I Should Get Twitter

As this is much more "Twitterriffic" than "Blogworthy". I just gave myself my 600th view. Woot. I also gave myself about 450 views before that, but who's counting. Besides me.

Sleep Deprivation

Is a nasty thing. We'll start there. Sleep deprivation (in my mind) is a MORE than adequate justification for a range of crimes from simple bullying to outright manslaughter of an annoying spouse. Not that I have one of those. I digress.

Little has an amazing bladder for a two year old. Seriously, the kid could pee at least a half a gallon several times a day without batting an eye. For this supersized bladder, I have had to purchase the special (expensive) "nighttime" diapers. For a while this seemed to work. However, the problem is out of control now. He soaks his sheets and blankets on every nap time and every night. EVERY time. Talk about being the smelly kid. I'm changing the sheets twice a day have resorted to putting the fitted sheets from our bed onto his and using bath towels as blankets out of desperation.

Last night was no exception other than this time it was so bad that it woke him up. This is bad news for anyone who wants to get some sleep in our house. Or our neighborhood. He woke us and every living being in a 30 mile radius up at 2:30. We don't go to bed until midnight. It was 5 am before he finally decided that we could all sleep. We get up at 7:30 for school.

So I'm tired. And crabby. And tired.

After I drop big off at school, I'm followed home by some random person. I pull into my driveway thinking this is some nutter who is going to go ballistic over some imaginary driving offense I have committed against him (little does he know that he is playing with a sleep deprived crab-ass). It turns out that it's actually a nice little old man telling me that my tire is almost flat. Bah. I think I would have preferred the nutter.

I scrap my original plans of taking Little's 2 year photos this morning (whatever, it's only a month late) and take the car to get the tire fixed. Little's behavior is not that of someone who was up all hours of the night tormenting an entire neighborhood. In fact, he has even MORE energy than normal. Of course. Here is where it gets good.

I hear the guy call out "Angela" from behind the counter. That's me. Little goes streaking out into the showroom pinging himself off the tires hanging precariously on the wall.

Tire Guy: "Angela?"

Me (saving a wobbling tire from rolling across the showroom floor): "Yep"

TG: "With the Maxima"

Me (chasing little down as he runs across the path of an elderly man trying to get to the bathroom): "Yep"

I catch him and plop him on the counter.

TG: "That will be $77"

Me (holy freaking hell!!! The damn tire doesn't even cost that much brand new!! WTF!): "Ok" and I hand him my card >insert "you're a dumbass eye rolling smiley here"<.

He hands me the receipt to sign and I see "Oil change, alignment, rotation. . . " Hang on a minute! I didn't ask for any of this to be done!! They are taking advantage of me because I'm a woman. They are taking me to the cleaners because they don't think I'll know what is going on! What the hell!!! I hate mechanics. What greedy bastards!

I start from the top of the receipt to try to memorize this blatant gender discrimination for use in my tired crabby tirade that this guy is about to be subject to.

"Customer Name: Angela Cowell"

My name is Angela. But not Angela Cowell. As a matter of fact, I don't even drive a fucking Maxima. I drive a Lancer. Which we don't even call "the car" we call it "The Lancer". >insert the same smiley as above. . . again<

Let the self ass-kicking begin.

Me: "Oh my god. I am such an idiot. I'm really sorry, but this isn't my reciept. I'm just in here for a tire patch. I'm Angela *****, not Angela Cowell."

TG: "You don't drive a Maxima?"

Me: "Well, no."

TG: "Did I ask if it was the Maxima?"

Me: "Yes, yes you did and I said yes. I don't know what in the hell is wrong with me. I plead insanity from sleep deprivation."

TG (looking at me like I am the dumbest bitch to ever walk through that door): "Well, ummm. . . ok then. I'm going to have to get someone in here to refund this and try to print out a new receipt. I have no idea how to do this. We've never had someone pay someone else's bill before."

Me (desperately searching for a hole to crawl in and die): "No problem, I'm really really sorry, take your time. You can feel free to laugh your ass off at me when I leave. What an idiot."

Tire Guy cracks a smile and tries to take some of the blame because he can sense my humiliation but we both know that I had a true-blue, no Lady Clairol, au naturale- blond moment right here in the middle of a tire dealership. Except that I am not, in fact, a blond. Sigh.

In the end, Tire Guy is very helpful and nice about the whole thing. He gets my tire patched and hands me the keys with a smirk and says "Here's your Lancer key. It's that one. . . parked right out front." I deserved that.

Oh the shame.

The Case of the Craptastic Earphones

I recently took notice of what a sloth I was being and how my waistline was reflecting that choice. I didn't really think it was THAT big of a deal until one of my very small boobs came to rest on a fat roll as I sat staring into the computer screen for the umpteenth hour one evening.

Since then, I've decided that perhaps having the metabolism of a baby elephant seal isn't the best thing in the world, so I've made a concerted effort to get out there and eat healthier and get to the gym (which we have been paying $75 a month for as I sat stuffing my face with anything that wasn't nailed down. . . ). I started using Spark People to track my food and tried to have a goal of getting to the gym ever couple of days.

I hate going to the gym- not because I hate working out, but because I hate other people. Well, not all people, I mean I like you, I'm talking about other people. So I dug out the iPod that my husband had given me a few months ago and dedicated that weekend to putting together some ass kicking playlists and tune out every greased up muscle monkey and midlife crisis-er in the joint.

I got that taken care of and rocked it at the gym for the next two days. Then my ears started to hurt due to the nickel sized earphones that come with the iPod. I have smallish ears anyway (at least something is small right?!), so shoving two bottle caps in there wasn't the comfiest thing in the world.

We were out shopping soon thereafter and I started perusing the iPod aisle while Dh and Big were geeking out over some Wii somethingorother. I spotted a nice little set of "noise canceling" earphones with cushy stuff (yes, I'm sure that's what it's called) around them. Sweet! So I got those and an armband because I noticed it's what all the cool kids at the gym are wearing.

They fit right into my ears and it's lovely. They are quite "noise canceling" and therefore get a lot of use not only at the gym, but around the house as well.

Here's my problem.

One side of the wires to the earphones is shorter than the other. I brought this up to Dh and he insisted that ALL new little earphones are like that. Hmmm. . .

Apparently, I have been living under a rock. With no headphones. At first it was a minor annoyance. Now, I spend my free time plotting ways to shorten the long side. Or make one ear much further away.

"WTH Angela, why are you getting your knickers in a twist over a few inches of extra cord?" You might ask. Well, I just am, so there.

I do know that it is irritating to have 6,278 feet of cord swirling around you and getting caught on your knees when you are 2,000 meters into a 5K rowing workout. Not to mention that as you've got all this cord action going on on the one side, the other side is very nearly falling out.

To fully illustrate the insanity (ok, maybe just mild weirdness) of this "extra cord", I have gone the complete OCD route and taken photos and measurements to be submitted as evidence in my case.


Exhibit A:

For reference, that is my cell phone which barely fits in the palm of my hand.


Exhibit B:

The short side measures a scant 4.5 inches. The long side? 2-fricken-1 inches. Yes, that is nearly two feet. They are not adjustable at all , but maybe I've got a busted ass pair.
Unless I've got a goiter the size of Chicago hanging off my face, tell me why I need two feet of cord to get to my other ear!?!

Exhibit C (only to prove my long standing allegation that Dh makes shit up just to shut me up):

The iPod earphones are EXACTLY the same length. So don't give me that "they're all like that, stupid" bullshit.

I paid $30 for these little things which I didn't really need, so I'm determined to figure out some way to make these work instead of buying a new pair. My latest plan is to tape down all the extra wires on my body like I'm doing undercover work for the CIA in the YMCA gym. That should work right?

Big Plans Tonight

Me: Ooooh, you know what we should do tonight?

Dh: (perking up) What?!

Me: We should take showers. That would be good.

Him: (initially looking disappointed, then nodding) Yeah, showering would probably be a good idea.

We know how to live it up.

Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day

Just call me Alexander. Sunday was Little's Big Cat Birthday Party and it was a smash hit! I was so delighted that the party was a success that I agreed to watch the Orphans. We get home and I see that we had a flyer from the county fair and it lists that there is a photo contest.

WTH! I looked about a week ago and couldn't find any info on a photo contest at the fair, so I assumed that perhaps this particular artistic avenue was a bit too cosmopolitan for our area. Not so apparently. It's just the whole website-to-give-out-information concept that is too advanced.

Registration for exhibits is Monday from 2-7. Easy peasy. I've got the Orphans until about 3:30, my mom graciously offered to take the photos I had chosen and get them printed at a lab downtown (honestly why is matte finish so hard to come by!) since she was going there anyway. I'd drop the kids off, pick up the pics and run out to the fair.

If only. . . Fate has other plans for me this day.

First I lost the key to the van. Notice I said THE key to the van. So now Dh has no vehicle. I've also lost my wallet. So now I have no money. (I suspect the key and the wallet are in cahoots together making my life hell by blending in seamlessly with all the other crap I have lying around). Dh offers up the $40 he has in his wallet. Great, that should be plenty. MIL and I take the kids to the pool and surprisingly enough that went well. Consider me lulled into a false sense of security that things are going to go as planned today.

I pick up the pictures from my mom and see that, as I suspected, some printed better than others. No big deal. On to MIL's where we get online to try to see if a fresh pair of eyes can see the link for the rules for the contest. No dice. Three phone calls later to three different people, we find that the rules/categories for photos are in the Floral Hall tab (but that's not where they are being shown, they are in the Open Class Hall) under the Home Economics section. At the bottom of all the sewing/baking/jellies/jams/country bumpkin contest rules, photography is tacked on the end. How was I supposed to find this?!?!

I find out all pictures must be matted (dammit!! That means cutting things in straight lines and using glue. Not my strong suit!) and can't be digitally enhanced, so the awesome local fire hat that I had done some selective coloring on, was out and I wouldn't have time to redo it.

I find the stuff I need at the local craft store only to get to the checkout to realize that I must have left my money in the car. 20 minutes and not a few tears later, I find the money in front of where I got the cart. It had fallen out of my pocket and I've wasted 20 minutes that I don't have.

I race home until the last 2 miles to my house where at 5:45pm I am stuck behind a frigging cyclist who wants to ride @ 10mph on a country "thru" road where the speed limit is 50. It's now 10 after 6, I have to cut the mounts, get the photos mounted, get the kids ready for the fair and get back out to the fair (15 minutes away).

Dh took the car right after I got there b/c we wanted to attempt to get two other pics printed. On the phone, the woman says it can be done. In the store, it cannot be done. For some reason, they cannot print them. I suspect user error, but whatever. He calls and says he's coming home empty handed, which is fine as I've FUBAR'd two pieces of mounting, I wouldn't have had enough for them anyway!

It's 6:20 and I've got one photo (complete with dog hair that happened to be swirling through the air when I sprayed the adhesive on it) ready. SOMEHOW, I manged to get three more boards done, even though I had resigned myself to not even going, but I was so irritated that I kept at it (through tears and all!). Dh arrives at 6:35 and forces me into the car, he swears we can make it on time.

We arrive at the fair @ 6:55. No. Lie. Ironically, as I'm running in, another late entry with some artwork is running for it too. We run together (lost of course, because no one at the fair knows where exactly they are accepting the photography/art submission). We squeak in the door literally as the clock ticks over to 7. The lovely older ladies are surprised by just how close we cut it, but are more than happy to get us set up.

As icing on the cake, I wait for dh and the kids and we go off to get our wristbands when I realize I've lost my phone. You've got it; it fell out of my pocket on the grass back at the entrance where I was waiting. I'm pitching these shorts. (which is a shame since they are one of only three pairs that I am manging to get my arse into.) We go to eat and I manage to spill not one, but BOTH of the cokes that we bought all over our food and dh.

So now I'm trying to figure out just exactly who I skeeved off and why karma has it out for me. My mother calls me and I recount this tale of melodrama to her and realize just how silly it all is. At this point, you just have to laugh.

We take the kids on some rides. We try an updated version of the merry-go-round which goes a little faster and doesn't allow me to stand hovering right behind them. As the ride gets going, Little's face lights up. The wind catches his baby fluff hair and he has the biggest cheesy grin on his face. He screams "Wheeeeeeeee" every time he goes around clutching the handles on his rooster steed (what!? I said it was an updated version!). Big keeps turning around to check on Little to make sure he's having fun. As the ride ends, Little throws his hands up and says "YAY" and proceeds to say goodbye to each animal (which includes a buffalo, dalmatian, and monkey) waving his pudgy little hand and giving the dog a pat on the head.

I suppose it wasn't such a bad day after all.

I know I'm not good at math but. . .

Yesterday I had some errands to run that included getting the balloons I had purchased for Little's birthday party blown up. We are having a "Big Cat" jungle theme. It's only fitting as his most treasured item in the world is a mangy looking leopard that was actually purchased about 4 years ago for Big; plus, he's a Little Leo. Back to the story.

I purchased about 15 balloons off ebay including three huge (3 feet long) cats; a leopard, a tiger and a lion. I also had several animal print balloons. I carried them into the store in the manila envelope they came in and asked the guy at the balloon counter to blow them up. He starts to blow one up (quite unsuccessfully I might add) when he suddenly stops and says, "They did tell you we charge for this right?". "Of course" I replied wondering who "they" were. No one had told me anything of the sort, but I would never have assumed anything is free these days.

He finally has to call over for some help because this balloon blowing up thing is just really too much. Thankfully, I don't think this was her first time blowing up balloons and she managed to get most of them blown up and tied together (apparently the tying bit is MUCH harder than it looks. . . he struggled quite a bit with it). She gets my receipt all tallied and everything and he hands me the balloons.

Balloon Man: "Are you sure you have enough room in your car for all of these?"

"Oh yeah, not a problem." I reply.

Balloon Man (apparently thrown by the fact that I think I can fit all these balloons in my car when he can't get them out from behind the counter): "Well, you know they take up more space when they are blown up."




I just stare at him for a minute waiting for the smile to show me he's teasing. It never comes. I'm met with "I told you so" eyes instead, so I try to laugh it off and say "Ummm, yeah, I've got a minivan with the seats taken out, I think it will be ok."

Balloon Man: "Oh, ok good." And off he walks.

So, I know volume and surface area and the like are really and truly NOT my strong suit, but my goodness. Really?! They get BIGGER when you put air in them. The hell you say! What is this world coming to when balloons get bigger when inflated.

Perhaps I should have said, "Well, I was planning on using these to fly my fat ass home, so I didn't bring my car."