Cutie Hooties

No, it is not the name of a new boy band. It is an example of late-night (see sleepy-induced silliness) movie inspirado.

Rob and I watched the movie Premonition with Sandra Bullock on Saturday night. Small spoiler alert....a few plot points but no big secrets revealed in the following.

In the movie, Sandra Bullock tells her husband in one scene that she dreamed he is going to die. He goes out and increases their insurance policy.

After we climb into bed:
Rob: You aren't going to wake up in the morning and tell me you dreamed I died are you.
Me: No.
Rob: Because I haven't increased our insurance policies.
Me: We have no problems....as long as you don't have a potential mistress out there. I know there are some cutie hooties at work.
Rob: What is a cutie hootie? That sounds like some kind of whacked up breakfast cereal. Eat cutie hooties, part of a complete breakfast.
Me: Yeah, and the cereal is shaped like owls.
Rob: I can see the ad slogan: WHO starts your day off right?
Me: Go to sleep. We've hit bottom now.

How the thought train jumps tracks.

Advice for New Parents?

Rob's cousin recently had her first baby and she asked me a few months ago if I had any advice. Sorry, I don't give any. I think it is just too cruel to frighten people when there is absolutely nothing they can do to prepare themselves for the birth of a child No amount of reading in all the baby know-how books, organizing the nursery or childcare classes.

How on earth do you explain that uninterrupted sleep is going to become your personal Holy Grail? Sleep deprivation is one of those things you cannot fully understand until you experience it for months on end (or in our case a year and a half... and if you were blessed with one of those rare babies that sleeps all night at month one, I don't want to know). Or that disposable income is something from your previous life that you will not know again until the diaper stage has passed? That you will exchange your dignity for mastering the art of breast-feeding, no matter who is present? Should I tell her that the next few months are all about serving a very demanding task-master who yells at you when you get it wrong and sometimes when you get it right? How about the fact that this little screaming pink thing is all take, with only the occasional gas-induced, all-too-brief smile to give in return? That in a few months you will be able to shower, do a hit-and-miss leg/underarm shave and brush your teeth in under five minutes? That your prep time for leaving the house will escalate from thirty minutes to two hours and that even then you will forget something vital... like a binky? Shopping now requires a car seat, stroller, toys, diaper bag, purse and, preferable, a spouse? Every piece of your wardrobe will now be marked with spit-up? No... you can't prepare somebody for a baby.

Because there is no way that anyone would believe you if you told them they could fall madly in love with a selfish little thing who pees, poops and projectile vomits all over them. No way at all.

My Very Own Embarrassing Moment

Yes. This one belongs to me, all me. No help from flashing relatives, lubricant-purchasing mother-in-laws or lingerie-buying mothers.

I was a sophomore at GSU and had an early morning aerobics class followed immediately by an introduction to Sociology course. The Sociology class was held in the University theater... the only place large enough to hold the 200 plus students taking the course.

On this particular day, I arrived a little bit earlier than the most and took a seat near the front, finding a seat near the middle of the row (I absolutely hate it when people get to a theater early, sit on the outside of the row and make everyone crawl over them getting in and out). Air conditioning and sinuses that have just experienced 45 minutes of aerobics in an un-airconditioned gym are a bad combination.

Just as class was starting I develop a very sudden runny nose. I realize that there is no way I can crawl over 15 people who have books, notebooks and pens out, run back up the aisle and hit the bathroom in time. I grab my pocketbook praying for tissues, napkins, receipts, anything remotely absorbent. Of course, I have nothing in my pocketbook, except a maxi-pad.

I sit there in the center of the row at the front of the theater in the midst of 200 other students weighing my options. At this point I have 5 seconds to decide: Am I going to wipe my nose with a maxi-pad or do the first grade sleeve swipe. Since I am wearing short sleeves and the thought of wearing a nose-soiled shirt for another hour is really unappealing, I opt for the maxi. Now, 2.5 seconds to decide if I do my very best contortionist act and try to fit my face inside my purse, or if I have to pull the maxi out of the purse to accomplish the desperately needed nose wipe. Alas, my head is too big for the purse and out comes the maxi just in time. My face is a shade of red reserved only for embarrassing moments as I re-wrap the maxi and try to unobtrusively poke it back in my purse. Unobtrusive and public use of a maxi pad will, however, not go unnoticed. And I can feel the eyes of ever person on my row and the row behind staring at the maxi-weilding, sweaty girl in the center. You know, the red one.

Toto - Rosanna

This video makes me laugh! All that girl needs is a stripper pole! (but doesn't she look a little like Kim Cattrall?) I think I like her shoes, though. And you've got to love the Westside Story style "street toughs". This is one of those dancing round the house with a hairbrush microphone.... classic eighties angst!

Nostalgia.... remember the man perm/moustache combo? And the black leather jacket? Band members that could, gasp!, play instruments? Fun, fun fun!

Fourteen Years!

Today marks 14 years since Rob and I went on our very first date. I was 18 and he was 20 and it was a blind date set up by friends. We crammed in one car with 2 other couples, drove an hour to this "great" steak place out in the middle of nowhere. So far out in the middle of nowhere that the concept of Air Conditioning had yet to make it there. South Georgia in the middle of July in a crowded restaurant with NO AC is insanely hot!

And since I spent most of my day rushing around searching for "the" perfect outfit (how times change, now I just look for something that A) fits, B) has no stains and C) is comfortable), I was starving! The girl sitting next to me eats three or four bites of her shrimp, and lest I be branded a pig, I also claim I am full (stupid, cowardly teenager that I was). And watch in hungry jealousy as the boys continue to eat with gusto!

As we are leaving, we are almost accosted by some drunk rednecks who are in search of a good Saturday Night Brawl! I won't ever forget the look on Rob's face as he hands me his glasses, just in case.

Can you believe that we even went on a second date? Alas, the other couples are long since broken up, but here we are 14 years later (9 of them married), two beautiful (and one of them atrocious) children and a mortgage later. Love ya, babe. In all ways and always. (Ain't that sappy!)

Abigail the Atrocious, Part II

This two-almost-three-yearold had better be rich and famous someday! I have decided that her portion of the Therapy Jar (see previous post) money is going to be needed for MY counseling... or at least for large quantities of mind-numbing chocolate and alcohol. I want monetary restitution for all of this stress. If I get a jury of all-Moms (no grandmothers please), I think I can get whatever cash settlement I seek, and believe me, it will dwarf the $54 million dollar pants lawsuit.

Abby, in her pursuit of driving her parents mad and her brother crazy, dumped toys out of J.T.'s box, flipped it over to use it as a stool, pulled out a desk drawer for an additional step, climbed on top and proceeded to throw all of J.T.'s things off, one-by-one. Her father scolded her for this.

She then proceeded to go the potty (by herself, thankyouverymuch!). Then uses the potty chair to "wash her hands". When Rob checked on her, she was holding her palm pressed against the faucet, which resulted in a waterspray effect all over the countertops and floor.

As a grand finale, she tore apart our child-proof door handle covers and escaped out the front door while I was talking to Rob's mother in the kitchen. By the time we discovered her (1-2 minutes later, tops) she was in the middle of the road playing in the dirt. Thank God we live on a cul-de-sac with only 3 other homes, counting the in-laws.

That is why the door handle covers have been replaced (and duct-taped shut with yards of tape), the bathroom door is locked and the key hidden, and she has been banned from her brother's room and why her mother will be cruising the alcoholic beverage section at the grocery store this afternoon.

The Therapy Jar

Really, the title of this post should be: Why I suck as a parent!

The Therapy Jar is an old Mason jar (that is what we, in the south, call those old jars our grandmothers used for canning fresh vegetables. Everything here goes by it's brand name.... Ritz crackers, Coke instead of Soda, etc.) into which we put all of our spare change. When the jar is full, we add it to the children's savings accounts.

Because I really suck at parenting, my children will be using this money to pay for the extensive therapy they are going to require when they reach adulthood. The Therapy Jar money will not go for a down payment on anything or to help out with college.... It will be used for counseling.

Abby was playing with my bedside lamp yesterday. When I was ready to read my shamelessly hokie romance book before bed, the lamp, of course, wouldn't work. Abby said: "It's broke." And responsible parent that I am, I said: "Yes. You broke it." She didn't bat an eye. "No. It's not brokedid, it just needs batteries."

I'm sure this will probably shock Rob, but I either pretend to be asleep or say: "Is that J.T.?" when they awaken in the middle of the night so he will go check on it for me. Unless someone is sick or vomiting, I will not be getting out of the bed.

I'm completely unafraid to shade the truth a little. No, the Barney video isn't working right now. And technically it isn't. Because it's not in the video player. You're out of chocolate milk. And while there is some in the refrigerator, it isn't in your cup, so you ARE out of chocolate milk.

My voice occassionally leaves the pleasant range when I discover Sharpie marker on the cabinets, pee pee on the bathroom floor, or a child jumping off the back of the sofa. I may be shading the truth on the pleasant range bit.... it is probably more like Jerry Springer-level shouting.

They eat too much candy and not enough vegetables and the television is indeed used as a babysitter. I will ban them from the room so I can watch my favorite show.

Last year, I forgot to lock our bedroom door. I felt something next to me while Rob and I were doing the horizontal mamba and discovered that J.T. was actually IN THE BED with us. I may have to be in therapy for that one myself.

So 20 years from now, my children will be using the Therapy Jar Money for just that: Therapy. And Rob, the sane, gift-buying-for-no-reason, "It's okay, Daddy's here." one will come out smelling like a rose, while I on the other hand, will be blamed for everything. And I have to admit I will probably have earned every criticism.

Because, to top it all off. I will steal money from the therapy jar so I can swing through the fast food place on the way to work and get a biscuit and a diet coke.