Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Irrational Fear: Spiders

I've never liked spiders. They creep me out for a number of reasons, but mostly it's because they have way too many of things.

Firstly, legs. They have 8. Who the hell needs 8 legs? I get by on two just fine. Who do they think they are? With all their crouching. Under tables. Shower drains. In clothes. And every fucking dark corner you can imagine.

*shiver*

Secondly, eyes. They, again, have 8. (Mostly, some species do have less.) And again, I have only two and get along just fine. But noooo, they stare at you. With all 8 eyes. Calculating ways to freak you out.
"Did I look to the right or the left, human? You don't know do you? Why is that? OH, because I have 8 fucking eyes and you can't tell. Muwhahahahaha!"
And don't get me started on tarantulas - where you can actually see their eyes looking at you. Following you. Imagining delicious ways to lure you into a trap of hundreds of spiders just like him aching to eat your flesh on the fancy silver platter they've somehow acquired. With 4 tiny forks for the right legs and 4 tiny knives on the left legs, and a bib that says "Humans: The Only White Meat". And yes, that is something I've actually imagined prior to the writing of this.

Do I scream like a banshee when I see one? No.
Do I find the longest route available around the spider to get to my destination? Yes.
Do I find a large cup and trap a spider underneath it when I find one in my house because I can't stand actually killing one for fear that its cousin is watching and will put a hit out on me in my sleep? You bet your ass I do. (Not to mention the crunching sound. GAG.)

This is something I've lived with quietly for years. But then I had Lillie. And I can't do it anymore. Because every time I lay her down in her crib I have to inspect it for a nest of spiders. And every time she wakes up crying do I think "Hey, she's hungry." or "Hey, she's pooped herself"?

Uh, NO. I imagine a spider slapping her in her face with the two foremost legs saying
 "This is for my kind you tiny human! This is for the time your mom trapped my uncle underneath that glass in the kitchen for a FULL DAY before he was put out of his misery! THIS IS SPARTA! <insert full frontal kick to Lillie's forehead from spider>"
Okay, the sparta thing is going a little far - but seriously this is what my imagination does to me.

I always thought I'd be the sane mother, the one who was like "Oh, let her eat grass. She'll learn." And I may be. But when it comes to spiders, I'm completely illogical. Unreasonable. Unstable.

But come to think of it, what is sanity when it comes to being a parent?

Maybe I'm not so unstable after all. Or maybe that's just what the spiders want me to think.

*shiver*

Friday, April 15, 2011

Leaves, Pine Cones & Dead Carcass

Do you ever feel like there's something just working against all odds to make your life completely miserable in the most ridiculous way possible?

Well, I do. { Example One; Example Two}


Backstory: A few weeks ago, I got into trouble with my husband about my lack of attention to this rattling sensation that had engulfed my truck. (Well as much trouble as a wife can get into while rolling her eyes and saying "But I didn't notice it, I swear!") We took the truck in, got her fixed and I promised to be more observant. He promised not to make fun of me in public for my very stereotypical attention deficit order to all things mechanical (okay, I lied, he didn't promise that, but oh how I wish he would!)

Monday, April 4 - I notice a shimmy in my steering wheel and while normal people may be annoyed at this, I was incredibly ecstatic because I NOTICED IT and then thought,

Finally, I can prove to him that I AM observant and capable!

But then 8 hours of work passed by and I forgot. (This is important, had I told him this at the time, the following probably could have been avoided.)

Tuesday, April 5 - I notice a faint smell of nastiness as I lock Lillie into the car seat, but I figure since we live out in the boonies it's probably some smell wafting from a neighboring field. I crank the truck, back out of the driveway, get my tunes ready to roll, turn on the A/C and
Whhhhyyy,  thHeEeHHee EEffFF iiiiSSS MMMyyyY TrUUUUCkkkkKKK shhhHHHAAAKKKinnnggg Lliiike thhAAAAAtttTT?
 I cut off the A/C. It stops. I cut onnnnTHHHeeeAAA/C, I cut off the the A/C, IIIiii CCCuuuttt onnNNNthheeeeeAAA/C, I cut off the A/C. This process goes on for the next 10 minutes, because I want to make sure I'm not losing my mind and imagining all this. I look at the clock - 7:42 a.m. I need to call Alfred and explain what's going on, but I'll just do it when I get to work. Because I want to be safe and not talk on the phone while driving. Uh, right.

Can you see where this is going?

Yep, forgot. Well, until right before bed. So, technically I did tell him on the day I noticed it so uh, I can get at least one point for effort right?


Wednesday, April 6 - I walk out my front door, I again smell horribleness but this time it seems to be emanating from all aspects of my truck. I roll down all the windows, apologize to Lillie while simultaneously looking under seats for a possible lost dirty diaper, or an escaped chicken nugget. I find nothing. And then as any hopeful non-mechanically inclined wife would do - I tuuURRnnneEEdd onnnn and immediately turned it off.

And then I threw up in my mouth a little. Okay, fine - a lot.

The smell was in my truck. It was IN MY TRUCK.
Specifically, in my A/C. Un-Frackin-believable. I drove to work with all 4 windows down, hair be damned, and occasionally gagging at the smell that would disappear and then return at the exact moment I was breathing extra deep to get out that Celine Dion note I was just jamming too.

I did not forget to call Alfred when I got to work at this point. I asked if perhaps the reason my truck was doing the shimmy shake was if an animal had worked it's way into the organs of my truck and laid it's soul to rest for all eternity.

His response - laughter. And then some more laughter. I somehow make out in the midst of his cackling spree that he'll look into it when we get home tonight. I think sure, I can make it until then. I only have to be in my truck on the way home. Windows down, I'm gooooood.

That is until I realize it's supposed to be in the 80s, my truck hangs out in a parking lot of no shade and I had lunch plans. Let's just say that the heat did not help my situation 4 hours later as I pulled out of the parking lot for my lunch date, windows at this point were just beyond help. It was bad. It was hilarious. And despite, the horror of it I knew it'd still be worse as it sat in the parking lot for the next 4 hours of my work day.

I was - in a word - dreading 5 o'clock. I survived the trip home, barely. As the smell wasn't just invading my nostrils at this point, but also my taste buds. I was eating winded dead animal, I just knew it and for some reason not knowing what the animal was made it all the more disgusting.

Bird, cat, mouse, squirrel, iguana, a slew of spiders, raccoon, dog - what the hell was in there?

As Alfred dismantled my truck, I took Lillie in the house for her "Hey, Mom, I'm home now and I just pooped myself" diaper change and then we walked outside with my nose turned up ready to hear what horrible disgusting animal was lodged into my taste buds.

Alfred insisted there was nothing there. I insisted there was. I was that crazy woman, barefooted, baby on the hip, one arm-a-flailing, talking/screaming at him that I wasn't crazy. There was something in there. Why can you not smell it? Alfred, don't mess with me. Did you find it? I'm not crazy. What is it? LOOK AGAIN.

Come to find out, it was a mouse - Alfred just enjoys making me lose my mind. He's a sick, twisted individual and by gawd I love him for it. (For the record, had the roles been reversed I would have so done the same thing to him.)

Thursday, April 7 - There's a new smell. A more...uh, fragrant? pleasant? confusing? Yes. Confusing smell. I was intrigued, what was that? I could still smell the decay, but it was underneath a mask. But a mask of what?

Why, a mask of Fall Harvest Febreze my good people!

My husband had tried to help mask the smell by using a bottle of Febreze, some bleach and gawd who knows what else.

But all I could make out was leaves, pine cones and dead mouse carcass.

I've not been able to look at barbecue the same since.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Mommyhood : Uh, Did That Just Happen?

Over the past 4 1/2 months Lillie has done a number of things to me that a year ago, I likely would have thrown up at the mere thought of. And now, I'm happy as a lark when she poops because that means I don't have to deal with a ....suppository. Blech. Seriously,  I've never been more interested in bowel movements as I am when it comes to my kid.

She's pooped on me, she's peed on me, she's spit up on me, she's always drooling on her hand and then conveniently placing it in or around my mouth, she - in short - uses me to get rid of bodily fluids because it makes her happy. (Or at least that's why I imagine she does it.)

But last night, oh last night, was a new one.

She farted.

Okay, well that's not new. She's got the flatulence of a frat boy, but it's how I realized she farted that made this a newbie. I notice she's become extra bootylicious, which means it's diaper change time. So, here's what happens -

  • I pick her up and lovingly place her on her changing table
  • I coo at her, make her smile adoringly at me as I tell her how awesome she is
  • Diaper is successfully off without her crying
  • I boogity-boogity boo at her to distract her from the cold wipe on her bottom
  • I reach for some Boudreaux's Butt Paste because I'm overly concerned that my daughter is going to develop a diaper rash since her last diaper change 30 minutes ago 
and that's when it happened...

I felt air. ON.MY.HAND.
Which froze while I looked at my smiling adorable baby and said,

"Uh, did that just happen?"

And with that question, she simply replied by doing it again.

The joys of motherhood.
*sigh*  

Thursday, March 31, 2011

My Emilie : Chicken Nugget Stupor

I have an Emilie. She's my best friend and we rock at life.
Even when one of us makes an incredibly bad decision.
Which, surprise, I did.

The following text is our most recent email conversation, some wording has been changed to protect the innocent.

To: Emilie
From: Tamzilla
Subject: I need you to extract my stomach...
because I'm a fatty that ate 20 effing chicken nuggets for lunch! And they are sooooo not being my friend right now. At the time they were amazing and I was like what the hell ever but uh, now, I'm pretty sure I'm going to explode.
Also, I have no idea if I'll be able to eat whatever we cook tonight because like I said I ate 20 motherfucking chicken nuggets.

God help me.
From: Emilie
To: Tamzilla
Subject : RE: I need you to extract my stomach...
Justin wants to grill burgers which don't really sound appetizing at all to me but easy. And easy sounds better than appetizing at the moment. I literally feel like I could fall over and go to sleep. I have been on hold for oh....6 mins and counting...
From: Tamzilla
To: Emilie
Subject : RE: I need you to extract my stomach...
I give you permission to go to sleep. And if you do, and Larry, Curly or Moe call you out on it, just say Tamara said it was okay and if they're like WTF just be like "she's in a Mcnugget induced stupor and she threatened my life if I didn't and you don't fuck with a girl and her nuggets. FACT."
Also, I'm turning this into a blog right now.
 
I know, I know, 20 freaking nuggets. I don't know what I was thinking other than 'my gawd, these are amazinngg, I must have more.' It's like I was a zombie lusting for brains, a vampire yearning for blood, a sandwich begging for cheese.

But it can't just be me? I'm not the only one that has devoured ridiculous amounts of food only to later discover that your new best friend will be the toilet? Right? RIGHT?

Sweet baby Jesus help us all.
 

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Mommyhood : Tears of Joy

I'm sure you've heard the expression, tears of joy, before. It's one of those things that catch you completely unawares and amazed and grateful.

For those of you that really know me, you're well aware that my mother is an amazingly upbeat, incredible woman, despite years of domestic abuse. And when I was 13 she shot and killed her abuser. She was set to go to trial, but chose a lesser plea of manslaughter for fear of never seeing her 3 kids again. She was released when I was 17 and still to this day she cries every time she sees me for the first time. Since she lives out of state it's usually just once a year, if that.

We were gone for two days this past weekend without me seeing my daughter and you can bet your ass I teared up like a pre-teen who just bought a lock of Justin Bieber's hair on eBay when I saw her toofless smile. (I call her toofless, because, well, I like saying toofless instead of toothless. Try it. It's way more fun, I promise.)

I was, in that moment, in complete awe at how much of my heart, my soul, was inhabited by this strawberry blonde wonder and before I knew it, I felt for the first time real tears of joy. Sure, when I watch movies sometimes I'll get all flusterfludged at sentimental moments, but nothing like how I was feeling when I locked eyes with my Lillie.


I never quite understood why Mom always cried. I thought I did at the time. But I really didn't. And even now, it's not quite the same.Because I've never gone a year(s) without seeing my baby, and as an adult now with a child of my own I feel remorse. Remorse for not being more attentive to my mother when she was so alone in the world and all she had were her kids. Remorse for being so selfish. Remorse for not being a better daughter. For not telling her how my day went even though all I did was go to school and come home. For rolling my eyes. For not being more grateful that she gave me life and loved me so openly.

Because besides God, who does that?

But you know what? Mom's do. Dad's do. Grandparent's do. People do. And I hate that it's taken me 25 years and a child to fully realize that. There are people like that. People that love like that.

And the fact that I can love like that is amazing.

Truly, truly fucking amazing.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Mud Nationals 2011, Part I

It's been 4 months and we've never been away from our Lillie Mae for more than 20 hours. Nor has she been further than 30 minutes away from me. Sure, she's had slumber parties with the family so Alfred and I can have some adult time without worrying about what color her soft-serve (read: poop) she'll be impressing us with for the evening. Or whether she's going to let us watch a movie without a sound (read: never). Or if I fed her last at 3pm or 4pm (read: 2pm).

So, despite this possibly making me sound like the worst parent in the world I'm still going to say it. (Because obviously when you become a parent, you're no longer allowed to enjoy things that don't involve your kids.)

I was incredibly excited for this past weekend to come to pass. And I had been for oh, say, the last year. It was this time last year that I had found out I was just barely pregnant (yay!) and yet, we still had plans to head to Mud Nationals; a mud-slamming, 4-wheeler riding, hell of a party event that we've been frequenting for the past few years. I talked with the doctor, he gave me the okay and we went even though mentioning that we were going  and that I was pregnant to anyone pretty much landed me the stank eye from every possible angle. I reveled in it. But I had a great time as I pretended my Dr.Pepper was laced with Parrot Bay and amazingly, my daughter popped outta the ol' kid chute with no problem.

And for 2011, with no bun in the oven, I was bound and determined to make this weekend a beautiful endeavor into some much needed debauchery and boozehounding. And with the help of my amazingly awesome friends, Emilie and Lauren, it was. Oh, it was. 

The guys (there were 6 of us in total) headed out Thursday night to set up camp, because they claimed they wanted a good spot but us women knew they all really just wanted a guys' night. But being the awesome wives we are, we let them believe we believed them. It's how we roll. Not to mention, I wasn't mad at hogging Lillie for one night before heading out Friday morning.

Emilie stayed the night with me, I dropped off Lillie with her awesome cousins for the weekend, Lauren showed up - we shoved Emilie's Impala (I merely mention the make of the car because it comes into play later on in the weekend antics) full of our crap and headed out. We got there by 2:30 with no trouble, a lot of laughs and one helluva playlist I've been working on for weeks that has temporarily broken me. By 2:45 we were hitting up the trails, staring into the wonderful world of rednecks and refilling our coolers with, uh, beverages at a surprisingly low rate. We were all very much on the same page as we want to ride, not get so tore-down that we somehow lose a shoe, our dignity and a chunk of our hair in a 15 minute window.

However, that page was torn out and thrown down the porter-potty around the time dark started to set in. There's a camera full of pictures in my purse that will no doubt make the person manning the photo-booth when I drop them off say "What in the wooorrlll..." Because yes, my friends, there was a dance contest. An amazing one at that and we all came across a.... fanny pack.

For the record, I don't have a problem with fanny packs. I mean, they're relatively useful if you for some reason have too many items that won't fit in your pockets and you also need to hold up your pants. But if like the rest of us you've moved past the 80s, you probably don't see them much anymore.This guy was sporting it like nobody's business and while we were able to sneak in a picture (thanks, Emilie!) we were not however, able to sneak away from our comments.

Yep, he totally caught us talking about it. And while we weren't saying anything particularly bad other than "WTF, a fanny pack?!" And of course, me saying "Dayummm, you know if we bedazzled that we would def be rocking that look and I so wouldn't be mad at it." But he was a sport, offered us a beer or 3 and then later we found out WHY he was so proud of it.

*ahem* Puff, Puff *ahem*

Right about that time, we said sayanara and did a few more trails without any stragglers.

We called it a night (or a morning depending on how literal you want to be), woke up Saturday with very few ill-effects other than Lauren's bum knee from her amazing dance set she pulled out. And some regurgitated pot roast that we'll just pretend we didn't see.

And this my friends, is the end of Part I. Part II will be up and happening in a couple days - hopefully with photos.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Feet Monger

So, I have feet. No, no, no...not just feet, but feeeeet. It's like someone stuck two beanpoles into clown shoes just to have something to point and laugh at. Wearing a size 10 or 11 (okay, fine, an 11, sheesh) I was fairly self-conscious of them growing up. I mean, I would kid and what-not but deep down I would stare at those size 7's with so much envy, my eyes turned the color of the Incredible Hulk. But I've grown to love and embrace them, and the fact that some shoes cute in a size 7 will never, ever, be cute in an 11. It's just the way of life. 

Even when I go shopping people, I don't look at the shoes, I look at the size on the box before I even get my hopes up. With all that said, I am very much a shoe whore. I love heels, the taller the better (because of course it makes my foot look smaller) and because I have no qualms about towering over people since I've been doing it for most of my life (I'm 5'10").

And I know, that while every parent says they'll love their kids no matter what they still all have things that they hope they don't inherit. Unfortunately for Lillie, it looks like she got her mama's feet. But on the bright side, they're amazing tools for picking up dirty laundry and maybe, just maybe, I'll finally have someone I can share shoes with someday.