Written on Wednesday, December 24, 2008 by Jessica
I've officially dropped 50 pounds. In the last four months, I've gone from a BMI of 41 to a BMI of 33. I've lost over 20% of my original body weight.
In related news, I've determined that I was using my scale on an uneven surface, which resulted in a reading that was roughly four pounds light. I've adjusted my plan accordingly. Instead of having 96 pounds to lose as of last August, it was really 100 pounds (blush). I'm now half way to my goal.
I'm only 7.5 pounds away from the halfway point. That nearly blows my mind.
I have no idea what to pick for my next ten pounds. Oh, I know! Short knitting needles. All my knitting needles are long, for knitting afghans, but all I ever knit is scarves. So I'm going to get myself a short, scarf-sized pair. They're only ten pounds away.
I have to remember to take a new photo. I take them every twenty pounds.
I've read before that you can't replace all-purpose flour in a recipe with whole-wheat flour. You can maybe use half all-purpose flour and half whole wheat, but you can't just use all whole wheat in place of all-purpose flour.
And I thought to myself, "Oh, come now. How bad could it be?"
The words "unmitigated culinary disaster" spring to mind.
Never question the experts. This is supposed to be banana bread. Looks like meatloaf, no?
This story is a little gross, so if you have a weak stomach, stop reading now. You have been warned.
Okay, so I'm fixing dinner the other night, and I'm whisking some lumps out of the gravy. It's just prepackaged gravy mix from a plastic container ('cuz Martha Stewart I ain't). There was one lump that just one break down, and after a moment, I realize it doesn't look like a lump. Is that a...? I fish it out, and yes, it's a fly!
Ewwwwwww!
I flick the fly in the trash. Obviously, I'm not whisking anymore because I'm going to rinse the whole thing down the sink. As the swirling mixture begins to slow, tiny little baby flies being to float to the surface.
Ewwwwwww!
After telling Bob the story -- yes, while he was eating the new gravy -- you will not believe what he asked me: "So did you throw it away or is this it?" Yes, Bob, I am feeding my family fly-and-egg-infested gravy.
So as of my weigh-in this morning, I've lost a total of 32 pounds. I could have the mp3 I promised myself if only I could get it to download from Amazon.
Not even sure what I want for my next ten pounds. Oh, I know. A couple of years ago I preordered a bunch of Austen movies as weight-loss rewards, but I never lost the weight. Never even came close. They've been sitting in a box ever since. So my next reward will be one of those movies.
Last year the family pumpkin crop failed, so we took Seth to the local pumpkin farm. This year, even though the family crop was just fine, we turned the pumpkin farm into an annual tradition.
I've been tearing the house apart for three days now looking for my wedding ring. When I was pregnant for Seth, my fingers swelled, and I had to take the ring off. I bought a simple gold band as a replacement. My OB laughed at me when I confessed that I wanted the replacement because I didn't want people to think I was single and pregnant. It's one thing to be 19 and pregnant out of wedlock. But by the time you're 30... I don't know. I guess you should know better by then. Artificial distinction, but that's how I felt.
Well, the simple gold band is starting to get a little big, so I'd like to start wearing my real ring again, if it fits. Except I can't find it. :( I had it not long ago. Now it's nowhere to be found. So far I found five unused gift cards, my umbrella, Bob's missing Dremel tool, a pair of travel tweezers, and two old journals, but no ring.
I hit the 20-pound milestone today. I'm happy about that, but not nearly as excited as earlier this week when I discovered that I fit in jeans that are the next size down -- 18W. I wasn't expecting to fit b/c I tried them on a week earlier and was dismayed by how small they still were. I haven't fit into those jeans since before I got pregnant for Seth.
I then grabbed a pair of regular 18s and discovered I could zip them up if I lay down on the bed and sucked it in. :) That doesn't count as fitting, but it was close. So I'm THIS CLOSE to being able to shop in the section for regular sizes versus women's/plus sizes.
My reward for the next ten pounds is going to be an mp3, "Mighty Storm," by the Duhks.
Last week, Seth made me the happiest mommy in the world. He patted my shoulder and said, "Mommy." I almost said, "Yes, I'm Mommy," but he continued to pat my shoulder and said, "Wuv you, Mommy." Yup, I cried.
You can see from my twitter feed that I've resolved to weigh myself no more than twice a week. The day-to-day weight fluctuations are a drag. Yesterday, the lying scale said I'd lost eleven pounds (woo-hoo!); today, it said seven pounds (boo!). Stupid scale.
P&P is on its way, but I won't open it until I'm sure that I've actually lost the promised ten pounds. Maybe my next reward should be a more-accurate scale.
Written on Saturday, September 06, 2008 by Jessica
I've lost eleven pounds, so "Juno" should be on its way, but last night as I was watching "Juno" on pay-per-view for the hundredth time, Husband said, "You really like this movie, don't you." It was as if he was making a mental note, "Buy 'Juno' for Jess's birthday." Soooo, I guess I'll pick something else, just in case. If "Juno" doesn't arrive in December wrapped in a birthday or Christmas bow*, I can always make it a reward for losing a different ten pounds. Sooooo, I've ordered "Pride and Prejudice" instead, the 1940 Garson-Olivier version. I currently have it on VHS but haven't owned a VHS player for years.
Only eight more "ten pounds" to go. For my next ten pounds, I'm going to buy myself a new pair of athletic shoes.
*Who am I kidding? Wrapped? If it does arrive, it'll be in a plastic Wal-Mart bag, guaranteed.
I'm happy to report that I survived the first four days of my diet. I did not go on a destructive rampage, although it was comforting to know that I had an instant posse to count on in case I decided to go postal.
But I have to. No choice. And I'm in a really pissy mood right now because I feel like binging on, I don't know, about five candy bars or something.
Anyhow, I've set some new weight-loss goals for myself. I need to lose over 90 pounds just to reach a healthy weight. My sister suggested thinking of it as losing ten pounds nine times. So maybe I'll do that. I need to lose ten pounds. I can do that, right?
My reward for losing ten pounds will be to buy a copy of "Juno," my favorite movie from last year.
Now, excuse me while I go fix myself some chocolate milk without chocolate.
64% of you would rather give up sex than hot water. 36% would say "bye bye" to hot water forever.
Early on in the polling, an overwhelming number of respondents were not willing to give up hot water. When I told a coworker, he said, "You must not have very many guys who read your blog."
We got Seth a dog a couple of months ago. Noni. Here's a pic.
She a mix: Newfoundland lab and chow. Three years old. I'm not really into dogs (or any animal, for that matter), but I guess I'll do anything for Seth.
Should've gone to FreeCreditReport.com. I could've seen this coming at me like an atom bomb.
Okay, does anyone ever see an atom bomb coming at them? Isn't an atom bomb actually one of those "never knew what hit 'em" situations? If so, that means that, by their own admission, it doesn't help a whit to sign up for FreeCreditReport.com.
Sorry. I know I should get a life, but it's been bugging me for awhile.
That's the headline for the current ninth most popular article at CNN.com. So far, my poll takers would agree. Most of you would rather give up sex than hot water. If you haven't voted yet, tell us what you'd rather give up. (Poll is at the right, under the Twitter stream.)
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Barack Obama must continue to grovel to Hillary Clinton’s dead-enders, some of whom mutter darkly that they will not only not vote for him, they will never vote for a man again.
According to this CNNMoney.com article, "The average [American] household spends $514 a year on lotteries."
What? $514? That's just an average, mind you, which means lots of households have to be spending lots more in order offset households like mine that spend roughly... hang on, carry the 1... ZERO dollars on lotteries.
The other day (specifically, June 19 -- I'm behind in my blogging), Seth surprised the heck out of me and made me such a proud mama. We were on our way to Grandma's house when he looked out the window and said, "Two trucks." And sure enough, there were two trucked parked in the field!
He hasn't figured out "one" or "three" yet, but if there's two of something, he'll tell you. :)
Abbie Hawkins, 19, of Norwich, had been wearing the bra for five hours when she plucked up the courage to investigate [some movement that she initially thought was her vibrating cell phone].
When she did, she found a baby bat in padding in her 34FF bra. The hotel receptionist said she was shocked but felt bad for removing the "cuddly" bat. "It looked cosy and comfortable and I was sorry for disturbing it," she said.
This is the one I made for Seth's birthday at Nana and Papa's house. That's an oyster on top. Honest... This is the one I made for Seth's birthday at Grandma and Grandpa's house. What can I say. They were made with love.
Here's that eighteen-month well-baby visit I mentioned in another post:
We arrived and three siblings were playing with the toys in the corner. Seth was thrilled. Kids! He rushed right over, and the two older ones (about three and five) were taken with him and started leading him around. The three year old started hacking up a lung, and that's when I realized one important fact about well-baby visits: Not all the kids are there for them.
What's worse, the mother was chatting on the cell phone, and I overheard her say, "Yeah, we're at the doctor's office. The nine month old has a terrible rash all over her body." What? The kid who is hacking up a lung is not even the reason you're here? The child crawling on the floor next to my son has a weird rash?
I vowed never again to go inside early so that Seth could play with the toys.
Seth is 36 inches tall and weighs 29 pounds, 9 ounces. He's in the 70th percentile for weight and the 90th percentile for height. Big boy. I have birthday party photos to post, but I haven't managed that just yet. Heck, I have a draft post about his eighteen-month visit that I never even finished. (90th percentile height and 40th percentile weight.) So yeah, I'm behind.
I got a big-ass refund. (6) - 46% I'm getting a small refund. (5) - 38% I have to pay in a little. (0) - 0% I have to pay in a ton! (1) - 8% I don't live in the U.S. (1) - 8%
I got an email tonight from Hallmark. (Yes, I'm on their mailing list. Yes, I'm too lazy to unsubscribe.) The subject line: "Sneak a peek at NEW 2008 Ornaments!"
Chester Oliver has sent me an urgent email to tell me that I can enlarge my penis by three inches.
Subject: You Can Enlarge Your Penis By 3"
Be the stud in 2008, and achieve all your dreams of super size!
Many surveys have shown that ladies prefer their man to have a huge manhood.
While I do indeed dream of super size (McDonald's, usually), that would give me an overall penis size of only three inches, which is more embarrassing than having no penis at all, so I think I'll pass.
We got our stimulus check in the mail today, weeks early!
Except it's not my stimulus check. It's an ad from O'Connors Chrysler Dodge Jeep in Pickford, Michigan. Well, congratulations, O'Connors. Your stupid stunt worked. I noticed your flier and I opened it. Of course, you've royally pissed me off in the process. What good is that?
I'd really like the meet the marketing geniuses who came up with this plan. I guess there was a group of people sitting around a table in a room, and someone said, "I know. Let's piss off all the potential customers." Someone else shouted, "Brilliant!" and everyone else nodded their head in agreement.
Mental note: Never buy a car from O'Connors in Pickford.
Seth is approaching his second birthday, so I had his two-year portraits done. Here's a single photo for those of you who can't view the slide show below:
Now my spam is insulting me with such clever subject lines as:
You look really stupid jessica
what a stupid face you have here jessica
The text of each email contains the word "Watch" with a link that probably downloads a rocking keylogger or something.
I guess the intent of these messages is to prey on the YouTube generation. "OMG! Does someone have video of me when I was trashed at Ethan's party last Friday night?? I should totally follow this link to see!"
Just wondering how much everyone is paying for gas.
For me, it's $4.20 for a gallon of regular (actually, it $4.199, but that's just the scam price; they think I don't notice the 9/10 of a cent tacked on).
Our house is infested with mosquitoes this year. We don't know where they're coming from. It's bad enough to prompt us to wear mosquito repellent indoors.
And poor Seth. He was eaten alive the night before last. I put him to sleep without any pants on. He hates sleeping in pants. I thought he was wearing repellent, but Bob had cleaned him up with a washcloth, so this means that I sent the child, half naked, into a cloud of mosquitoes to be chewed up and spit out.
Yesterday, in additional to all his mosquito bites, he got stung by a bee—to be more specific, probably by a hornet or yellowjacket (although yellowjackets are said to typically sting repeatedly, whereas this one stung once and tried to fly away). I feel terrible because I'd been on my cell phone and not watching him closely, even though he was standing right next to me. :(
I don't want to limit Seth by assuming he can't do something, but I still find myself underestimating him all the time.
And I always say I'm going to stop underestimating him (and little kids in general), but he still manages to surprise me. Take birds. He watches the birds eating from the feeders outside our window, and he can correctly identify finches, mourning doves (he just says "doves"), and woodpeckers (he calls them "peckers" -- love it). He also recognizes humming birds, but he thinks they're "peckers," I guess due to the long beak. We're also working on red breasted grossbeaks. "Grossbeak" is a pretty hard word to say, though, and we don't see too many of them, so it might take awhile. Or maybe I'm just underestimating him again...
My new favorite Jeopardy champ (Laurissa Kelly) squeaked by yesterday. I must've jinxed her by speculating after only two wins that she might be next Jennings.
The current Jeopardy champ is pretty darn smart. Gutsy, too. She likes to bet big on the Daily Doubles. She's only won twice, but I can't help wondering if she's the next Ken Jennings.
Seth seems to think that flying bugs are called fuzzies. We have a wasp problem in our porch. As he watched one flying around, he kept saying, "Fuzzy!" (Fuh-ZEE!) He said the same thing the other night when we were driving home and he spotted some moths in the headlights.
I have no idea where the word come from, but I love it.
Seth thinks that "thank you" means, "Please take this." I guess he got that idea because whenever he handed something to someone, they said, "Thank you." Before long, he started saying "thank you" as he handed something to someone else.
Just now, he was in another room calling, "Thank you. Thank you!" -- which meant, "Mommy, please take this knitting needle."
A spammer is spoofing my email address at work. This means that, among other things, all the undeliverable e-mail spam is being returned to me. How nice.
Thank you, Spammer. I'm really enjoying all the extra crap in my inbox.
Back in the day when we were "poor" (I was a student and Bob was the only wage earner), I used to make my own laundry detergentt. It's a lot cheaper.
Given the current economic conditions, I've decided to start doing that again. If anyone else is interested in this, here are some tips:
One of the ingredients, Fels Naptha laundry bar soap, can be hard to find locally. (It pretty much depends on where you live.) Fortunately, they're easy to find online and small, so cheap to ship. Just Google it.
Another one of the ingredients, washing soda, can also be hard to find. Arm & Hammer makes it, and so does Church & Dwight. (Actually, I think they're both part of the same company.) I ordered some just today directly from Church & Dwight because it is not sold around here for miles and miles. I received free shipping b/c I'm a new customer, which is cool b/c they charge $5.99 to ship a 3.5 lb box. (The box itself costs $3.99.) HOWEVER, washing soda is just sodium carbonate, which is easily purchased at home stores (Home Depot, Lowe's, etc.) in the pool section.
Borax is readily available at supermarkets in the laundry aisle.
Be forewarned. This homemade stuff looks really gross. :)
I've been fixated by the horrifying Fritzl case since the news broke. It makes me wonder just how many missing people in the world are actually locked up somewhere.
I feel somewhat like a responsible parent today, as I have just opened a 529 college savings account for Seth.
We went with Michigan's plan because it has low fees and for the tax advantages. It wasn't among Morningstar's top-five plans, but they did commend it for low fees and reasonable performance. Because we're Michigan residents, it tax deductible at the Federal and state level and we're also entitled to a small state match.
We thought hard about Michigans prepaid tuition plan (where you buy tomorrow's tuition at today's rates), but that limits Seth to a Michigan college and university. What if my little prodigy wants to go to MIT?
Seth is on a chair at the sink playing with water and a few dishes. A moment ago I heard him say, "Drink. Ahhhh." I hadn't given him anything to drink. You may recall the last time that happened.
Fortunately, this time he hadn't been slurping down children's medicine. No, this time he was drinking from a beer bottle.
Just to be clear (no need to call Child Protective Services), he had put water into an empty beer bottle. I think you can see Daddy's stash of remaining empties on the counter.
UPDATE: The Dilbert site allows readers to rewrite the comic strips to make them funnier. I should do the same for my blog. Here's Sherri's take:
Is there an age limit on AA meetings? Imagine my surprise as I peered over to find my two year old swigging down what appeared to be a bottle of beer! Damn that Baby's Daddy for leaving these old bottles lying out on the counter like that... Rest assured, however, that Seth was smart enough to fake Mommy out by filling the bottle with water. I think he's quite the genius, wouldn't you say??
Queue the violins. I just found out that our accountant didn't direct deposit our tax refund. That explains why the money hasn't shown up yet. What's really annoying about the whole thing is that this will delay our stimulus payment. We would've been scheduled to receive a direct deposit by May 16th. Now we're scheduled to have it mailed by July 4th, which is a holiday, so no checks will actually be mailed that day. Oh, poor me. Life is so hard. Wah. I'm sure that Rwandan refugees and Russian orphans really feel sorry for me.
Not only am I going to specify direct deposit next year, I'm also going to ask to be the first person on the freaking return. My SSN digits are more favorable than Bob's. In terms of social security numbers, I'm comparable to the kids in the class whose surnames start with C; he's comparable to kids with W surnames.
Warning: The post below describes my horrifying housekeeping habits. Read at your own risk.
A few years ago, we bought a dishwasher, and I was so happy that for the next three months, I did the dishwasher dance whenever I thought about it.
When we moved into the new house, no dishwasher. Today, almost every dish is dirty. They're heaped up on every counter surface. Last night I gave Seth a drink of milk from a measuring cup. Yes, it's true. Now you know just how bad of a mother I am. I made my child drink from a measuring cup. Sure, my kitchen is not as bad as those people on that show, "How Clean is Your House," but it's still pretty bad.
Well, things are looking up. Today my MIL bought us a brand new dishwasher for $30 at a garage sale. And a brand new garbage disposal for $20.
Microsoft Windows is so annoying that a website, annoyances.org, is devoted entirely to helping people deal all the irritations of life with Windows.
My current annoyance? When copying a whole bunch of files, why, oh why, does Windows stop copying if it encounters a file of the same name? I usually run into this with the Thumbs.db file. I might have 20 minutes left on the copy, so I leave the computer and expect Windows to be all done when I come back. But no! I return to find a prompt that is asking me if I want to replace the old file with the new one. Why can't Windows just set that file aside and continue copying? I now have 17 minutes left in the copy.
An overwhelming percentage of you prefer fudgy brownies over cakelike.
89% - Fudgy 11% - Cakelike
At least one person complained that she liked them neither fudgy nor cakelike, but what can I say? Brownie boxes rarely have instructions for anything other than cakelike or fudgy.
I walked into the kitchen, and on the ceiling above the sink, was an earwig. It's the first week of April, and there's a freaking earwig in my house. Last year I saw a few baby ones in May but didn't see any others until June. I wonder if this means a whole slew will be hatching from my keyboard any day now.
My sister wrote a little about free trials, so I'm adding my two cents. I hate it when you can sign up for a free trial online, but you have to call them to cancel it. Once time I signed both Bob and me up for a credit watch service. The whole point was to get free credit reports for the both of us. (This was back before the Congress enacted a law entitling everyone to a free credit report annually.)
Anyhow, I signed each of us up for the trial and naturally forgot to cancel. Then I discovered I'd have to call to cancel. I hate that! To make matters worse, they wouldn't let me cancel Bob's account. They had to speak to him personally. Hey, I signed him up. He didn't even know about the account, but he had to be the one to cancel. I didn't complain about it b/c I figured I must have agreed to terms of service stating that I was the person the account was being opened for. (Of course, nowadays I can just use my manly voice to impersonate him.)
All the bad economic news is depressing me. However, I did read that even though we're approaching record-high gas prices (even when adjusted for inflation), the gas still isn't as expensive as before when you look at it in real terms:
In 1980, the average American had to work 105 minutes to buy enough gas to drive the average car 100 miles, according to Beth Ann Bovino, a senior economist at Standard and Poor's. Now, the average American needs to work only 53 minutes, thanks to better fuel efficiency and higher wages.
Sometimes these "heartwarming" stories are a bit too sappy for me but this one is truly interesting...
In 1986, Peter Davies was on holiday in Kenya after graduating from Northwestern University. On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air. The elephant seemed distressed, so Peter approached it very carefully.
He got down on one knee and inspected the elephant's foot and found a large piece of wood deeply embedded in it. As carefully and as gently as he could, Peter worked the wood out with his hunting knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot. The elephant turned to face the man, and with a rather curious look on its face, stared at him for several tense moments. Peter stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled. Eventually the elephant trumpeted loudly, turned, and walked away. Peter never forgot that elephant or the events of that day.
Twenty years later, Peter was walking through the Chicago Zoo with his teenaged son. As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to near where Peter and his son Cameron were standing. The large bull elephant stared at Peter, lifted its front foot off the ground, then put it down. The elephant did that several times then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man.
Remembering the encounter in 1986, Peter couldn't help wondering if this was the same elephant. Peter summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing and made his way into the enclosure. He walked right up to the elephant and stared back in wonder. The elephant trumpeted again, wrapped its trunk around one of Peter legs and slammed his stupid ass against the railing, killing him instantly.
It's been twenty-three loooooong years, but I still remember so many details from the day you were born. Most are kinda gruesome, though. Childbirth just ain't pretty. :)
I was so happy you were a girl! Naturally, Samuel wanted a brother, but I won and got a sister.
Here's something I'm not sure you know. Mom and Dad had narrowed down the names, two for each sex. They told Samuel he could pick the name if it was a girl, whereas I could pick the name if it was a boy. (I guess it was like a consolation prize. "Sorry, do you didn't get the baby brother you wanted, but here, give your new sister a name!") The two girl names? Teriana and Corina. At the time, I liked Corina, so that's what I would've picked if it were up to me.
Looking back, I think Mom fully intended to name you Teriana no matter what. She already knew that Samuel wanted Teriana because I had first stated my own preference for Corina. (He always picked the opposite of whatever I picked. I liked Coke so he liked Pepsi. I liked Little Caear's pizza so he liked Pizza Hut.) Anyhow, because Mom knew he would pick Teriana, she told him he could be the one to pick your name if you were a girl. Clever, huh?
Written on Wednesday, February 27, 2008 by Jessica
Friendship among women:
A woman didn't come home one night. The next morning she told her husband that she had slept over at a friend's house. The man called his wife's ten best friends. None of them knew anything about it.
Friendship among men:
A man didn't come home one night. The next morning he told his wife that he had slept over at a friend's house. The woman called her husband's ten best friends, eight of whom confirmed that he had slept over, and two said that he was still there.
Okay, just to warn you, there's not much in this post to interest you unless you're actually Seth's mommy. Someday I might actually add this stuff to his baby book where it belongs. :)
I wouldn't say he's mastered pronouns, but I've noticed that when I clap my hands and say, "You did it!" he'll respond by clapping his hands and saying, "I did it!"
He's moving into the realm of four-word sentences: "Are you watching me?" Although sometimes it's still "Watching me?" or "You watching me?"
I think he's ahead of the game when it comes to talking and counting (today he told Daddy that he has five toes!), but on the other hand, he shows little interest in colors and shapes. (Yes, he has a favorite color [pink], as evidenced when you give him his choice of objects, but just try getting him to tell you what color something is.) I was inordinately excited last week when he told me the color of one of his foam letters was pink. And after that he began to say that all of his letters are pink. Oh, well. :)
As of last weekend, he has started to name shapes, not just repeat them when we say what they are. He's also started to sort blocks by shape, which is something he was supposed to be able to do months and months ago. (Sorting by color, shape and size were milestones I read about eons ago, it seems.) I still haven't seen him sort anything by color or size, though.
He's starting to have nightmares. Last night was terrible. He slept fitfully from 1 AM to 3:30 AM, waking frequently and having nightmares all the while. First he started talking in his sleep, "No, no, noooooo, no." Later on he bolted out of bed and demanded that I take him to the window. He kept insisting that there were birds outside. And even later (still sleeping) he was rubbing his chest and saying, "Sorry," which you may recall is how he says something hurts. Poor baby.
And tonight, guess what happened. At 8:40 he started saying, "Night, night," which is often just a ploy to get us to give him a pacifier. He normally goes to bed at 9:30 or 10:00. He kept insisting, though, so finally I gave him his pacifier, tucked him in, and said, "Night, night." He said, "Night, night," and I shut the door and walked away. Now, I know you'll never believe this, but Bob and I still put him to sleep each night. One of us lies in the bed with him. I know all the child experts say not to do that, and they all said not to nurse him to sleep or let him fall asleep in my arms when he was a baby, but I figure that in the blink of an eye, he's going to be a teenager, so I'm going to hang on to these little-boy years. But tonight, I wanted to see what would happen, and guess what? He went to sleep. All by himself. Imagine that.
You may think you speak "Standard English straight out of the dictionary" but when you step away from the Great Lakes you get asked annoying questions like "Are you from Wisconsin?" or "Are you from Chicago?" Chances are you call carbonated drinks "pop."
One time I couldn't remember my password to access my online account with my health insurance company. To retrieve my password, I had to answer a security question. "What was the make and model of your first car?"
Easy. Chevy Cavalier.
Wrong. Oh, wait. Must be "Chevrolet Cavalier."
Nope, still wrong. What the heck. Oh, many it's case sensitive. "chevy cavalier."
Wrong again. After the third failed try, my account was locked, so I had to call customer service. Bugger, bugger, bugger!
Would you like to hear the answer that I myself supplied to the question? You're not gonna believe this:
1984 Chevrolet Cavalier Station Wagon
What on earth was I thinking? (Or perhaps more accurately, how dumb can you get??)
Suddenly, I remembered that I had decided to be veeeeery specific, because, after all, we were dealing with my precious supersecret insurance records. Right.
Anyhow, I thought of this incident as I read this darn funny article today about just this situation.
Written on Wednesday, February 20, 2008 by Jessica
When Seth hurts himself, he says, "Sorry," or sometimes, "Ouch! Sorry." It's really cute.
He's not actually apologizing to himself. You see, if Daddy or I hurt him by accident—for example, a couple of days ago I was rounding the corner with Seth in my arms and I ended up bumping his head against the corner—we naturally say, "Oh, Seth! I'm sorry." And we hug him and kiss it and make it better.
So now Seth thinks "sorry" means, "It hurts!"
Slightly related: He thinks "heavy" applies to any activity that is difficult. So if, for example, I'm struggling to open a jar of pickles, he'll say, "Hovy!" That's how he pronounces it.
I work from home most days now, so this afternoon I popped a roast in the oven for dinner. How very domestic of me! Of course, a half hour later Bob called to say that he'll be home late, but I still think I get a gold star.
First, get a random article from Wikipedia (left side of page under "Navigation"). Title of article is your band name. Next, the last part of the last quotation at the bottom of this page is the title of your album. Finally, the third photo* on Flickr is the cover art.
Introducing "Hard Things," the debut CD from Mutoscope.
Note: Many photos on Flickr are copyrighted. This one belongs to Stefano Perego.
The fact is, Bob and I would like to have another baby, which is hard to do when you're not ovulating.
My periods have been wildly erratic since they started up again in August. I've mentioned it once or twice here in my blog, but I certainly haven't given the full play-by-play. Trust me when I say it's been crazy.
My doctor has suspected Polycystic Ovarian Syndrom (PCOS) for some time now, which is why I had the blood tests. Over the last several years, several doctors have told me I probably have PCOS, so I figured it was a foregone conclusion, but it turns out that I don't have PCOS -- just high testosterone. Even though I have a ton of PCOS symptoms and characteristics (including cysts on my ovaries!), they are all things that can be caused by high testosterone alone. Bottom line is that my other hormone levels (e.g., estrogen, LH, etc.) are totally normal. Only testosterone is out of whack, so no PCOS.
Anyhow, the doc says that if I want to try to get pregnant as soon as possible, I should go on the pill for two months to reset my cycle and then take Clomid to stimulate ovulation. (Hmmm. Starting the pill to get pregnant. Whoda thunk it.)
For several months now, I've been wondering to what lengths I might go to get pregnant again. I knew for certain I would never resort to any expensive or invasive procedures (e.g., in vitro, ovarian drilling, etc.). After all, we already have one beautiful baby. If we never have another, I'll be disappointed, but not devastated. So extreme measures are out of the question, but what about less extreme measures like Clomid?
It was a strange feeling to be sitting in that room listening to her talking about Clomid. I thought I was fully prepared for the possibility of needing help to conceive, but to hear that I was already at that point where she was suggesting Clomid... well, it was a weird feeling.
I asked if Bob and I could first try to get pregnant without Clomid -- that is, just take the pill for two months and then see what happens after. She says this is also an option, so I'm currently all for that. Clomid has a one-in-100 chance of twins, which I find scary. I think I'd rather have just Seth than make the leap to Seth plus twins.
One final note: I created another blog many months ago in anticipation of my next baby. I finally started writing in it in December as a TTC (trying to conceive) blog. I never intentionally hid the new blog from anyone, but it never showed up in my profile after I started writing in it. I assumed it would. (Thinking back, I realize this was a dumb assumption. I'm sure I initially removed the blog from my profile b/c I wasn't writing in it yet. Naturally, I'd have to put it back in my profile to be seen.)
Anyhow, Seth got his own baby blog when I was pregnant, so I'm determined that if there's another baby, s/he'll get his/her own baby blog while I'm pregnant, too. Plus, I always regretted that I didn't blog everything leading up to Seth's conception. Even back then, I was scared that I'd never conceive, and I didn't want people to feel sorry for us if that were the case. Now that we do have a baby, the pressure is off. It's not a personal disaster if we can't have any more, so I feel more comfortable writing about it.
My voice deepened during pregnancy and never bounced back. Until recently, I had blamed the pregnancy and worried that my voice might get even deeper during the next pregnancy. (Gasp! Oh, the horror! Say it ain't so.)
The mystery has finally been solved. It turns out that I have high testosterone levels. Normal levels in a woman are between 25 and 75. (I have no idea what the units of measurement are supposed to be.) My doctor says she almost never sees anything above 50. Me? I'm at exactly 100.
If it were up around 200, she said she'd send me for a CAT scan to see if a tumor was causing overproduction. So I guess that's good news -- no tumor worries.
Anyhow, if nature had taken its course during my twenties, my testosterone would've risen slowly and gradually lowered my voice. However, I did not let nature take its course. I was on the pill for an entire decade, which of course regulated my hormones and kept everything pretty normal. When I went off the pill to get pregnant, my testosterone levels likely shot up and lowered my voice. Sigh. None of this newfound understanding makes me feel any better when people mistake me for a man on the phone. Plus, it's pretty freaking embarrassing to have to come home to your husband and say, "Hey, baby. Guess what. I got too many man-hormones."
The doc has prescribed a certain birth control pill, YAZ, to lower testosterone, and also metformin, to help regulate blood sugar and hopefully lose some weight. She says my voice might even get a little higher, although it'll never return to its original pitch. Oh, and she also recommends a high-protein diet. Apparently, protein binds with testosterone and reduces its effect, but only in larger amounts (i.e., if I eat more protein than carbs). I go back for another test in two months.
I ordered a flower arrangement yesterday to be sent to a funeral today. The woman said they'd really try to deliver is that evening, but if not, they'd deliver it in the morning. This was fine, but I thought it was weird. A couple of weeks ago I ordered an arrangement for a funeral at 11:30 AM and it was delivered within an hour. I wondered why the hold-up.
Update: Spoiler alert. A couple of the comments reveal the Soylent secret (gasp!), so if you were planning to run right out and rent it for your "romantic" Valentine's movie tonight, don't read the comments. :) (Ha! as if it's available at your local movie place. The movie is older than I am, and as my sister would tell you, I'm ancient.)
Not sure how to spell it, but it rhymes with "pushed." (Update: Well, whataya know. It's a real word that can be pronounced to rhyme with "pushed" or with a regular "oo" sound, like "boo.")
Two nights ago, Seth squeezed in between Bob and me on the loveseat and, apparently, one of us shifted our weight and started to squish the poor little guy. "Squooshed!"
It's quite a versatile word, too, because the next morning I zipped his zipper way up under his chin. Seth hates that, but it was coooooold outside, so mommy instincts took over. He promptly cried, "Squooshed! Squooshed!" I relented.
Yesterday he bit me. Can you believe it? My sweet baby boy bit me, and even though it was through my t-shirt, he broke the skin. And then he seemed genuinely surprised by my reaction.
It had already been a very hard night for Seth last night, and at 2 AM, moments after he finally fell asleep, I couldn't leave well enough alone. He was holding a little truck that plays songs. I didn't want it to wake him, so I took the truck out of his hands and set it aside. In the process, I accidentally pressed my arm against his face and woke him.
Exhausted and distraught, he started screaming. I mean, screaming. He really wasn't even awake. Did I trigger a nightmare? Then he started thrashing, and wham! the back of his head smashed into my nose.
Instant tears. "Owwwwwwww!" I half shouted, half growled. It hurt like the devil. I jumped up. Did he break my nose?
I ran into the hallway. Bob scrambled out of bed.
"What happened?"
"He head-butted me!"
"Let me see."
I removed my hands, waiting for a gasp of horror or at least a look of surprise. Instead I got, "Yeah, it's bleeding."
Well, duh! These ain't red tears gushing into my hands.
Thankfully, I didn't say that. If I had, it would've been the pain talking.
I ran to the bathroom while Bob tended to a still-screaming Seth. I expected to see blood everywhere, but really, there was just a little bit on my hand. After the one initial gush, there was just a trickle. I was embarrassed that only seconds before I thought it was broken.
My nose is so sore. I never knew how often I absentmindedly I touch my nose. Do all people touch their noses this often, or am I just some kind of nose-touching, germ-spreading fiend?
36% of you only watch the Super Bowl to see the commericals. 29% of you aren't interested in "bowling." 29% rooted for the Giants (congratulations!) 7% rooted for the Patriots (too bad, so sad)
One of the greatest feelings in the world is when I finish singing a song to Seth, who always listens in rapt attention all the while despite my terrible voice and utter tone deafness, and he looks at me and says, "'Gin."
His favorite song right now is "This Little Light of Mine."
I hate the fact that I have to stop and think now to remember how old I am. I'm reduced to counting decades on my fingers. I guess I should be happy that I still remember what year I was born, which allows me to do the calculation. If I come to a point where I don't even remember the year, I should just toss in the towel, right?
Seth figured out how to open the gate at the top of the basement stairs. We're still going to leave it up. It offers us a precious few seconds to stop him from tumbling down.
I lost all my customizations when I applied this new template, and I'm working on getting the blogroll up and running. Please don't feel slighted if your blog is missing. It just means I haven't grabbed your link yet. :)
Huckabee is taking Romney to task for discarding his chicken skin. According to the CNN article:
Mitt Romney's failure to eat fried chicken with the skin on is nothing short of blasphemy here in the South, according to GOP rival Mike Huckabee.
Dern tootin'. You give 'em hell, Huck.
Of course, it turns out that Huckabee doesn't eat fried chicken at all "because of his weight loss program, preferring it broiled or baked instead." But if he were healthy, by god, he'd be clogging up his arteries with the good stuff.
Update: It occurs to me that I'm really not giving this subject the seriousness it deserves. I mean, Romney won't eat the skin of fried chicken. You know what this means, don't you? He's a Communist! That's right, a Communist running for the Presidential nomination of the Republican party. I'll bet if you offered him a deep fried Twinkie he'd refuse. Now, that's just plain un-Southern and un-American.
Last weekend, I had the mortifying experience of hearing my toddler say those words at Grandma's house. "Fuck, fffffffuck." Extra emphasis on the "f" and "k." Unmistakable. Grandma was properly horrified. "What did he just say?" I replied that maybe he was trying to say "truck." Lame, I know, especially since the boy has been properly saying "truck" for months. But what can I say? I don't think well when mortified, and worse, I didn't want to admit the truth: that he must've heard one of his parents say it.
Yes, it's true. Most people think I don't swear because I don't do so in regular conversation. But when I sit in front of my computer working on something that isn't going well, or reading a frustrating e-mail from a coworker, really bad words come out of my mouth. It's a habit I haven't been able to break. I didn't think I ever said anything unsavory in front of Seth, but his new favorite word said otherwise.
Bob says the word from time to time when he gets really mad over something, such as trying to replace a part on a vehicle but breaking another part in the process. A fifty-dollar mistake will do that to a man. But what the heck? Surely Seth had heard his Daddy say "shit" many more times than the f-word, yet he wasn't walking around saying "shit" for fun.
I thought perhaps he heard it on television. Bob and I haven't regulated our viewing habits at all, which is how Jon Stewart from the Daily Show recently taught my little boy how to say "dammit." So yeah, that must be it, right? We must've been watching an R-rated movie. Seth didn't hear it from us. It must've been the TV. (This is known as "grasping at straws.")
I've spent a week lamenting over this. Out of nowhere the kid will start saying it. At first I tried ignoring him, but the word seem to hold a special fascination, despite the fact that I purposely made sure I didn't overreact. I didn't want him to learn that Mommy had a special freak-out button and all he had to do was swear. When ignoring didn't work, I started to correct him. "No, Seth. That's a bad word. It's naughty." Out of desperation, I even began to offer other words he could say instead. "Seth, don't say that. You can say, 'shoot.'" This backfired monumentally because later on I became upset over something and shouted, "Shoot!" Seth replied, "Fuck."
Yesterday, the mystery was finally solved. I learned the source of the dreaded word. Care to guess?
We were in the living room together when he picked up his stuffed animal and said, "Fock." So after all this agony, it turns out my little guy just can't quite say "frog."
After finding alcohol in her son's car, [Jane Hambleton] decided to sell the car and share her 19-year-old's misdeed with everyone -- by placing an ad in the local newspaper.
The ad reads: "OLDS 1999 Intrigue. Totally uncool parents who obviously don't love teenage son, selling his car. Only driven for three weeks before snoopy mom who needs to get a life found booze under front seat. $3,700/offer. Call meanest mom on the planet."
The son claims a friend left it there. I wonder if they're still friends.
I received some spam in my account today with a subject line that indicated I needed to restore account access. I wondered how it eluded my spam filters, so I couldn't help opening it. The message said:
Your account access was blocked on 04/01/2008 Click here to unblock it.
I suppose that once I hand over all my confidential information, these spammers plan to wait until April 1st before changing my password and blocking my access.
I'm a bit of a political junkie, but I hate conflict, so I never mention politics on my blog. I don't want to start any debates. Having said that, I just can't help complaining about Iowa and New Hampshire's favored status. Why do they always get to be first?
While listening to "All Things Considered" tonight on my way home from work, one of the reporters was talking about how generally well-informed Iowa voters are, and talked about one woman who'd made a point of going to see all the candidates speak.
Well, gee, isn't is nice that she had the opportunity to do that? The candidates spend days campaigning in Iowa. John Edwards visited every county twice. Of course she went to see all the candidates. Hell, the candidates came to her doorstep.
If a presidential candidate ventures into my state, Michigan, you can bet s/he is hours away from where I live. S/he'll stop in Detroit, or maybe someplace like Grand Rapids, and then head out to someplace else. If a candidate came anywhere near my county, you'd bet I'd go see him or her speak.
One time, Dan Quayle came to my hometown. Hoo-ray.
It just doesn't seem like a particularly equitable system when two small states get so much attention. How about a little diversity? Would that be such a bad thing?
"Pop" received an overwhelming majority of votes -- 81, in fact, which means that at least one person voted for it many, many times, because I know that I don't have that many people in the world interested in my blog. :) I thought I restricted votes to once every 1000 hours, but I guess not.
Pop -- 93% Soda -- 2% Soft drink -- 0% Coke -- 2% Something else -- 2%
Last year I made resolutions I knew I could keep, and one was to hug Seth every day. I failed! I went down to the Christmas craft show in Kalamazoo and was away from Seth for three days and two nights, hence no hugs. Bad mommy.
I was fussing with my new camera when I heard a slurping noise followed by, "Ahhhhh." Seth was drinking something. I didn't give him anything to drink. Upon investigation, I found that he'd managed to remove the cap from the Children's Motrin. (I don't pretend to think he's a child genius who can thwart child-proof caps. I think his parents are unfit and failed to tighten it properly. We also left it out on the counter where he could easily reach it by dragging a chair and climbing up.) Anyhow, he poured himself a shot using the measuring cup that comes with it and drank probably five times the recommended dose for a child his size.
As I was online, frantically looking up ibuprofen overdose to see if he was about to get his stomach pumped, Seth dragged another chair over to the coffee maker and poured a half-full pot of coffee everywhere.
The good news in all this? The coffee was cold and the amount of medicine he ingested required "at-home observation." Everything is fine. No trip to the hospital for stomach pumping required.
