Everybody’s Zooin’ It!

I remember life before I was a mom. It’s a little shadow of a memory, but it’s there. Just lurking in a tiny space in my mind, nearly overrun with thoughts of diapers, wipes, runny noses, fevers, coughs, giggles, coos, tantrums, and the like. At any rate, I have this memory that is BURNED into my mind. It’s my last non-Mom trip to the zoo.

I remember this memory so well because of the magnitude by which it struck me at the time. I was one of “those people” who found most small children to be quite annoying and their respective parents to be inept idiots. Yes, I know…Clearly, God has smacked me in the head for those cruel ideas! With that in mind, I found my trip to the zoo quite upsetting the last time BB (before baby). You see, I remember the people with strollers. I. Hate. Strollers. They were rude, what with all their crowding, toe-smashing, and general discombobulated nature. A mom with a child dangling precariously from her hip, a dad with an empty stroller, a diaper bag the size of a small suitcase, a sippy cup clutched in his hand, all the while trying to operate a camera with one finger and his tongue. OMG. WHY do these people come to the zoo? They look miserable. They’re in my way. Their kid is screaming. And all the while I was contemplating whether or not I could get a refund for my admission on account of pain and suffering, I kept thinking to myself, I WILL NEVER BE ONE OF THEM!

So eff.

I’m one of them.

Damn it, Hottie!

I was so excited at the prospect of heading to the zoo with my little darling this year. After all, he’s running around, coherent, and likes to point and grunt at things. He’s going to love the zoo! So the hottie and I loaded up our little munchkin, packed a lunch, and make the trek to the zoo. Suddenly, I felt the pain of the people at the zoo who I once scoffed at so coldly. I was pushing the stroller. I was balancing the baby on my hip. I was running into childless couples with reckless abandon. After all, their hand-holding and canoodling was annoying. Why aren’t they working as hard as we are to have fun?

And yet, we had fun. Munchkin Man enjoyed himself. I mean, after he barfed his lunch all over his shirt and threw a world-class tantrum, things got better. Nevertheless, I did something I thought I’d never do: I became “one of them.” And so what? I get it now. And I’m glad.

Tags: animals, Baby, Baby transport, boyfriend, children, Family, freaks, God, Home, Hottie, kids, Parent, Shopping, stroller, zoo

Hiatus…

Image via Wikipedia

Hello blog-world! It has been far too long since we’ve gotten together. You see, I’ve been a bit busy. I needed a little space…

Actually, that’s not true! My Macbook went to the big computer-kingdom in the sky, and I was left high and dry. It has been painful, and I’ve really been struggling with the grieving process. You see, I took ole faithful into the store because the screen was blacking out at the most inopportune moments. The response from super nerdboy man, “I’m sorry. It’s a $400 repair+labor, and you’re better off buying a new one because once something like this happens, it’s downhill from there.” I made the tough decision to go ahead and put ‘er down. She’s now resting peacefully, no longer struggling to make electronic connections.

So….Macbooks are expensive, I’m a computer snob, and I can’t quite justify spending the money at this precise moment in time. I’m offering my deepest apologies for my blogging absence, and I promise to make an effort to get back in the game.

Tags: broken computer, buying computer, computer snob, FAQs Help and Tutorials, grief, humor, Macbook, money, PC, sadness, Women

Man Caves…really?

"Me want beer."

I like to watch HGTV and DIY network television. I know, I know. Why? Apparently I’m destined to find myself perplexed every day that I turn on such shows as “My First Place” and “House Hunters.” How can I become one of those single-income, work-at-home families who is financing $550,000 for a home in Someplace Sunny, USA? Well, at any rate, as I watch these shows of young couples searching for their overpriced, small-scale mansion that they intend to finance to the hilt and have them eating Ramen Noodles for the next 30 years, I find myself hearing the same stupid phrase out of the mouths of babes. I mean, MEN. “I really need a place for a man cave.” What? Let’s dive into this…

You get married. You’re married to a woman. You’ve read the books, seen the movies, did the research. You’re legally bound to one another until death or a really expensive divorce lawyer says otherwise. You’re going to have a “home” together. This means you will both be living under the same roof, using the same household appliances, and suffering the same woes of the world….. (pregnant pause)…. together. You’re on a show such as “House Hunters” touring homes that you may or may not pay an exorbitant amount of money for and your only response when asked how you like each place is, “Well, I really like this one because it has a great spot for my man cave.”

What the heck does that mean? You need a man cave? I mean, the basic premise of a man cave should offend most women. It’s as if to say, “Hunny, I need a space that I can go to as a sanctuary to get as far away from you as possible. In addition, I want to put up some asinine collection of shot glasses and beer bottles in front of sports pennants in a feeble attempt to reclaim my lost youth. I also want to waste a large amount of money putting in an Xbox 360 or PS3, a flat-screen TV, and a surround sound that will wake the neighbors and surely cause permanent hearing damage to all of our unborn children.  I don’t want you to be offended because I’m a man, and this is what men do. We are cave dwellers. Also, we need a “safe” place to store our Hustler mags and other stuff you don’t approve of me having like cigars or secret stashes of Kodiak Wintergreen. Oh, and most importantly, it’s not for WOMEN. You can’t come in. Not even if there’s a fire. Okay, thanks.”

Here’s how I look at it: if you NEED a man cave, you probably shouldn’t have gotten married. I mean, you have to work together and figure out how to compromise on your home’s setup, right? Oh wait…maybe I just have a deluded sense of marriage? Save that for another post… Secondly, if you want to claim a space as “yours” and “yours” alone, MEN,  then why not the garage? That’s a man’s domain, right? But an entire basement devoted to debauchery reserved ONLY for the man of the house? Ridiculous. If a woman proclaimed something so bold as “I need a Ladies Lounge” people would roll their eyes in disgust and scoff at the mere idea of such depraved thinking.  You’re married. You’re supposed to hang out together. It’s part of the deal. Man cave? Sounds like douchebaggery taken to new heights, in my opinion.

So gentlemen, I’d suggest you look at the really important aspects of a home when you’re purchasing one. Perhaps the number of bedrooms or bathrooms, or dare I say it, whether or not the kitchen has adequate counter space. Because let’s face it, if your final deciding factor on a home purchase is whether or not you have space for a “man cave” or not, I’d say you’re already on the fast-track to living in the dog house for the rest of your  married life.

Tags: Caveman, DIY Network, douchebaggery, Family, Flat panel display, happiness, HGTV, House Hunters, house hunting, love, man cave, Marriage, men, My First Place, Outdoors, PS3, Recreation, relationships, roommates, Shopping, shot glasses, single, United States, Video Games, XBOX

The F-LIST Friends

Image via CrunchBase

We all have friends. Some of us have many, others have few. Within those friends, we have a few different levels of closeness to people. Let’s take a look at what I would dub as my friendship court.

The first type of friend is the closest type of friend. The inner circle. The circle of trust. These are the people who are on my must-call list on a daily or every-other-day basis, and these are also the people who are first on the list of all major newsworthy events, including but not limited to relationship status and the story about the skank at the supermarket who looked at me wrong. This list includes siblings, parents, bffs, and pretty much anyone I deem really, super important. This is my A-team. I can’t live without this group, and they love me, too.

The B squad, or next closest group, includes the extended friends. These are the people who I don’t talk to every day or every-other-day, but I talk to every week or every-other-week. These are usually the hip, fun friends who have too much going on  in their own fabulous lives to have time to listen to me lament over Mr. E’s teething troubles or the fact that I slipped and fell on my face for the fourth time in a month. They care, but they do it at an arm’s length away.

The C&D squad friends are people who only make themselves known when they have something huge going on in their lives. These are the friends who, at one time, may have been on the A-team, but as time wears on have fallen by the wayside. These friends are good for an occasional party and the always awkward, “We should get together and catch up” line when we accidentally bump into each other somewhere mundane. Usually these are also the people who flake on any and all plans, and although we still refer to each other as “friends,” our so-called-friendship is weak and flimsy at best.

This brings me to my point for the day. The last type of friend I have is the F friend. F is for Facebook. This is the lowliest form of friendship. It is more like acquaintanceship. We don’t have to know each other well…or at all for that matter. We’re cyber chums. We only interact within the confines of the internet world. True story: I saw two F friends today. One of them acted as if she couldn’t run away fast enough when I said hi to her. Now, I must ask myself this question: why are we F friends if when we do encounter one another in the “real world” we can not even exchange pleasantries? Why should you be able to see what I’m up to if you do not care to speak to me, Ashley the Great, in person? Furthermore, if you do not want to speak to me in public, then I must, by default, assume that our F status is simply for one thing and one thing only: to creep…To creep on my status, my relationships, my adorable baby’s pics, my witty banter, my pics, and my LIFE. I now, after today’s encounter, think of my F-listers as creepers and creepers alone.

Guess what, blogosphere? I don’t like creepers!

Tags: Child, Creeper, dating, Desperation, Facebook, Family, Friendship, healing, Interpersonal relationship, life, LOL, Mothers, Parenting, relationship, single, Television, Women

Being an ADULT is overrated…

I was thinking about what life was like when I was sixteen. It was awful. I wanted to be an adult so bad it stung my nostrils every time I flared them in my teenage rage. When I became an adult I knew life would be better. Easier. Awesomer. All of the above. When I celebrated that eighteenth birthday and went out and bought my first lottery ticket, I knew that I was just “scratching the surface” on the sweetness that was adulthood.

Being an adult seemed like a mecca to my teenage angst. It was the promised land. I could do everything when I became an adult. I could LIVE. It was what I had been waiting for my whole life.

Someone really should have smacked me.

Being an adult is overrated. It seems like fun and games until you actually make it to that point. Think about what being an adult brings with it. We can be sued. We can be arrested and serve “real” time in jail. We can file for bankruptcy. We can be hounded by debt-collectors. We can legally gamble away our savings. We can get into unsavory places like strip clubs and bars. We are held accountable for every decision we make, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Who wants all that on their plate?

When I was about to turn eighteen, there were only a few things I was excited about when it came to being an adult: getting my own place, getting married, and having babies. That was it. I didn’t think about any of the other, less fun things that come along with adulthood. And ten years later, I can safely say that being an adult is overrated. I’m over it!

If you’re under the age of eighteen, savor it. Soon enough, you’ll be out in the “real world” and “living the dream” just like the rest of us!

Tags: Adult, adulthood, bankruptcy, Derek Jeter, Education, eighteen, Facebook, gambling, Games, Home, jail, Kotaku, money, overrated, teenagers, Twitter, working

That Competitive Spirit

I am a competitor by nature. It’s in my genes.  I love to win, and I hate to lose.  Any time I can get a “W,” I’m happy. Sometimes I make up rules as I go to help me. Other times I try to cheat or use my girlish charms to distract my opponents. I’m not a graceful loser; I’m an obnoxious winner! I’ve gotta win, damn it!

My family is what I like to refer to as “unsportsmanlike.” We are an aggressive, dog-eat-dog kind of clan. It’s the kind of family that will cheat when competing against a child. It’s just how we do it. Whether you’re nine or twenty-nine, you’re going to get the full strength version of awesomeness when it comes to competing.  We can’t play board games together without shades of Dane Cook’s Scrabble bit coming to mind (if you don’t know what I’m talking about…youtube it). We take outdoor activities like corn hole a bit too serious. We all love to win. It’s what winners do. WE WIN.

Trash talking, an integral part of winning, is probably one of the greatest things I ever learned from my dad. The art of the mental pscyhe-out is quite possibly one of my most cherished skills. Taunting, teasing, and terrifying my opponent is what I do. I feel the confidence coursing through my body; wait, make that arrogance. I will win. It’s happening. I’ve got this. I will destroy my opponents because that’s what WE do. WE WIN.

So I have a Wii game console. I have a hottie, competitive bf. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to exercise my dominance. I had an amazeballs plan to put Hottie in his place. That is, second place. Yes, I felt the need to trash-talk and destroy him in Wii play. It’s no big deal. He’s a real man. He can handle my awesomeness. Now, is this healthy for our relationship? Who knows, but I’m a winner, and I had to win. I couldn’t lose. I proceeded with the standard-issue trash-talk, flaunting of my smile, flipping of my hair. I pulled out all my tricks. I played Wii like a champion. Not like a silver-medalist. Like a gold-medalist. I did work. I was on fire.

WE TIED.

At first the sinking feeling of defeat nearly sent me into some sort of severe shock. After a few moments, though, my heart did a little happy dance. Have I finally met my match? Hottie’s game was all too familiar to me. It rivaled my own game in ways I didn’t know others could replicate.  Trash-talk, muscle flexing, sheepish grins. He was good. Real good. Damn it.

So we played. We went toe-to-toe, nunchuk-to-nunchuk. We threw down in epic Wii fashion.We both used our tricks of the trade. The winning trade, that is.

WE TIED AGAIN.

I pinched myself to see if I was alive because I was pretty sure this wasn’t happening. A tie? What is that? No one ties…much less ties twice! I fear it can only mean one thing: I think I’ve finally met my match.

Play on, champions. Play on.

Tags: Board game, Dane Cook, Games, Pittsburgh Steelers, Trash-talk, Video game, Wii, Wii Play

Personal Space- Back the eff up!

I like my personal space. I like to think that I have a floating pink bubble around me. You know, the imaginary, impenetrable force-field that is supposed to ward off freaks and weirdos. This force-field might also be called COMMON DECENCY. Personal space, much like common sense and decency, is clearly not as “common” as it should be. Let me just tell you about my encounters with people who do not respect the boundaries of my force-field.

Give me my space, or die!

Checkout lanes are a hotbed for space invaders. For some reason I feel as if instead of a pink bubble around me, I have a sign radiating above my head that screams, “Please get as close to me as possible without actually touching me.” It seems as though those who invade spaces actually have quite a few tricks up their sleeves in order to get their invasion fixes. The one that gets me rowdy every time is the cart crowder. You all know what I’m talkin’ bout. Some creeper who uses his or her cart to get thisclose to you, and has usurped your space at the debit card keypad. They casually creep up on you. Just because you’re standing within striking distance does not mean that the lady with the scanny thing is going to move any faster. Just step away from my cart. Cuz my baby is in there. And I’ll throw down if necessary.

Besides checkout lanes, there are mall invaders. Those are the people who, instead of walking around me and my precarious load of packages and baby paraphernalia, decide to walk up on my heels. You know, like tailgaters but on foot. A subtle brake check is usually how I remedy this type of thing, but seriously why don’t these people just go around me and my hot mess of an operation. I have a child. Anyone with a child knows that going to the mall is about as simple as mobilizing troops to storm a terrorist bunker. It takes time. Back off. I’m trying here.

True story: my Hottie, my baby and I were at the (s)mall arcade the other day. Hottie and I were engaged in an extreme air hockey competition. Mr. E was watching with bated breath, banging his cup in exaltation. Our perimeter was clearly established. Out of the depths of hell comes some freaky weirdo in a P.I.M.P. hat with a certain swagger in his step that made me cringe. He pierced the perimeter. Hottie and I immediately dropped our air hockey paddles in preparation for a full-on space battle. Mr. E’s space was invaded; alerts rang out in our cute little ears. Our startled appearance gave Mr. P.I.M.P. enough of a clue to get up out our bizness. But why? Why wander into territory that is clearly marked as “ours” ? And thanks a lot, because in my moment of sheer panic, Hottie took full advantage of scoring a cheap goal. I had to make him pay for that, but nonetheless, it was ridiculous that we were even bothered by the space invader of the third kind.

There are other times when people get up in my bubble, but I don’t have time to get into the specifics. The bottom line of the whole personal space issue is this: unless you’re invited into my bubble, back. the. eff. up. VIPs only. Know where you stand. And then don’t stand too effing close to me.

Tags: 2D, Air hockey, appropriate behavior, arcade, bubble, decency, douchebaggery, game, grocery story, Hottie, mall, Parenting, people who suck, Personal space, radar, relationships, rude people, Shooter, Shopping, Space, Space Invaders, Video Games, VIP

Another 20something Birthday

My birthday. Yes, it came again this year. That little knock upon the door of reality is getting loud, and I’m slowly realizing that I have already celebrated another birthday. I’m not feeling OLD yet, but I am feeling more “experienced.” So why is it that we fret about our age, ladies? Well, it’s because we’re not getting any younger, but we sure are getting wiser!

I remember the days of yore when I would celebrate my birthday in style: booze, boys, and booty dancing. It was an event. Sixteen, 18, 21, 25. They all seemed like awesome milestones. Then something clicked inside my mind: I’m getting older. It really was happening. The younger years seemed to humor me as I reflected on my crazy girl shenanigans. Momentarily I thought to myself, ‘Oh, to be THAT young again.’ Wait, no. Clip that. Let me tell ya why.

I’m like a fine wine, ladies and gentleman. Yep, I’m using that cliché. I’m getting better with age. I’m growing by leaps and bounds, and I’m not talking about my clothing size. I’m talking about growing as a person. Looking back at 27, I can say that I’ve gained a lot of perspective. Here are some of the more important things I’ve learned over the past year.

1. People suck. People, in general, suck. A lot. A vast majority of people I’ve met in the past several years have proven to be selfish, self-serving, rude, immature cheats and sneaks. I’m talking men and women. In general, I’ve learned over the past few years that people suck.

2. I am worthy. I’m worthy of happiness, friendship, and love. When I was younger, I sometimes wondered if I deserved such things because of the way people treated me. Well, guess what? I do deserve those things! It took me a while to realize it, but I am definitely worthy!

3. I can be single. Yep. I can do it. I have done it. It was good for me. Being single and regrouping can really put things into perspective. I had time to reassess what I want, what I need, and what I have to offer. I also was able to figure out what I can deal with and what’s a deal-breaker. Refer back to #1. The applicant pool shrank in a big way, but the quality went through the roof!  It was a really good thing for me!

4. Being a mom is tough work. It takes strength and fortitude that I didn’t realize I even had within myself. Shout out to my Mama! She’s made it look easy for the past 28 years.

So, as I enter the new year as an older and wiser woman, I’m extremely thankful. I’m thankful for what I’ve had, what I have now,  and what I will have in the future. I know that 28 is the beginning of a new chapter for me, and I am GLAD that 27 is out the door!

How to embarrass yourself (effectively) before a date

It was a big day. I had a, wait for it, a date! Actually, it was a second date, but who’s counting? Anyways, I did the whole pre-date routine: shower, hair, nails, makeup, outfit(s). I finally felt ready to go. I slinked into a pair of brand new jeans. Yeah, I bought new jeans for the date. So what. ANYWAYS, my super hottie date arrived and I slid into my jacket, grabbed my perfectly accessorized handbag, and proceeded to the door. I slowly opened my door and spied my date. Then, with a fanfare truly fit for royalty, I placed my left foot out the door and onto the step. My brown suede stilettos encountered a substance they were not comfortable with treading on: ice. Like a bird shot mid-flight, my wings flapped fervently in effort to NOT tumble down the three steps to my untimely dating demise. Much like that bird shot mid-flight, my efforts were futile. I was going down. This was happening.

I hit the steps like an elephant on roller skates. Limbs flailed. A handbag flew. Screams of terror rang throughout the tundra. Horror set in.

My date quickly swooped in to my rescue. He delicately helped me out of the wreckage that was my person, and steadied me with his strong arms. I was mortified. This wasn’t happening. I did NOT just completely fall on my face in the presence of my suitor. Why did this happen? What did I do to deserve such a trauma this time?

As we carefully made our way back inside the house, I assessed the damage. There was a casualty. It wasn’t me. It was my new pair of jeans. Freshly de-tagged, my jeans had a tear in the knee that rivaled the Hoover Dam. I immediately descended into panic mode. THIS pair of jeans look great with the rest of my ensemble. That’s why I chose them. The horror. I knew I couldn’t change my whole outfit. That would seem a bit extreme, not to mention I hadn’t time to try on, model, and coordinate an entire NEW look in a short five-minute time span. WTF.

I climbed the stairs and made my way to the bathroom. My knee was bleeding like some sort of ancient Pagan sacrifice. Great. A few band-aids later, I was dressed and heading back down the stairs. Besides the bloody knee and the ankle-to-shin bruise on the opposite leg, I was ready to rock out. Unfortunately, the bruise to my ego was far deeper than the one on my leg.

On the bright side, my date went great! My date kept a firm grip on me every time I tried to operate my legs. It wasn’t such a bad side-effect of my bruised ego

Tags: Business, Casual, Clothing, Consumer Goods and Services, dating, Denim, Dry cleaning, falling, healing, hiccups, high-heeled footwear, Home, january, Jeans, life, love, relationships, Shopping, single parent, single women

Let’s go drinking tonight…and then feel like death the next day

I’m awesome. I’m amazeballs. I’m the cat’s meow. I look hot. I’m working it.  These are the things running through my mind late last night.

I’m tired. I’m grumpy. I feel like hell. My stomach hurts. WHY did I do that? These are the things running through my head this morning when I was ceremoniously awakened by my 11-month-old via slaps to the face.

I used to party like Ke$ha. I got crazy like Katy Perry. I kicked ass like Kid Rock. Now, nearly ten years later, I feel like those days are so far behind me I can barely remember how I managed to do it. Bonging beers and taking shots were part of the weekend routine, and now I can barely drink. Anything.

The most amazing part of being out of the game for so long is how hard it is to recover. I mean, since I hadn’t been out since before I got pregnant, I felt as if this was a great time to cut loose. Get silly. Have fun. And I did…and now I feel a strong sense of regret for that because I’m presently in the fetal position on the couch with a headache the size of Canada, a rumbly tummy, and the overall feeling of awfulness. Ugh. I remember a couple years ago, my galpals and I talked about how it took us so long to recover since we were starting to climb that hill… we agreed it was a solid two or three days. I can only imagine how long THIS one is going to take one child, a couple years, and ten beers later.

Oh well. I’ll make it. I’ve conquered these things before. And hey, the company was great

Oh, and I’ll also post something entertaining about the actual establishment I went to for this ruckus…later, when I’m feeling a little more human.

 

Tags: alcohol, beer, booze, Britney Spears, Canada, dating, drinking, friends, Games, hangover, hotties, Katy Perry, Kesha, Kid Rock, Parenting, single mom, United States, Video Games