I am not Sponge Worthy

A few months ago I decided that I would go off The Pill. Don’t worry darlin’ NoMommy’s come down from the euphoria of 1 perfect day with The Bug. I have rescinded the offer to play host to another Bug anytime soon.

But, I have been thinking that I’ve been on The Pill long enough, and with my sister’s recent breast cancer diagnosis, I don’t want to put any extra estrogen in my body.

So, I headed over to drugstore.com, since, despite the fact that I have a wedding ring on and usually a baby in tow, I am totally embarrassed to purchase any items that suggest that I might actually ‘do it.’

Ever since that hilarious Seinfeld episode way back in 1995, you know, the one where Elaine tests her boyfriend for ‘sponge worthiness’, I have had Elaine’s favorite birth control method in the back of my mind. But, of course, they were on backorder.

Instead of just waiting, I decided to try some gel insert thingy. I’d never heard of anything like it, but the description sounded good, so I figured what the hell.

When they arrived, I recruited Ralph for some scientific investigation. The problems started almost instantly:

1)You have to wait 10 minutes after you put the thing in your hoo haw before you can do the deed. Anyone with little kids knows that you may not get 10 minutes of doin' the deed time in the first place.
2)Here’s where I give TMI. When the deed is done, there’s just a whole lot of extra fluid down there. I guess it’s the gel, but it feels guhhhhrooooossss!
3)If you go for round 2 (or 3 or 4) of bow chicka wow wow, you have to use another insert and wait another 10 minutes each time.

This shit was just way too high-maintenance for me.

Back to drugstore.com, where they have the sponge in stock, Yippee! I buy it, and soon it arrives in that happy little box that just leaves my mailman guessing.

Since the sponge has been put out there as the holy grail of birth control, I was so excited to finally have a box of my very own, that I ripped into it like a kid opening a birthday present.

When I started to read the directions, I felt like I had gotten socks. WTF, I have two graduate degrees people and I have no f*cking idea what these directions are saying!

Bend your wrist and point the end of the folded sponge toward your vagina. Be sure that you can see the fold when you look down at it and that the string loop dangles below.

They go on to say:

Check the position of the sponge by sliding your finger around the edge of the sponge to make sure your cervix is not exposed.

Are you f*cking kidding me! I need a fracking anatomy lesson just to know how to get this sh*t into my hoo haw.

Thankfully, the next section of the directions say, “to use this method effectively, it is important for you to understand your anatomy.” No sh*t! Then they add several lovely drawings of the female anatomy.

Folks, I am still lost.

I think to myself, maybe it is something that you have to just do in order to understand what to do. You know, like…well I don’t know, but I’m sure that there is something.

So I go into the bathroom armed with the directions and a sponge, and wait for the Ahaaa! moment.

It never comes.

Oh, sure, I got the thing in my hoo haw, I’m pretty sure that I even have it facing the right way, but, since I am not a gynecologist, I really couldn’t be sure if my f*cking cervix is exposed or not.

I guess I’ll know if I passed my anatomy test around the middle of next month.

Stop the Insomnia!

***Disclaimer - I am working on very little sleep here***

When I was in high school I noticed something strange about myself; I couldn’t sleep. For nights on end I would lie in a darkened room and try with all my might to just go to sleep; but it wouldn’t happen. I counted sheep, read books, drank warm milk (disgusting by the way), nothing seemed to help.

In college, my roommate thought it was hilarious that she would go out to party when I was going to bed and when she got home I would be laying awake in the dark of our room to greet her. She thought it was funny, I didn’t find it funny in the least. To this day I wonder why I didn’t just go out with her. After all, I wasn’t going to sleep anyway; I might as well have had a little fun. Stupid, stupid college me…

While living in New York and San Francisco in my 20’s, the insomnia took a break. I’m not sure if it was due to climate, being in love, the fact that these were some of the happiest (and saddest) times of my life, having the daily exercise of walking everywhere, or being relatively stress free, that put insomnia into remission, but it lasted into the early part of my relationship with Ralph.

However, after those make you want to slit your wrists happy early months of motherhood, when you aren’t sure if it is night or day, just that you have woken up to crying every two hours for as long as you can remember, the insomnia was back.

Ralph has never understood my inability to sleep. He is one of those irritating amazing people who are able to fall asleep as soon as their head hits the pillow and then sleep through most any noise only to be awakened by their enraged loving wife shaking them to let them know that their alarm is going off. Ralph proceeds to hit snooze every ten minutes for the next hour, needing to be alerted to said alarm by me each time. Is it any wonder that I fantasize about ripping the clock out of the wall and braining him with it?

The insomnia comes in waves that last a week or so. This latest round began last Thursday night. Ralph had a meeting at 11:00 p.m. and didn’t get to bed until around 1:30. For those of you wondering WTF anyone would have an 11pm meeting for that is on the up and up, I assure you that, while it adds to my suspicions that Ralph is a super secret agent, this meeting was on the up and up. I know this because: A) Ralph would never cheat B) I confirmed it with a coworker who was also at the meeting (I asked him what time he got home in front of his wife) C) without giving away to much of Ralph's true identity, it does make sense with what he does and D) after Ralph’s company picnic over the weekend I am sure that he is surrounded by more Dilberts than Jack Bauers.

Anyway, I have a hard time sleeping when Ralph is not snoring his ass off sleeping beside me, so I had just drifted off when he came to bed at 1:30 (waking me up of course). Then at 3:00 The Bug woke up. It only took me ½ hour to get him back to sleep. 6:00 and the damn dog needed to go outside. Ralph further infuriated me the next morning by saying he had no idea either incident had happened.

Between Thursday and last night my sleep had been so-so. But last night was miserable. Ralph and I had a couple of arguments yesterday. I am trying to make myself believe that these arguments were because of my fatigue, but that is for another post…I had decided to sleep on the couch because I was pissed off, but after 45 minutes I decided it was too hot. I went to bed and was hot there too (could we get some f*cking central air please!), so I went back to the couch.

Unfortunately, this happened to be one of the rare moments when Ralph wakes up in the night. He followed me downstairs, turned off the window A.C. that I had turned on and proceeded to come into the family room to ask me why I was sleeping on the couch

Me – “I was hot upstairs.”
Him – “well, you’re not going to sleep down here with the air on”
Me – “okay, it still feels cooler to me than upstairs”
He of the 5 blankets when it is 80 degrees outside – “it’s not hot in our room, so that’s not why you are down here, just admit it”
Me – watching The Simple Life and Little Miss Sunshine until 3:00 thinking A) what an ass he is B) how it isn’t always about him C) how he’s just an eensy bit right because initially I was going to sleep on the couch because I’m pissed at him D) why hasn’t that damn supposed to make you drowsy pill kicked in yet.

Oh well, who needs sleep when there are blogs to read.

I am so conflicted….

Two minutes into the car ride I know that he will be quietly content. When we pull into the parking lot I know that a cat-that-ate the canary grin will cross his lips. As we walk into the building I know that he will greet everyone he sees with a shy “hehrow”. Upon entering the classroom I know that his classmates will raise a collective shout of his name as if signaling to one another that Norm has come to take his place at the bar on Cheers. That will make me smile outwardly, and, on the inside it will make me beam with pride to know that my sweet, cautious little guy is so well-liked by his 2 & 3 year old peers. I will be comfortable leaving him to go spend the day with my sister because I know that he is in a high-quality daycare where he is looked after by women who love him; almost to a fault. I know that when I go to pick him up this afternoon I will be there for at least ½ hour trying to get him to leave. But right now none of that matters.

Right now, he is having a fit to end all fits.

Until I took out his daycare shoes he was having a typical morning. But upon seeing the shoes that he only wears to daycare, he slumped down onto the couch. He said the ubiquitous, “No, Mommy”. Then, he lay down on the couch and proceeded to kick his feet in order to make it more difficult to put the shoes on. When we aren’t going to daycare he asks to wear the cool Elmo sneakers that light up as he walks, but on daycare day, they are a signal, a red cape in front of a bull. Maybe I am too matter of fact about putting the shoes on, perhaps I should hold him and tell him that it will be o.k., but I think that might just make things worse, so I don’t. He says, “No, night night”, and I ask him if he’d rather go back to bed than go to daycare. I am astonished every time that he says YES. I get his things together and carry him out to the car. I put him down as I struggle to get all of his gear inside. He falls to his knees in the wet grass in protest. I pick him up and try to put his rigid body into the car seat. He screams, he cries. I am sure my neighbors are commenting on what a horrible mother I am.

As my time with him...with 2 days per week to myself...without being torn between giving too much time to my outside job or taking too much time from my outside job...all dwindle as the summer winds down, I wonder whether sending him to daycare this summer was a mistake. At the time, we thought it would help him stay in the routine. This is what the psychologist in me says to do, but the mommy? She just wants to tell her little boy that it’s all right; he doesn’t have to go if he doesn’t want to. Maybe that is what I should do for the next three weeks, but then what happens four weeks from now when he has to go back?

BlogMe2007: Me in 10 Seconds

My house is such a mess that it is making me crazy, and if it is making me crazy I can only imagine what Ralph, the Felix of our Odd Couple, is thinking.

So, today I am going to spend my blogging time cleaning (I am wincing at the thought). To that end, I am not going to be my typically wordy self. Instead, I will give you a quick 10 second introduction to NoMommy via the BlogHer Meme from Mocha Momma. Here goes….

• My son just turned 2. He is named after one of my favorite cousins, who was named after my great uncle, who was named after my great grandfather
• Two graduate degrees later, I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. Right now I am a part time school psychologist (Oh, now I’ve gone and scared you. But its true, most psychologists are just as nuts as I am)
• I lived in San Fransisco for a few years, and I would move back in a heartbeat.
• I over-think everything (I'm a psychologist, its my job, damnit!)
• I’ve been a vegetarian for 17 years
• When I was 3 years old I had open-heart surgery
• In my opinion, the DVR is one of the best inventions….ever
• I have insomnia (that damn thinking thing again)

Since I am brand spanking new at this whole blog thing, I won’t be going to BlogHer. But, I thought this might help you get to know me a little better.

Please feel free to do yourself in 10 seconds (hey! get your mind out of that gutter!). Its nice to hear about the people in blogland. Besides, she says to.

Inflammatory Breast Cancer

I lost my mother to breast cancer when I was 4 years old, so I will put in a personal plug for doing self-exams and being aware of changes.

The following post was written by Whymommy at Toddler Planet...

We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?

I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.

Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.

Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.

There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.

Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.

You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer.

P.S. Feel free to steal this post too. I’d be happy for anyone in the blogosphere to take it and put it on their site, no questions asked. Dress it up, dress it down, let it run around the place barefoot. I don’t care. But I want the word to get out. I don’t want another young mom — or old man — or anyone in between — to have to stare at this thing on their chest and wonder, is it mastitis? Is it a rash? Am I overreacting? This cancer moves FAST, and early detection and treatment is critical for survival.

Thank you.

Middle-Class Suburban Mommy/Pit Bull Owner

I do not intend to use this blog as a place to proselytize about pet (no pun intended) issues. However, the recent indictment of Michael Vick (I just barfed a little in my mouth) has led me to feel the need to tell the long boring story of how I became a pit bull owner, and to share insights I have gleaned from being a responsible suburban mommy/pit bull owner.

Six years ago, Ralph mentioned that he'd always wanted a dog. I grew up around dogs, so I appointed myself official dog finder. I found a great national website that lists all kinds of animals for rescue. That is where I first saw The Nurse.

She was listed as an American Staffordshire terrier mix, and, at the time, I didn't know that Am. Staffs and pit bulls were the same thing. That is until my cousin who is 1/2 ghetto fabulous and 1/2 Martha Stewart (seriously, picture Lil' Kim loving life in Stepford), set me straight. I didn't care; she was adorable and sounded sweet. I was hooked.

The Nurse's foster parents brought her over to meet us, and I was in love. Ralph did not share my sentiment, as he could not fathom living with a dog that was so afraid of men she wouldn't go near him. Of course, I convinced Ralph that everything would be fine once she got used to him, and The Nurse was ours.

Our first night with The Nurse, we put her in her crate in the kitchen as her foster parents had suggested, and went up to bed. Anyone who has ever had a new dog knows the rest of the story, she cried and cried. Ralph ended up sleeping all night on our kitchen floor with because she broke his heart. They have been inseparable ever since.

Life with The Nurse hasn't always been easy. She is afraid of most every man, child (with the exception of The Bug) and dog that she sees. Early on she had severe separation anxiety which caused her to poop on our living room floor if we left her alone too long. (What is it with my f'ing living room!). Thankfully, that chapter in our lives has ended.

Because of her fear of children, we were concerned with how she would react to The Bug. To our surprise, she was in love with him from day 1. She always wants to be where he is, not in a protective way, but in a loving way. In fact, as I write this, she is sitting outside of his door while he naps. Because she is so attentive to The Bug (potentially more than we are), we nicknamed her The Nurse. As for The Bug, he thinks that she is a great pillow for watching TV.

In public, we are faced with people who are afraid of the breed our dog happens to be. People cross the street when they see us walking towards them. A woman once told her son, "We don't pet those kinds of dogs", right in front of Ralph. We laugh to ourselves when people give us strange looks because we walk our pit bull right next to The Bug's stroller.

When people ask us if she is a pit bull, I tend to get on my soapbox and tell them how pit bulls used to be one of the most popular family dogs, and that Petey on The Little Rascals and the RCA dog were both pit bulls, and that they used to be called "Nanny dogs" in England because they were so tolerant of children climbing and tugging on them. I say to them that horrible people who exploit a breed's tendency to be loyal and shy and then abuse them and starve them are the real bad guys. I tell people that The Nurse is the best/most well trained dog that I have ever know, and that they should be leery of any dog that isn't well trained, not just one that looks a certain way. Ralph, on the other hand, tells people that she is just a mut, not a pit bull, he just doesn't want to hear their sh*t. People's typical reaction when they talk to Ralph is to say how cute she is and then ask to pet her.

The bottom line, please don't judge a dog just by her breed. Responsible owners make for good dogs and irresponsible owners, of any type of dog, put others at risk.

Weekend in Review

I got this from Why are you Stalking Me? and thought it was so right on that I would share it.

How You Life Your Life

You seem to be straight forward, but you keep a lot inside.You are always tactful and diplomatic. You let people down gently.You tend to have one best friend you hang with, as opposed to many aquaintences.You tend to dream big, but you worry that your dreams aren't attainable.

How Do You Live Your Life?

On to the Weekend in Review

Normally, my weekends are nothing to write about. Literally, open a vain boring. But, last weekend we actually did some fun stuff and I will be doing stuff each weekend from now until I go back to work in August (shivers go down my spine at the thought of it).

My dad is one of those has everything, can't buy him anything sort of guys, so, buying him presents is always a lesson in creativity. This year was a snap because one of his favorite artists has an exhibit at the Phipps Conservatory in Pittsburgh. So, on Saturday, Ralph, The Bug and I picked up my dad and the monster (my step mom who I really do love) and drove to Pittsburgh to see the exhibit.

Ralph and I were both quite nervous about how The Bug would handle a whole day off of the schedule that we are all such slaves to, and Ralph even suggested that he stay home with The Bug. Of course, that was never really going to happen, and to our complete and utter shock, The Bug was amazingly good. He didn't have a single meltdown despite being 4 hours late for his nap by the time he conked out in the car on the way home. Kudos to Ralph as well, for driving 4+ hours roundtrip and spending his entire Saturday with his in-laws, while only having 1 meltdown in the process!

The exhibit and the Conservatory itself were both amazing and everyone had a great time. My parents and Ralph and I are all planning to go back to see the exhibit at night sans The Bug and probably sans the other couple as well. I highly recommend that anyone who lives near Pittsburgh go to see it.

The entire day was so nice that, Saturday evening,while I was washing our dinner dishes, I thought that it might actually be time to add another bug to our nest. The problem, of course, is the much b*tched about current nest. I broached the subject with Ralph Saturday night, with the caveat that we would have to buy a bigger house sooner rather than later. Apparently, Ralph liked the idea of having another baby. Ralph and his sister are only 11 months apart, and Ralph has always said that he thinks that siblings should be close together in age. Being exactly 18 years younger than my closest sibling, the host of any such future bug sibling and the one ultimately in charge of most of the rearing of said sibling, I tend to disagree. He said that he would crunch the numbers to see if we could afford to move soon AND on Sunday he started cleaning the sh*t that I have been asking him to get rid of for years out of our spare bedroom. If only I had known that it was as easy as having another baby...

Hair Today....

I am excited today because I began laser hair removal treatments yesterday; I am on my way to being forever facial hair free! Don't be too grossed out Dear Reader, it is not as if NoMommy could pass for a circus sideshow act. I keep up with the few little spots that would otherwise surely sprout hair like the back of that man at the beach who insists on wearing a speedo. But, as any woman with dark hair and fair (or in my case not-so-fair) skin on which said dark hair is noticeable when not plucked, waxed, or otherwise removed knows; even a little bit is a pain in the ass to continually remove. To that end, when a doctor acquaintance of mine offered to do laser hair removal at a reduced rate (again, not because she was like, 'holy sh*t do you need some laser hair removal'), I asked Ralph for a combined birthday/anniversary/mother's day gift (because even the reduced rate was a little steep for such vanity) and, despite not getting it at all, and thinking that I am completely insane for being so excited about never again having to pluck the gross little ickies that seem to grow out of my face overnight to wave hello to the world, Ralph shelled out the cash.

Doing this is completely out of character for me, I am not a girly girl; in fact, I only wear make-up when we are going out (which only happens a handful of times/year). However, I have had this image from childhood in my head ever since said creepy ickies started to appear, it is an image of my 90 year old great aunt sitting in front of me at church. She had beautiful long thick white hair that was worn in a perfect bun at the back of her head, she was smartly dressed in a navy blue suit and heals (I can barely walk around in heals now, but at 90!). I was admiring how put-together and classy she looked when she turned to the side, ahhhhh!!!! A carpet of wild ass little curly q's of the same white hair that was on top of her head were coming out of her chin. Since I have inherited the same thick hair as hers on top of my head, you can imagine my trepidation when I began to produce the chin hair too! To make a long story short, I don't want to be sitting in church someday (like that would ever happen) with my great whomever behind me only to hear a loud thud as she jumps back and smacks the back of her head on the pew in shock and horror as I turn to expose my goatee.

Grandfathers and Sons

My dad is the best. He was a great father to me and is a fantastic grandpa to The Bug. During the school year he watches The Bug 1/2 a day each week and my little guy looks so forward to Papa Mike coming over that if I have that day off he repeats "Papa Mike" over and over.

Since I have the summer off, Papa Mike hasn't been coming over to watch The Bug, and I think that they are missing one another terribly. To that end, my dad called the other day to ask if he could come over to watch The Bug. Hmmm, an afternoon all to myself, let me think about it....

Papa Mike picked up The Bug and took him to a little spot where they put down their lawn chairs and waited to see The Bug's favorite thing in the world, a train! I can just picture my dad and The Bug sitting beside this railroad crossing waiting for a train to come. Later, Papa Mike called to ask if I would join them for dinner. Papa Mike picked the restaurant, one that has a train table for kids to play at while they wait for their dinner, and the table itself, one with a great view of a railroad track.

The Bug insisted on sitting next to Papa Mike and tugged excitedly at his arm when a train rolled by the window. Despite the fact that we were past his dinner and bed times, The Bug was on his best behavior for Papa Mike.

What a beautiful sight, to see my dad and my son so happy enjoying one another's company, it was even worth the 1/2 hour of hearing The Bug scream "Paaapaaa Miiiike" at the top of his lungs as we drove home.

Rumpelstiltskin

Ralph is mortified that I wrote about his recent problem in my last post. No offense Ralph, but a 36 year old man who wets the bed (unless he has a physiological problem) should be mortified.

Ralph’s embarrassment led to a conversation about the anonymity, or lack there of, the blog. You see dear reader; Ralph is very concerned that one of you will be able to find out his true identity.

Although Ralph did apply (and was accepted) for the FBI once, he told me that he turned them down. Maybe it was all just part of the clandestine nature of the organization that he had to tell me that he said no. Perhaps I am married to Jack Bauer or James Bond and don’t even know it! But I don’t think so. I went through all of his clothes today and found no tights (thank god), or capes, so I’m pretty sure that he isn’t batman or some other super hero.


As far as I know, Ralph (whose name isn’t really Ralph) is a 36 year old white guy who lives in the Midwest with a wife named No Mommy!, a son named The Bug, a neurotic dog and a cat who pees in bed just like him.

My challenge to you dear reader is to guess Ralph’s real identity.

If only it were just a dream

I am outnumbered in my house. My dog and I are the only females. Ralph, The Bug, and my cat are all male. Unfortunately, that is not the only trait that they share. They all pee where they aren’t supposed to.

I forgive The Bug his accidents; he is after all only 2 and just learning that the toilet is where his peepee goes. So, when I prematurely put him in choo-choo train big boy underpants and he pissed all over my couch, I only had myself to blame.

The cat, well, he is another story. For I don’t know how long, the cat has made a habit of periodically mistaking my living room couch for his litter box. This has been a huge point of contention between Ralph and me. Ralph thinks it is no big deal, while I think it is completely gross and the thought of The Bug finding one of The mad pisser (as he has become known)’s little yellow pools on the couch just makes me cringe. So, every time the mad pisser does one of his little deeds, I put him in the basement in order to separate him from my son and my furniture and Ralph brings him back upstairs and tells me how mean I am. That all changed, however, the night that the pisser pissed on Ralph while we were reading in bed, totally laid down on Ralph pissed and left. Then as we were turning off the lights, Ralph says, “What the fuck is all wet here?” The pisser has been in lockdown ever since.

Then there is Ralph. This morning I wake up obnoxiously early because I am the lightest sleeper in the world and Ralph is walking across the creaky wood floor to the bathroom. He walks back into our room and then, a few moments later I hear the floor creaking again and open my eyes to see Ralph’s naked ass walking towards the bathroom. He takes a shower and then comes back into our room. I ask if he is okay, since he normally doesn’t get up before 5. Ralph then explains to me that he had a dream that he was in a public restroom peeing and then woke up because he was peeing on himself in our bed. WTF!!! Then he asks if this has ever happened to me. Uh, no, I don't think so, not since I was 8!

Hi, I'd like a tall estrogen latte please.

Happy Birthday Daddy!

We knew that the day would come. Honestly, given the fact that Ralph and I both swear like sailors who’ve been out to sea for a long…long time, I am shocked that it hasn’t happened before now. Yes, The Bug said his first swear word last night. I am soooo proud!

Actually, he says shit all of the time, but he doesn’t mean it. I have been translating bugese into adult for several months now, explaining to grey-haired old ladies with their mouths agape that my adorable little boy really only intends to say sit (or yell it, which is usually the case) or to yell at his dog Blue (which he pronounces something like bull) to sit, not SHIT or BULL SHIT! Which he screams over and over at the dog who is surely in on the joke since she refuses to just sit her ass down!!!!

Anyway, last night, I was giving The Bug a bath when Ralph walked in and spilled q-tips all over the floor. Of course, he said, “Oh, shit!” which The Bug then repeated several times just perfectly.

Happy Birthday Ralph.

Happy Anniversary!

July 11th was my 4th anniversary with Ralph. It started out nicely, The Bug slept in long enough for me to wake up at 8:00 (which never happens) and take a shower before hearing “Ouuut Mommy Ouuut!”, which is how he usually alerts me to the fact that it is awfull ass early. Because it was a daycare day I even got to spend the day doing what I wanted to do (and yes, I know how fing awesome that is).

Fast forward to Ralph getting home from work. I should preface that I am completely obsessed with moving out of my house. Since The Bug hatched, it has just become way too small and I’m super sick of my obnoxious neighbor. Ralph claims to want to move too, but he bought the house before we met, and I think he is more attached to it than he wants to let on. Anyway, I have been obsessing lately about this adorable house that is right across the street from an elementary school with a kick-ass playground in an adorable neighborhood.

Sooo, Ralph comes home without even an f’ing card (but I have to forgive him because I recently ranted to him about how expensive cards are and how I’m going to start making my own on the computer or some shit like that…yeah Ralph, you coulda made me one!) but I forgive him because he bought me a combined birthday/anniversary present so I wasn’t expecting a gift, and he says he wants me to drive him by this house I’ve been telling him about.

On the way home, several of his comments make it clear that he is not as into the house as I am, so after The Bug is asleep I say, “so I guess you didn’t like the house?” He completely gets pissed off and is yelling about “didn’t we talk about staying in this house until The Bug goes to kindergarten” and all of this shit and we’re up fighting until 11:30. He keeps invoking this crap about some conversation that would keep us in this house another 3 years until The Bug is 5, but I recall a more recent conversation that prompted us to do $10,000 worth of renovations to this house to get it on the market by June 1 of this year. Given the fact that I have receipts to back up my recollection, I think that my memory is a hell of a lot more accurate than his.

Having taken one completely pissed off and hostile day, I have come to realize that Ralph was right about many of the things that he said on our anniversary. One of the things Ralph ‘suggested’ was that I stop looking at houses for sale online and find a new hobby. Thus, here I am, blog sweet diversion.