.

Remember, I'm not leaving you. I would never leave you. I love you too much for that, but you do have to share me.

Love always,
Ashley, The Unscripted Knitter.

NOT what I wanted for Christmas.

2008-12-24T07:48:00.002-05:00

I have pink-eye. Yep, oozey, runny, crusty pink-eye. As I sit here killing the minutes until (I pray) my doctor's office opens, I think of all those yet to be taken Christmas pictures. I think of how twenty years from now, we'll look back on Christmas '08 as the Christmas of the Wonky Eye.

I feel so attractive right now, let me tell you.

Whatever happened to honesty??

2008-12-23T20:11:00.002-05:00

So, you've all heard me bitch and moan about how this whole house construction thing blows, right? Well this week it got worse. I met with the builder two weeks ago tomorrow. They were supposed to start hanging drywall this past Monday (a week ago yesterday). We went by this weekend to check things out. Nothing. Not a thing had been done. They haven't finished things like the brick work that we've been told for weeks they were going to be done with. Husband goes in, talks to the agent. I couldn't go in. I was so angry I was shaking. We get the run-around again. At this point, I'm ready to pull out of the contract. We've been jerked around for a month now while our house is sitting empty with NO work being done on it. NONE.

Husband calls the agent back yesterday and lays it out for her. We finally get a straight answer. They have run out of money. Yep. No plans on ever starting that drywall when they said. No plans on finishing that brickwork when they said. Supposedly they have the money now and things should start moving. It's not going to take much to make me want to throw it in completely.

My issue is why have they been promising things and telling us things would be done by a certain time when they KNEW it wasn't going to happen? They've lied to us. Repeatedly. Yeah, it sucks that you have no money, but don't promise me a drywalled house by a certain date when you KNOW it's not happening. I have lost all confidence in them and am concerned about the quality of the finished product we're going to be getting. Husband wants to give them one more chance. That's it though. I'm SO annoyed.

A few open letters

2008-12-16T12:32:00.002-05:00

Dear illiterate family in the pediatrician's office,
I'm sorry, but obviously you misread the sign in this part of the waiting room, the sign that says SICK waiting. Yes, I realize you have a young infant with you and my child's nose overflowing with green snot and his loud junky cough are alarming to you, but you see, you're in the wrong spot, not me. I heard you getting up in a huff and making a smart remark about "sick snotty kids" and yeah, I know it's directed to me and my beautiful, if not horrifically snotty, child. Bite me. Yeah, you heard me. Bite. Me. Did you think that maybe for one second that you're in the pediatrician's office in DECEMBER? That there might be some sick children in there? Maybe? Sorry to invade your precious air.
Sincerely,
Tired, irritated, covered-in-snot Mommy

Dear utility men with your thumbs up your asses,
I realize that you have work to do. While I don't understand why that work requires you to block the entire road and part of the yard to the house I need to get to, I can understand your need to work. However, don't tell me that I'm not going to be able to get my sick toddler home for about twenty minutes while you morons try to decide who's going to be the lucky one to push the button that lifts the pole up out of the road. Let me choose, or hell, draw straws. Someone move the farking pole. If you hadn't noticed, I've been singing "Jingle Bells" at the top of my lungs in order to keep my child from falling asleep in the car. Maybe you don't know this, but if he falls asleep in his car, that's his nap for the day. I'm not cool with a 3 minute nap. You don't want to be responsible for sending me to the bottle do you?
Sincerely,
Tired, irritated, hoarse from screaming "Jingle Bells" Mommy

P.S. No, I will not just "throw you my keys" so you can move my car when you're done. Not happening.

Dear person with apparantly incontinent dog at the park,
See those blue bags at that little station marked "Doggie-Do Station?" Why don't you take a few? Why don't you clean up after your frigging dog? No-one wants to see your dog's poop. No-one wants to have to explain to their two-year-old that, yes it's poopies and no, you can't touch it. Seriously.
Sincerely,
Tired, irritated, trying to keep doggie-do out of her car Mommy

Some Christmas randomness

2008-12-13T22:00:00.002-05:00

So, I'm driving the other day and I pass by a house with a yard full of those blow-up Christmas yard thingies. Except, they weren't blown up. They were all deflated and lying in the yard. It looked like where oversized inflatable Christmas yard thingies go to die. It was kind of creepy. I don't know if I've just never seen that before or if I wasn't paying attention. Strange.

And guess what? I'm done Christmas shopping. Done. Done. Done. Now I just have to wrap. I'm not the best wrapper in the world, yo. (Get it, not the best rapper? Yeah, that was lame.) While I'm (w)rapping, I'll be eating my mother-in-laws Christmas cookies. I swear that woman is trying to fatten me up.

Wednesday RANT!!

2008-12-10T09:42:00.003-05:00

You asked for it, well actually you didn't, but you're getting it anyway. I'm in a ranting mood today. About what? Keep reading.

1. Building a house blows. Big time.
As I've mentioned ~~a few~~ millions of times, we're building a house. Our old house sold back in September. We're currently living with my in-laws. Fun City, let me tell you. (Disclaimer: My in-laws are great, I love them dearly. I just love having my own house. I'm selfish like that.)
Nothing has been done on our house in two or three weeks. The brick is not done in the front (bricks have been sitting in our front yard for ages), they lost our staircase, blah, blah, blah. I am meeting with them today. They say everything that should have been done will be done. God help them if it isn't. I'm a calm person, but for the love of pete, BUILD MY HOUSE DAMMIT.

2. Salvation Army Kettle Person
Now, first let me say I have no issues with the bell ringers. I think they're great. However, I saw one yesterday and she totally pissed me off. She was sitting in a chair, reading a magazine, talking on her cell phone. The bell was on the ground. Give me a break. Put the cell phone down and ring the farking bell. You should consider yourself fortunate that at the age of 16 or 17 you have a cell phone. Get into the spirit of what you're doing and try to look positive about raisingn money for people less fortunate than yourself. Ugh. I was so annoyed.

3. The holidays
Not the holiday season itself, I love this time of year. However, I hate how nasty this time of year makes people. Whether it be at work or just out and about, people are freaking nasty. I'm tired of it. Would it kill you to at least be a LITTLE jolly?? Could you fake it for a second or two? For me? Pretty please??

4. Dead squirrel
My day was ruined today by a squirrel. That's really not fair, because this unfortunate squirrel is probably dead by now. I really hope it's not still twitching and writhing pain like I last saw it in my rear-view mirror. My morning was bad enough with Wee One trying to whack me in the face with a Frosty the Snowman Christmas tree ornament. To make things worse, this stupid squirrel had horrific timing and chose to run into the rode right under the wheel of the Beamer. I heard that telltale "dah-dunk" noise. Yep, twitching squirrel in the road. It was probably on it's way back to the squirrel house with food for it's babies. Great. I just wiped out an entire squirrel family. Lovely.

Anatomy according to a 2 year old

2008-12-07T12:38:00.004-05:00

I probably shouldn't blog this, but it's too funny not to. Wee One is cracking us up everyday with the things he says. For example, he was getting into something this morning he wasn't supposed to.

"Wee One, you're not supposed to be playing with that."

"Oh yes I are."

How do you not laugh? Seriously.

The real killer though was as he was with me in the bathroom this morning. Any mom knows, peeing or pooping in peace is something that rarely happens. If I manage to evade capture and make it into the room alone, I see little hands peeking under the door. "Mommy, are you?" [translation: "Mommy, where are you?"]
But I digress...

We're in the bathroom. Wee One asks, "I see penis mommy? I see mommy's penis?"

No darling, mommy doesn't have a penis.

God help me.

I have a new boyfriend.

2008-12-05T17:55:00.002-05:00

Wee One has discovered the show Yo Gabba Gabba and I have discovered that I absolutely adore DJ Lance. Seriously. How can you watch this guy and not smile? Throw in some big goofy puppets and some adorable dancing kids? I'm sold. Plus, it keeps my child happy when I can't handle anymore Dora anymore.

I also kind of love this guy:

Today's Nativity Hilarity

2008-12-05T09:37:00.002-05:00

So, I think I have a running theme with Wee One's antics with the nativity scene. Aside from taking all the animals and "attacking" me with them, all the while cock-a-doodle-dooing at the top of his lungs, he's found the Angel. Yes, the Angel. He flies it around the room like a hawk, or some other big creepy bird. That's entertainment, let me tell you.

We had a zoo date yesterday. Can I tell you how adorable it was to see my child wish the different animals "Merry Christmas." Hopefully the non-Christian animals weren't offended. We had a scary moment when a goat tried to follow us. We're walking, it's walking right beside us (in it's little pen), then it acts like it's trying to escape. I hear Wee One shrieking "No Goat! No Goat!" Then it gave us a toothy grin. Seriously.

It's the most_______time of the year.

2008-12-03T09:59:00.002-05:00

Fill in the blank yourself.

I hit up the mall yesterday. I'm all about getting my shopping DONE this week. I don't want to have to worry about rushing and rushing all about to get it done. I can finish this week and wrap next week and then relax. Well, I won't be relaxing, I'll be prying the Baby Jesus from Mother-In-Law's nativity scene out of Wee One's mouth and trying to keep him from climbing the Christmas tree, so no I won't be relaxing, but I digress.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the mall. I scored a few great finds early on. (I would like to add for The Husband's benefit that I did not buy myself a single thing.) My dad is always one of the hardest for me to shop for. I was thinking, maybe I'll buy him some cologne. I hit up the cologne counter at Dillards. I'm sniffing away. Hmm, can't smell that one, think I'll spray a bit on those little sample strips. Great. I squirt myself. I now smell like dirty cologne. I pick up another. Can't smell that one either. Pick up strip, spray, dammit. Squirt myself again. At this point I smell like a dirty pimp. (No, I don't have any idea what a dirty pimp smells like, but I imagine it must be something like what I reek of now.) I'm ready to give up on the cologne thing when I'm assailed by a saleswoman.

"What are you looking for?"

Well, I'm not really sure. Just trying to get some ideas.

"Well, if you told me what you were looking for maybe I could tell you where it was so you wouldn't have to smell everything."

Um-kay. Totally scratching cologne off the list. Sorry dad, you'll just have to go without that one.

I manage to escape from the mall without having my hair straightened or my face moisturized by the crazy kiosk people. (My sincere apologies to the NON-crazy kiosk people.)

At home my next plan is to take my pictures of Wee One for our cards. Right. He sees the camera, and my props for the picture. "NO PICTURES MOMMY!!" This does not look good. I manage to get a great shot, much to Wee One's dismay.

Have I mentioned that Mother-In-Law manages a Hallmark store? This means that we have sah-weet ornaments. Wee One was totally enthralled with all of them. My favorite this year is a guitar (or gee-tar as Wee One says) that plays the greatest Christmas song of all time, "Feliz Navidad." Wee One took it to school today. His teachers probably hate me right about now. Hee hee hee. It's the gift that keeps on giving.

I plan on picking him up this afternoon and spending the afternoon saying, "Don't put Baby Jesus's mommy in your mouth!" or the ever popular "Let's put Baby Jesus in his bed, not on top of the stable." Good times.

My name is Ashley, and I have a problem.

2008-12-02T09:58:00.002-05:00

**everyone in blog-land waves and says, "Hi! Ashley."

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm here today to tell you about a very serious problem that is facing me. It appears to get worse and worse every single week. The approaching holiday season is only exacerbating the symptoms. Yes, my friends, I am a Target-a-holic.

It started out simply enough. The closest Target to me was a 25 minute drive away. I would go on occasion when I happened to be in the neighborhood. No big deal. But one day, one fateful day, I'm driving happily down the road, 10 minutes from my house when I see it.

Coming Soon!!!

Yep. There was about to be a Target store, right here in my town. I think, "wow. That will be kind of nice."

Flash forward several months, new store is open. I decide to go check it out. Wait a second, what is that smell? Oh dear God, it smells like Starbucks. Oh dear God, it is Starbucks. In Target. God? Is this heaven?

The addiction starts innocently enough. I find myself going every couple of weeks. Then, as the weather gets warmer, and Husband starts playing golf every Saturday morning (of course I can manage to make this HIS fault), I find myself making weekly Target trips with Wee One, if for nothing else than to get out of the house for an hour or so and grab a latte.

Now, it's a full-blown, all-consuming addiction.

"Dear, we're out of-"

"Okay, I'll go to Target."

"Honey, where is my-"

"You know what? I can go get you a new one at Target."

My favorite Starbucks barista knows me by name now. He knows what I want before I order it. I'm practically on a first name basis with the cashiers. It's a sickness. I don't know what it is about the shiny displays, or the bright pretty aisles of the store. I could spend hours and hours walking each and every inch of the store, sipping my non-fat venti white mocha with one pump of peppermint (iced when it's hot outside). And Target continues to feed my addiction by never failing to please.

Target, if loving you is wrong, then I don't want to be right.

Ashley. Unscripted...

The trouble with Teh Google

Raw.

Tales from Unscripted High (as in High SCHOOL you sick twisted freaks)...

Story Time

I can't feel my ass.

Sum, sum, summertime...

Status Report

Dear Tracy, (A Luf Letter)

Making every day pretty

The one in which I focus on the important issues...

Answers...sort of.

I am so thankful...Part deux, I really am thankful

I am so thankful...Part 1, a.k.a The Ashley. Unscripted... Man Harem

I'll take Things That Suck A LOT for $1000, Alex.

A ghost of Halloween past...

Fiddle-dee-dee. Tomorrow is another day.

Status Report

And now, we wait.

My poor, violated ovaries

Someone slap me.

Let's do some shots!

Scared of my own shadow

From the deepest depths of the ol' uterus...

I can't always be perfect.

The journey starts here, tomorrow starts today, and other random cheesey cliches...

An Infertile Myrtle's Take On "Teen Mom"

Sometimes things just suck.

***Warning: This will be heavily laced with expletives.***

State of the Sperm Address (Complete with the Uterine Response)

Deep Thoughts...by Ashley. Unscripted...

A(nother) Luf Letter

I'm full of anger.

It appears an apology is in order.

Ever feel like this?

Testicles, scrotum, nutsack, junk...A rose by any other name...

Sleep? It's for the weak.

Hey Infertility? Guess what, it's ON.

I'm pretty much full of it

Thoughts from my car

A Luf Letter, Olympic style

Love, Love, Love, I want your love.

Pity party, table for one please

People/Things that are annoying me, February edition

K.I.T. and R.H.A.S.

Heartbreak.

Semantics?

Resolutions, Schmesolutions

Tiger, Tiger, Tiger...(With my sincerest apologies to William Blake)

What I'm Thankful For, by Ashley. Unscripted...

Facebook Do's & Don'ts

My new favorite article of clothing

My Failings as a Mother

The State of My Uterus

Trapped, with no possible chance for escape.

Karma's a bitch, bitch.

I suppose it's only fair

I was on a boat...with my flippie floppies

THAT mom? Yeah, that's me.

Dear Power Company,

Coming out of the closet, so to speak.

I may not make it out of this alive.

Cannot. Concentrate. Going. To. Throw-up.

So much for privacy

What a long strange week it's been...

One of these days, I will learn.

I am disgusted.

Where's That Asteroid When You Need It?

Lyrical Genius

Zoo FAIL

Look who's back!!

A (colossal) Bonding With Mommy FAIL

Dear Perez, We are no longer friends.

Injustice

Dear Rachael Ray,

Yet another thing I'll never understand

Things More Fun Than Taking Wee One to Piggly Wiggly

One of those days

A Cease and Desist Letter

Dear US Economy,

Warning: This will be heavily laced with expletives.