Happy...Er....Halloween

I used to love Halloween.  When I was a teenager Halloween was a blast.  It was a dark, and sinister and an excellent excuse to wear fangs to school.  I actually managed to get fake vampire fangs into my yearbook picture.  What school plans picture day on Halloween?  Sounds like they should've expected some of the shenanigans that took place.

Now that I'm a mom, Halloween is a giant pain in the ass.  It was fun while the kid was little.  I'd buy some cute little costume and we'd go out for maybe an hour before she got too tired of walking around, then we would go home and I'd eat most of her candy.
She's 10 now.  The costumes are getting more and more involved.  We made this one.  She is an eagle.  To be fair, we actually made it last year, and she was a snowy owl.  This year we dyed it brown and she's an eagle.  This was her idea, I would've gotten her a new costume.

I also have to argue with the hubby about what the kid will be for Halloween.  She wants to be things like a Snowy Owl, a Hummingbird, a Gnome, the embodiment of peace and love itself.....fucking hippie.  He thinks she should be death, or a zombie, or something extra super scary that only his twisted brain can conceive.

 (I think she should be Pestilence Pony http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIY41LrvMFQ)

This year we had a Halloween party.  My darling husband is all about Halloween.  His favorite movie of all time is Halloween.  He already owns most of the decorations required, including random body parts.  So we had to decorate. 

My idea of decorating is throwing up some orange lights, and maybe some window stickies (maybe).

This year, we went crazy.  I made (yes MADE) ghost lights.  I made hanging ghosts out of cheese cloth.  We made paper mâché pumpkins.  We put up spider garland.  We hung a dummy in the tree out front.  We put a bunch of grave stones in the yard.  There was more.  Lost more.

My daughter had fun though, so I guess that's the whole point.

So today is Halloween and I'm at work.......in costume.  I was supposed to be a vampire but the stupid teeth wouldn't stick.  So I'm just wearing a flowy, black satin and velvet gothic dress that has BIG bell sleeves.  I've owned this dress since I was 16, so I'm rather surprised that it fits at all.  It's tight in the arms though.  The sleeves bell out right at my elbows and that's where it's cutting off my fucking circulation.  It's so uncomfortable.  I feel like I have tourniquets on both of my arms.  Which gets me thinking about getting my blood drawn.  Which makes me queasy. (I'm a pussy about needles.  Which is completely ridiculous.  I have something like 13 piercings in my ears alone.)  I have never been so unhappy that I didn't bring a change of clothes as I am today.  The thought of walking into Walmart in this get-up and purchasing horrible pants just to be able to take this fucking thing off isn't pleasant.  Although perhaps I won't be mistaken for an employee in this outfit.  (I have been somehow mistaken for a Walmart employee on something like 10 separate occasions.  One time is was twice in one day.  And I wasn't even fucking wearing blue that day!!  Oh I think I'll have to write an entire post to explain).

As I walked into the store this morning to get a cup of coffee, some douche bag at the coffee counter says "So I guess you're dressed up."  Oh, you think so fucker?  I surely fucking hope so.  If I came in here, wearing this, on any day besides Halloween, I'd hope you'd call my therapist for me.  But as it is clearly Halloween, you are safe to assume I'm not just an angsty teenager that hates my parents and thinks black makes me look paler.  (I may have been at 16 when I bought the dress, but we're not talking about that now.)

Naming the Gremlin

So....
This post is about the adventure of talking with Me Husband (still trying to replace "Fiance Face"....can't settle on anything) about baby names.  He's an asshole.  I spent a couple of hours going through the endless lists of names that are available on the Internet.  Not hours in a row of course.  Just here and there.
I made a list of maybe 15 names per sex.  Cute names.  Names that weren't so unique I cringed, but names that weren't so common place that there would be 3 more of them in the kid's kindergarten class.  Names like Claire, Aiden, Molly, Ian, Alana, and Evan.
I finally get the courage to show him the list one night (for a bit there I was afraid to say the word "baby" around him).  He glances at it for maybe 5 seconds and starts picking apart my choices. 

H:  Connor?  Molly? Issac?  These are terrible names.
Me:  Really?  You don't like Claire?  Or "Damien"?
H:  "Damien" is my step brother's name.
(Name has been changed, so someday when he finds this blog I can pretend it's not mine)
Me:  You really don't like any of them?
H:  No.  They're awful.  These are like Waldorf names.

Oh here we go again.  My daughter attends a private school.  A Waldorf school.  I'm not going to attempt to dissect Waldorf education just now, but it's a very wholesome, creative, nurturing environment.  They have activities such as knitting, making butter, puppetry, and drawing with block crayons (because life doesn't have lines around it).  I love it.  She loves it.  How many 10 year olds love going to school?  I mean LOVE school.  Are upset that it's summer vacation?  Not many.  But mine does.  She, and the rest of her class, learned to read in like 2 weeks.  One day she's picking out words, sounding out the syllables.  Then like 2 weeks later she was reading with next to no trouble at all.  It's because of the way they go about the process, teaching them the "value" of letters so they can totally wrap their little heads around it.  They also wait until late 2nd grade to start.  As a result the kids are absolutely ready to learn it.

Husband thinks its a fruity, touchy feely, hippie school.  Which it kind of is.  But he doesn't see the value of it.  We have agreed to disagree on this one. 

But in any case....they were not "Waldorf" names (examples, Tobias, Bolosai, Mytraia)  They were not generic names either.  I refuse to raise a John, or a Jennifer.  They weren't trashy names (Destiny, Amber, Dallas).

So I ask him what he had in mind.  Ready for this?  Erma....Herman....Bodack.

I'm sorry, Bodack???

He says "Bodack is a great name".

Now, I'm pretty sure he's kidding.  At least, fuck, I hope he's kidding.  I hope to all things holy or unholy that I didn't marry and procreate with a man that thinks it's totally acceptable to name his child Bodack.  And the best part?  According to him it's a dual gender name.  Ladies and Gentlemen, my daughter, Bodack.

So today, I try again.  I download a baby names app for my phone.  What fun!!
I go through the names.  Holy shit are there a lot of terrible names out there.  I sigh, and click the button that will only show me "popular" names.  This leaves out a lot of the weirder shit.

I find some more that I don't hate (because this is all I can hope for at this point, a name I don't hate.)
Alan, Carly, Kadence, Justin (I guess).

I email him my list from the app (I heart technology).

He responds "Eww, lol".

Fuck you dick.

Me:  This coming from the man that thought up "Bodack".
Dick:  Bodack is a great name.
Me:  It is most certainly not even a name, let alone a great name.  Fucking weirdo.
Dick:  Is too, look it up.
Me:  No, you know what, I believe you.  I've got an app here with thousands of horrible names that are still better than Bodack.
Dick:  Ha Ha good for you.
Me:  Bodack McNamesbeenchanged.  That's catchy.  Tell you what, let's get the kid a guide on how to be a serial killer while we're at it.
Dick:  lol (because he's soooooo creative)
Me:  That sounds like the kind of name that a kid who went to school packing a semi-automatic weapon in order to shoot down all of the kids that picked on him for his stupid name would have.  You're right, let's keep it.  I've always wanted to be interviewed by reporters.
Dick:  Ha Ha.

Why do I bother?  I told him that we would wait to see what's going to come out of there before we argue about the name.  No sense in arguing for Claire if it's going to have a penis.
Don't worry kid.  I won't let him name you Bodack.  I swear he only said that to make Erma sound better.  Poor fucking kid.

P.S.  While spell-checking this post......Bodack is not a word.  Thank you Websters.

Adventures in Craigslist

I love Craigslist.  I really do.  You need FREAKING ANYTHING.....you can find someone selling it on Craigslist.
So, I'm having a baby.  Fiance Face.....oh shit I guess he's Husband Face (?) now....anyway...
Husband says "We're not buying brand new furniture!!".  I'm completely down with that too.  So I start looking for good deals.
I find a crib.  Yea!! It's really quite nice, a cherry color, and in great condition.  The seller has the brand name and model in the ad, so I look it up.  Oh.  He's selling is for $150 but I can get it brand new for $219, not such a whopping deal.  Then I find that there was a recall on this model of crib.  Eh, no dice.
I find another crib.  This one is white.  I like it.  I liked the other one better, but this one isn't bad.  And it's $25 cheaper than the last one.
I begin correspondence with the seller...and she's funny and sweet.  Oh, I like her.  Cool.
So I'm all set to go pick up this crib this afternoon. 
While I'm at it, I find these two dressers, that have a little hutch over the top of each of them.  And they're white, like the crib.
Not only are the dressers cool, but they're advertised for $20 each or $35 for both.  Sweet!!
So I email the seller.  She sucks at email.  Doesn't get back to me forever.  One line answer that leaves me needing to ask the question again.  But I want her merchandise, so I put up with her.
Today, she emails me and says "Hi, I've had so much interest in the dressers that I have increased the price to $30 each."
I'm sorry, WHAT?  You mean you priced your item too low like an asshole and somehow that's my fault?  No Bitch, you advertised your product at a specific price.  It's not my fault you weren't asking enough.  You just don't get to do that.
::Sigh::: But I want the freaking dressers, so I email her back with an offer of $50 for both.
Yeah, no dice.  Apparently her milkshake brings all the dresser buyers to her yard, and she already has two people coming to look, so she can get away with being a douche bag.  Oh how I hate her.
Husband says "flag her and report her to Craigslist".  Yup, that'll show her honey. 
No, I want to drive to her house, knock on her door, punch her in the fucking mouth the moment she opens the door, and walk away tossing a crumpled up print out of her Craigslist ad on her unconscious form as I go.  But this isn't something a mentally stable person would do.  So I flagged her ad.  Twice.  And deleted her emails.  Hmph, take that!  Bitch.

Whose Wedding??

The next person to make my wedding about them is going to punched in the face.
Seriously.....this is my wedding.  This is my day.  So many people are making it about them.  My mother.  My bridesmaid.  Several guests.  It's pretty much bull shit.

No, you can't go to my bachelorette party.

No, I'm not going to change the seating arrangements to suit you.

Oh, you added your own plus one....isn't that cute....

No, I don't have the address on me.  It was on your invitation....

I don't care what people usually do.  What I want to do is ______.

No, I'm not really going to call to see if the nail salon can squeeze you in also.

I'm such an accommodating person.  I try to make everyone happy.  It's actually kind of a problem.  But right now, I just want to scream at the top of my lungs that this is my fucking wedding.  It's not their wedding.  For once, I get to do what I want. 

I am so stressed out right now.  I'm getting married in 10 days, and there is still so much to do.  Every time I turn around, someone wants something from me.  They want me to do something for them.  It's pretty much making me crazy.

I really can't wait til this is all over.  If I ever do this again (which obviously is kind of the opposite of the plan).....how about if I had to do it again, we would elope. 


Update:  The best thing yet....after the wedding had been all done for about a week, and the pictures that had been taken were posted on Facebook by whomever had taken them....my mother says to me "I noticed that there weren't very many pictures taken of me."  Oh?  Well that's a shame since it was obviously your wedding and you were obviously the most picture worthy person there.  Jesus Christ. 
The photographer's photos aren't back yet.  There are pictures of her in there, I promise. 

S.T.R.E.S.S.....with a capital "S"

Ok.  I'm stressed out.  My wedding date is in 24 days.  24...freaking...days!!
I've been planning this wedding for a year and a half so, really, mostly everything is planned and there isn't really all that much to do in the grand scheme of things.

But it feels like I have so much to do.  It feels like I'm so busy.  I have to make 100 cake pops.  Tie 100 chair bows.  Fill out 100 place cards.  Get the marriage certificate.  Order the replacement cake serving set because the first one was defective (uuugghhh).  And on, and on......

I'm also really, really nervous.  Every time I look at the calendar, I get jitters in my tummy.  And I have no idea why.  I have had two people ask me, when I mentioned being nervous, if I was having second thoughts.  Really?!?!  Fuck you.  No I'm not having second thoughts.  I'm stressed about the wedding, not the marriage.  Am I excited?  I'm excited for it to be over.  I'm wondering why the hell we didn't just elope in the first place.

Last night, we took our first dance lesson.  We had both had very long days.  Fiance Face had work related stress, and I had wedding and family related stress.  So by the time we get there we are both biting our nails and pulling out our hair by the roots. 

To give this a little back story.....Fiance Face absolutely did not want to take dance lessons.  My mother (bless her) purchased a lesson package for us as a surprise.  He wasn't happy to find out that he was expected to dance.  To do more than just hold my waist and rotate in a circle like we were at a freaking 8th grade school dance.

So, we meet our dance instructor.....Xavier (name has been changed to protect the innocent).  He's adorable.  He's happy and chipper.  I heart him.  He starts out teaching us a very simple step that we are to attempt to repeat, in time to the music, over and over again without stomping on each others toes.  Did I mention I'm wearing giant stripper heels under my wedding dress? 

We actually did just fine.  As a musician Fiance Face has rhythm, and I already knew I could dance.  I just didn't know how to dance with him.  The biggest problem we had was that I was having the hardest time just letting him lead.  I kept wanting to make him do things.  To turn him this way, step over here....etc.  Which was ridiculous.  He can step to the left as well as I can. 

I think this is a metaphor for our relationship. 

By the end of the lesson, we were both laughing, smiling, and happy.  All the tension and stress had just melted the fuck off of us.  It was like magic.  I want to dance every day.

But, at a risk of losing anyone that might read this because they think I'm funny, it made me look at all of this differently.  It made me remember why I'm getting married.  The flowers, and the dresses, and the freaking cake pops aren't important.  I'm getting married because I want to be with him forever.  So as long as that is the end result, then the wedding can't possibly be a disaster.  I think I just fixed myself.  =)

Fucking Success!!

I started this blog with a post about trying to quit smoking.  That day, I made it about half way through the day before I gave up and bought a pack of smokes.

I'm here to say, that as of right now, I haven't had an honest to goodness cigarette in 5 days.  5 DAYS!!!



I purchased an electronic cigarette.  One of those thingies that emits water vapor loaded with nicotine so you can smoke wherever you want.  It's supposed to be just like smoking, only better for you and allowed in restaurants and shit.

Liars!!  It is NOT just like smoking.  It's a sad, shameful shadow of what smoking was.  No burn.  No taste.  And certainly no satisfied "I just had a cigarette" feeling.

But it's better than cold turkey.  There was some real will power involved.  I'm pretty much over it now.  I've got my little vapor stick, and that's just fine by me.

After 3 days I could already breathe so much easier.  I'm pretty freaking proud of myself.  And since no one in my life seems to be all too impressed, I thought I'd tell the 3 people that read my blog. 

Ok....I've made up those 3 people, but 3 imaginary cheerleaders are better than the skeptics I live with.  So, GO ME!!  WOOT!!


Update:  Make that 5 weeks......Go Me!!!!

That Moment When....

So I've got a new thing.
I "mountain bike" now.  Meaning that I borrowed my dad's bike, which is technically a mountain bike and ride it around here and there.  There have been zero mountains involved.  Fiance Face actually started this trend.  His BFF got a new, rather expensive bike (I'd call it super expensive, but apparently in the world of bicycles it's just a "starter bike") on sale.  Well, when he got the bike home it ended up being too small for him.  Just Fiance Face's luck.  Because the bike was on sale, BFF couldn't return it.  So he traded Fiance Face for some gun or something and POOF, FF has a new bike.

Well now he's the biking champ.  He bought special shorts.  He bought a full face helmet.  He bought gloves and a Camel Bak.

I'm rolling my eyes.  He did this with a motor cycle too.  Someone gave him a motorcycle that needed work.  He's never ridden a motorcycle.  But sure enough, he buys all this crazy junk that people need to ride a motorcycle.  He never fixed the bike, and ended up selling all of his accessories on Ebay.

So, he's got a bike, and he "wants to ride his bicycle".  As I am still looking at my wedding dress with contempt because it OBVIOUSLY shrunk since I bought it, I decided I would bike with him.  To an extent.

But he's big on big hills.  Freaking loves riding up gigantic hills.  Says he loves the accomplishment of doing it.  Fuck you and your accomplishment.

I'm overweight, and I fucking smoke like if I get cancer there will be world peace.  I'm not going up that hill.  Tell you what, I'll go down it, then you can tow my fat ass back up it.

Fiance Face is also ridiculously competitive.  He has to do everything better than I do.  To the point of ridiculous.  So not only does he love the hills....he loves that I struggle to get up them.

Anyway, the point is that, due to all this fucking biking that's going on I've decided that I will go for a short bike ride on my own in the mornings.  I used to go run on my elliptical in the basement, but I secretly hate the freaking thing.  Biking is better.  If I'm going to expend a shit load of energy on movement, I'd like to at least get somewhere.

So this morning I go for a bike ride. 

It sucked.

My legs burned after 5 minutes.  I went yesterday as well, but I was only out for 20 minutes and didn't go far at all, and kept to the nice flat places.

Today, I challenged myself more.  I went farther.  And then I get this brilliant fucking idea.

There is a huge hill a few streets away from my house.  It's like a dip.  Huge hill down, then a slightly smaller but definitely steeper hill back up.  I decide, like a champ, that I'm going to tackle this hill.

So I start from the top, and peddle myself down the hill at what felt like break-neck speed, but was maybe 15mph.  A car passed me.  Driven by a very old lady.....
Then I start up the other side.  My theory was that if I had enough speed from the decline, I would just fly up the incline and not have to work too hard at it.

I'm absolutely not a physics major.  I never even took physics.  As a matter of fact, I stopped after biology, so I didn't even take chemistry.  Too much math.  I hate math.

Anyway, so I start up the hill, and I get probably half way up the hill just on the momentum I'd gathered going down.  Then it got hard.  I peddled hard, and hit the gear shift like a 6 year old with a bicycle bell.

I got like 4/5 of the way up, and just stopped.  I stood there for a second, straddling my bike, panting.

I give it one try to get the bike going again and not be that loser that walked her bike up the hill.  No good.

So I get off and start walking.  I only had maybe 25 feet to go (though I'm a terrible judge of distance).  I'm walking.......I look to my left and see a woman sitting on a porch in her PJ's.  Oh just lovely....someone saw that.

Then I look again.....and realize that the girl looking at me is sitting on the porch of my high school arch nemesis' parents house.

Oh good....it IS my high school arch nemesis.  Just fucking great.  No only did someone watch me definitely not make it up the hill, but it's HER, and I'm definitely heavier than when she last saw me.  GREAT!!

We all have one of those people don't we?  God I hated her.  I still can't stand her, and I haven't seen her in 10 years.

I get to the top of the hill and get back on my bike and start riding again, heading home because I'm totally done now.  I'm brooding about what just happened.  Then I realize....

Ha Ha!! You might have just watched me fail at biking....but bitch, you still live with your mom. 

Take that.