Friday Funnies

I so badly wanted to do The Red Dress Club's writing prompt this week, again, but I just don't have it in me. Argh. I'm so sad about this but there's stuff going on personally that has my mind in a place other than fun, creative fiction (or even gloomy non-fiction).

So instead I'm sharing a couple funnies about my kid and the fact that at 19 months old, she's boy crazy.

Already.

OMG what are we gonna do in 11 years?!?

Case in point #1:

The other week I found an old Wiggles Christmas hard cover book at a resale shop for a whopping 50 cents. Since then, I've read it make 1600 times. Well, she's become enamored by Captain Feathersword for some reason. I mean, she's always loved the Wiggles, but since reading this book, she's all about the Captain.

So much so that now she kisses his picture whenever we read the book (which has been hidden for a couple days for my sanity's sake).

Oy.

Case in point #2:

One of her teachers at school (daycare center referred to as school since it's very much a school environment) is a guy by the name of Kyle.

And since she's become an actual human parrot lately, when we talk about school and her friends and teachers there, she's constantly talking about Kyle. Non stop Kyle. And then a big smile and a giggle.

Always.

"Kyle."

Smile.

Giggle.

"Kyle."

Really?! Already?!?? OMG what are we gonna do in 11 years?!?

Connect this!

Today is one of those days when I want to take my head and slam it into my computer.

oops, forgot to add my glasses.

It just is.

And the stalkers on Facebook don't help the matter.

You know... the ones who claim they're never on, yet somehow how know ALL about you, and the pictures you post (but they never see), and Aunt Joan in Timbuktu. Yeah those mofo'ers who happen to be about 90 of the 100 of my "friends" it seems.

I used to think of Facebook as a great way to connect with people I didn't get to see or hear from often... but now? Notsomuch. Now I see it as another way to keep up with the Joneses or, better yet, try to be better than them.

I guess it's just another sign of the times... my times. I'm old. In less than a month, I'll be 39. It's time to grab my cane and hang on.


At least then I can swat at the fuckers who bug the shit outta me! Right?

Yeah, I'll make a connection alright!

Oma

I've been avoiding writing this for a while. Every time I came here to do so, I turned away from it at some point. I guess by writing it, I have to deal with it and I just didn't want to deal with it.

My dear grandmother, my Oma, is not doing very well. At all.

It started several years ago. Actually, it started almost 50 years ago when they came to this country. She and her husband and three of their four kids. They came here because her parents came here right after World War II, and she wanted to say goodbye to her parents in person. She thought she was dying back then. Fortunately, she saw more doctors here in the U.S. and instead of dying, they were able to treat her.

THANK GOD.

Then, about 22 years ago, she went back into the hospital for about a week or so. She had some kind of surgery, but honestly, I'm not sure what it was for (my family is big on not sharing bad news). I just know that my mom and I were staying with my grandfather to help around the house since Oma wasn't there to clean and cook like he was used to.

But, as with every single shitty thing life has thrown my Oma's way, she prevailed.

Then about 10 years ago, she was back in the hospital (it's important to share that neither my Oma or Ota are doctor/hospital people so when either went to one, we all knew it was a big deal). This time it was to get part of her lung removed! In all her years on this earth she had never smoked a cigarette as others including her husband (before the war) and own children smoked, yet here she was with lung cancer.

It was a very difficult surgery for her and it took he a long time to recover, but she did. Because she's Oma.

In the fall of 2005, as I sat at my niece's baby shower, Oma told me that the cancer was back. She told me that she could not endure another surgery, that the first one she had was really hard on her. Ota had passed the year before, she was in her 80s and "lived a long life" and was "old", and she just couldn't endure another surgery.

I remember sitting there trying my hardest not to break down. I sat there, holding my Oma's fragile, wrinkly hand and prayed with all my might that she not die. Ota wouldn't be there when I walked down the aisle or when I had my first child, and I just didn't think I could bear the idea of Oma not being there for either as well. Incredibly selfish thoughts, I know, but these two people were THE most important people in all of my life. The amount of respect, admiration, love I've had for them ... they mean the world to me.

I guess Oma was just warning me because here we are six years later.

Oma was there on my wedding day in 2007. Thankfully. (Ota was there, too. I know he was. I had a small photo of him in a frame that sat right next to us at the head table. My niece held onto it during the ceremony. My cousins and I all had a Highball at the reception to honor him. It was Ota's drink: a Highball with no ice.)

love this one so much





one of my faves of us

i'm all red eyed from trying not to cry- i felt SO blessed to have her there

And Oma was there to hold my baby girl who is named after Oma. (Oma's first name is Lovie's middle name. Ever since I knew I wanted kids, I knew that I would do this should I have a daughter. We didn't share the name with anyone until after Lovie was born. Although Oma wasn't there the day she was born, I was told that she cried when she heard the name and was incredibly moved and touched. It's my absolute honor to have done this; I only wish my husband would've been keen on the name as Lovie's first.)

early Dec 2009- weeks before Lovie's birth. she still didn't know Lovie would be named after her.

one of my fave Lovie pics. she was 3 wks old. Oma was in heaven.

Anyway, I got an email from my mom this morning that was written last night. (My mom actually moved in with my grandparents weeks before my grandfather passed away. He wasn't sick or anything, just old {90}. She wasn't supposed to live with them for long, but then Ota passed away and we couldn't let Oma be alone.) It was sent to me and my two older siblings. In a nutshell, my mom was letting us know that things are not looking well with Oma and that she will be going to the hospital this morning for tests.

We try to visit them once a month. They live about 90 minutes away but it's very important to me that Lovie get as much time with her great grandmother as possible. I've noticed how frail Oma's been getting the last several visits, and my mom has confirmed it with me when she visits us. Oma doesn't eat much; she has no appetite and when she does eat, it takes her an hour to do so. She's tired, she's having a hard time catching her breath. She's forgetful, she's unsteady on her feet.

Mother's Day 2011

All of this was confirmed in the email with the added bonus of going to the hospital and the fact that Oma apparently tells my mom at least once a week that she's "tired of living."

She's "old" (86). She's "tired of living." She's "lived a long life."

I know she will be much happier when she's gone. I do know that. I know she will be reunited, again (they were separated during the war- should've NEVER been able to find each other again!), with Ota and she will be able to tell him of all the babies that have been born, and that Lovie is named after her. I know she will be in a much better place... but... fuck me is this hard.

It was hard 6 years ago when I lost Ota. So motherfucking hard.

And Oma? Dear God, I can't bear the thought of a world without Oma. I just... she's just...

This is incredibly difficult. I know it's all a part of Life and all that jazz.

I just love her so fucking much is all. My Oma.

yeah, i guess those people were right.

As an older mom, I've got nephews and nieces old enough to be Lovie's parents so I've been around the block a time or two with kids. Not that block, freak. I've done my fair share of babysitting- even lived with one nephew for four years to help raise him.

Along the way, the most popular thing I'd hear people say was definitely, "It's different when they're your own."

I didn't quite understand what they were talking about. Those people. Who made that comment.

I love my nephews and nieces. Hell, at one point in my angst teenage life, I could honestly say that I lived for them... their innocence, their curiosity, their purity. And the one nephew whom I lived with for four years??  He holds a very special place in my heart.  For always and ever, amen.

So when I heard people say that it would be different when my own came along, it baffled me. I mean, sure you love your kids like no other, but how different could it be to love one child more than another. They're children! They are pure and innocent and the essence of life! What's not to love? (And yes, I'm very well aware of the fact that there are plenty of "not" fans of children. Some, like my very own sister, are even parents. And some, like my very own sister, are pretty shitty at being parents, too. But I digress.)

Well. I guess I get it now. Actually, I got it the moment she was placed in my arms.

She's a fucking rock star in my eyes. In my heart and soul. A rock star.

With most of my babysitting duties, I would often get bored and find myself dozing off or counting down the seconds to when I could escape the mundane children's TV, books, games, mofo-stupid-ass Barbies.

But now? With her? Holy hell is it different!

I want nothing more than to get on the floor with her and just play! And watch her face as she finds humor in something or makes a new discovery.
I totally get it now. It really is different when they're your own.

But I bet you all agree that she IS a rock star.

Right?!?!

How could you not?!?

: )

it's a weekendicle listicle

10 things from this past weekend...

1. met a friend for breakfast (CRISPY PANCAKES!) Saturday morning
2. went shopping for a couch (haven't made the big purchase yet)
3. came home and napped
4. ordered Chinese food for dinner
5. good morning, Sunday!
6. playing blocks
7. more play
8. nap time
9. read The Wiggles Christmas sixteen hundred times
10. notice that my sweet baby doll is now a sweet little girl

my Monday Listicle doesn't match up with the request of it being all about food- and I'm all about food normally so this saddens me. :(

I miss

...being able to sit like this

How we became Wiggles fans

(If you're here for TRDC post for this Friday, it's a Writer's Choice/oldie.)



The hubs and I were married smack dab in the middle of 2007. In January of 2008 we started our journey to procreate a little mini-us. In February of 2009, after having been pregnant and suffering a loss and still trying to get our mini-us, this video blew up in youtube and my husband couldn't resist sharing it with me:

Fast forward one year, I was sitting at home with our mini-us in my arms. Finally. She was everything (and WAY more) I ever dreamed she'd be. And she was in my arms and one day she would be walking and talking and driving and dating and... I would spend many hours staring at my baby doll, thinking about our future... her future. And for some reason, that video of the talking baby came to mind and I decided to do a "Hot Potato" (since the man in the video sings Hot Potato to the baby at one point) search in youtube and discovered this video:

At first, I just sat there with this WTF expression in my head and on my face (I'm sure) with my Lovie in my arms. I told the hubs, who sat at his computer (yeah we're a two computer household thanks to my hubs being a geek like that), to take a look at Hot Potato. And the next thing you know, we were looking at other Wiggles videos.

And somehow that all migrated into a regular rotation of Wiggles videos being watched on youtube with Lovie in my arms. Like 10 minutes every other day or so till one day, Lovie started to seem actually interested in the videos. Then more videos hit the rotation. And since Lovie always seemed interested and didn't complain, I'd let her watch whenever I thought to do so or when we had time (mainly on weekends).

Then when Lovie was around 13 months old, she said "Pop Pop" to me and started to ask for "Pop Pop" every day when we got home from school.

Then Lovie started to dance in my lap with a big grin on her face, clapping at the end of the videos and singing/humming along. That's when I knew we had turned her into a true Wiggles fan.

So when The Wiggles decided to tour to celebrate their 20th year of being The Wiggles, I had to get tickets. I had to.

And that's where we went a week ago tomorrow: to the Wiggles show!!

Though I was crazy enough to want to take my barely 19 month old to a show like this, I wasn't crazy enough to fork over nearly $175 for three tickets to sit on the main floor! Instead, I got the cheap balcony seats for $100 less.

Stupidly, we brought a small shitty camera with us instead of the better one so our pics - something they actually encouraged us to take plenty of - didn't turn out so great.

It was a fun time. Lovie did great and the show itself wasn't so bad (I found myself laughing at times as well as singing along and dancing in my seat!). Fortunately it lasted only about an hour and twenty minutes or so. Any longer and I probably would've started to get antsy.

There you have it- how we became Wiggles fans. : )



(If you're here for TRDC post for this Friday, it's a Writer's Choice/oldie.)

is this what it's like not to work full time?!?

The building I work in lost power very early yesterday. Some areas still had working computers and phones, but, for the most part, the building was out of power. Including the air conditioning. My work station was one of the ones with power, thankfully. Still, they released us at noon. Woo-hoo! I wanted to rush to Lovie's school and scoop her up and play with her but I knew that it was nap time there, so I opted to do some running around instead.

One of the first stops included a resale thrift shop that donates all money from donated sales to a women's shelter. I picked up the perfect little "book shelf" to go in Lovie's playroom.

It's actually an old record holder. It's not in mint condition or anything but it's really rather perfect. Especially for a playroom. It's got those slats in it that would hold old records and holds up her books perfectly. Plus she can park her non-pink school bus or whatever else she wants underneath and use the top of it as a table top.

It was marked at $20 but they were offering 40% off all furniture bought and removed yesterday so I ended up walking out with it, a little Kai-Lan purse (see below), and three books for Lovie for a whopping $16 and some change.

close up of new purchase

world's largest bean bag chair (to me, at least). it's sooo comfy, too.

looking into playroom from living room. the chandelier makes the room, no?

yellow bucket o' toys

red bucket o' toys, riding toy, FP L&L House

After the resale shop, I had to pee. Badly. So I stopped at Starbucks for a pee break and a Frappuccino break. Mmmm icey goodness. With my frap in hand I headed over to Marshalls for shits and giggles and ended up coming home with these (for Lovie, of course):

actually a much darker plum like in below pic

that's brown detail- comes with brown leggings

this is cuter in person- the pockets make this dress

Why on earth do I not shop at Marshall's more often? How can you beat those prices?!? Oh I remember why I don't shop there too much: I work full time, I hate people and dealing with crowds, and I'm infatuated with online shopping, that's why.

this is that purse Kai-Lan purse i got from the resale shop. blogger hates me so i couldn't put it up at the top. blogger also ate a cute pic i had of Lovie reading one of the books (WIGGLES!) i got from the resale shop. she made me read that book to her (A Wiggles CHRISTMAS for crying out loud) about 10 times.

I'm at work right now as I type this up. And the power is still out. Mofo's didn't leave a message in time to let us know not to come in. Argh. I think I've lost 5 pounds since I got here it's so dang hard-to-breathe hot in here.

What can you do? I'm here so I'll blog and get some work done and take off when Lovie's eating lunch at school so that I can get there before she naps. That way she can nap at home and we can do our own thing for the afternoon.

Hell, maybe I'll make a real meal tonight or something?!  Man, a girl could get used to this part time schedule...

I'm fat

I've been thinking about this for some time now because, well, I've been this way for a very long time and it's hard not to think about it: I'm fat.

And I don't mean 20-pounds-overweight-oh-dear-oh-my-how-will-I-ever-fit-into-my-size-6-jeans fat. I mean I'm obese fat. Like, morbidly obese. Like, I need to lose a hundred pounds (100 pounds!) to even be considered of average weight for my 5'3.5" frame.

I'm fat because of years and years and years of emotional eating. Basically, I can trust food like nothing else in life. It's always been there for me and always will be there for me. Unconditionally. And hot damn does it taste good. Always. I never eat something and then feel bad for eating it. Sure, I know that I shouldn't be eating some of the things I've eaten, or the quantity of it, but it always tastes so good (or I wouldn't eat it). So I keep eating. And when something bad happens, like when my husband pisses me off or something much worse that I don't want to deal with, I tend to grab a pint of ice cream or order a cheeseburger and cheese fries and eat. And eat. I push those feelings down and eventually out.

Not good, I know.

But I own it.

I own the fact that I'm fat.

I own the fact that it's all a result of poor eating and being a lazy fuck*.

And I very rarely discuss dieting or being fat or whatnot with others, as a result. It is what it is.

But.

It does NOT define me.

I REFUSE to let my weight define who I am.

I REFUSE to allow it to hinder me from doing things (like becoming a mom... like playing with my kid).

Being fat is a part of who I am (and even if I can manage to get down to a svelter me, being fat will always be a part of me- or who I was), yes, but it's not all of who I am.

More than anything else, I am a Mommy. I am her Mommy. And that, my friends, is what matters.

You see, while I may not be a size 10 (or even close to it), she doesn't care. And neither do I. Not when it comes to seeing her with that face, that smile, that full of life: 

That's me and my Life. Sitting right there on my hip. And it doesn't get any better than this!

*I do not eat shit food, nor am I gluttonous in front of Lovie. I refuse to allow her to think that the way I feed my emotions is "normal" or "good." But, we do live life to the fullest which, for us, means an occasional meal from the likes McDonald's. Lovie is an amazing little girl in so many ways, including the fact that she eats everything (from chicken nuggets to fruits and vegetables). If she grows up to be fat, so be it. I'm not raising her to be fat. I'm not raising her to be a pretty princess. I'm raising her to (hopefully) be who she is and, most importantly, HAPPY with who she is.

 

Mentor: Mr. Pfun

This week you were asked to write about a mentor, someone who guided or inspired you. How did your mentor impact your life?

If I were an artist, I would sketch him into a cartoon character. Easily. His head was super big- even for his 6 foot-plus frame. His nose reminded me of a sail on a boat, his dark eyes bulged out behind his thick silver trimmed glasses, and his hair... his floppy, thick, comb-over salt and pepper hair sent it over the top. Especially as it moved in unison with his big mouth when he yelled.

 

“Mr. Pfun” was a yeller. And he took no shit from anyone- especially the snotty kids whose wealthy parents didn't believe in setting boundaries and teaching respect.

 

CLS High School came straight from one of those angst ridden teenage films where all the kids looked identical, came to school in their parents’ BMW’s, and thought their shit didn’t stink. It was my fourth (and final) high school in three years (thanks to my mom who couldn't hold a job and was constantly on the run from bill collectors).

 

On the very first day of my CLS life, I finally found Mr. Pfun's history classroom at the end of a long hallway that had an emergency exit into the cornfields. The final bell already rang, I was the only person in the hallway and was greeted by a locked door.

Mr. Pfun unlocked the door and asked my name and asked if I knew what time it was. I explained that I was new and had never even been down the hall in which the classroom was, and he studied me for a minute before finally allowing me to take a seat and warning me, and the rest of the class, that next time there would be no unlocking of the door.

I was never late again.

 

What I thought might turn out to be a scary (because of the teacher), boring (because of the subject- History- never a favorite of mine) class turned out to be a lifesaver for me.

 

Oh how I loved his class. Oh how I adored the way he mocked some of the self-righteous pricks that littered that school and town. Oh how I knew that everything he said about "the real world" and what it would do to most of the students was spot on. Oh how he inspired me to continue to just be me.

 

It’s been over 20 years now since I’ve taken that class. {20 years!} And I still remember Mr. Pfun. I still remember how he inspired me to believe in myself when nobody else would even give me the time of day. He gave me/the underdog the courage to be different, to think beyond 17 years old. He taught us a lot about American History but did so in a way that allowed us to learn and open our eyes toward our future, too.

 

Mr. Pfun was a brilliant, yet very humble man. I’ve never had so much respect for someone (other than my maternal grandfather) like I did him.

I can only pray that Lovie encounters a Mr. Pfun or two in her life, too.