Bad Girl, Bad Girl, Whatcha Gonna Do When They Come for You?

Alternate Title: How to blow $135 dollars without even trying: a tutorial.

Did you know that The Son and I went to go see the Tarksandsons this weekend?  Well we did.  We drove several hours with Cars on repeat in the portable DVD player to a lovely town called Mount WherethehellistheMountain.   It is twenty minutes west of Mount ThisplaceisasflatasCalistaFlockhart’schest.  Misnomers aside, it was a great trip.  It made me realize how much I really miss my friends, and how they need to hurry up and move home.

I had to rush back on Sunday afternoon because I had a meeting at church.  I had been stuck behind this powder blue Oldsmobile for an hour.  Traffic was pretty heavy even though all that was in the area were trees.  Lots and Lots of trees.  So that you can get a proper understanding of the events that transpired, we shall have a dramatic reenactment using some of the nine million toy cars and trucks we have here at Huckablog world headquarters.

We do not have a Huckablazer HotWheel, so the part of the Huckablazer will be played by a blueish silver Shelby Concept car, just because I can. The part of the Oldsmobile will be played by the blue 3 race car.

Unbeknownst (spell check does not recognize unbeknownst, but it is too a word.  Right?) to me, a State Policeman had found the one gap in the trees to park.

I slowly but surely passed the oldsmobile and another old person car.  There was a big eighteen wheeler hogging more than his share of the road so I waited for a chance to pass him.

An Aerial view.

Then a giant toddler zoomed in from above and smashed the highway to smithereens.  Oh, wait. No, that only happened in the dramatized re-enactment.

Where were we? Oh yes, I was waiting to pass the big truck.  Cop was hiding. Toddler was now playing with The Husband.

All of a sudden the big truck slowed down a bit (I wonder why?) so I took the chance to speed up and pass him…right next to the cop.

He turned on his lights immediately.  I said more than “Oh, Snap.”

He got right behind me, and I knew what was coming.

I pulled over on to the ledge of the highway with cars zooming past.

I said that I was just passing!  I tried to explain that I had a meeting.  I said that the music from Cars‘ race scene MADE me go faster.  You can guess what happened next.

And just to rub salt in an already broke-who-has-$135-to-mail-me wound, I got behind that same blue oldsmobile again, and had to stay there the whole rest of the way home.

Not Political, I swear.

I have written and deleted so many political posts recently.  I am really hesitant to post much about this election because I am feeling so put off by many of MY favorite bloggers.  It seems that if you don’t agree with the blogger, then you are stupid, or uneducated.  I have been made to feel defensive and just plain pissed off at many blogs who I used to check everyday.  It has gotten so bad, that I am getting ready to do some major editing on my blog roll.

This does not mean that I have no political opinion, and I probably will post something at some point, but that is not going to happen today.   Instead we have a post about baby names–sure they are the baby names of a potential Vice President, but this is not about the person or her beliefs but her choice of monikers for her five kids.  Track (named because of the whole family’s involvement in track and field sports), Bristol, (named for commercial fishing area, Bristol Bay),  Willow (a community in Alaska), Piper, (because “It’s a cool name.”), and finally little Trig (a Norse name meaning strength.).

Presenting the Sarah Palin Baby Name generator.  My name is Drill Swollen Palin, The Husband is Shank Piston Palin, and The Son is Rock Crane Palin.  Post your Palin name in the comments section, The Drill commands you!

Oh, Snap!

The Huckablogs are spending a couple of days with the elder Huckablogs at their country compound in picturesque Middle of Nowhere. I tried to post last night, but the only computer available hadabrokenspacekey. Very.VERY.ANNOYING. Going through internet withdrawal, I swiped MMIL’s work laptop to get my daily fix. Must have email. Must have email, ahhh, spam, that’s the stuff.

Last night we went to the Middle of Nowhere County Fair…..and…..I got hit on by a Carney. Yes, the 400 pound man wearing a greasy t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and hairy arms thought I still had IT. I tried to hand him my four fuschia tickets so that I could ride the Cobra all by myself. (I am the only Huckablog who will ride anything fun. Yet. I had to give birth to my own roller coaster buddy, but he is a little wee just yet.) So Mr. Carney leaned in real close to me as he helped me in to the spinning bucket of death and said, “Honey, keep your tickets. This ride is on me and you can ride all you want.” Um. ewww. Did I mention that The Husband, The Son, MMIL and FFIL were like fifteen feet away watching from the side lines? Smelly Mr. Carney then made the ride go backwards….for a really, really, REALLY long time. I stumbled out of the SBoD (spinning bucket of death) on my own so he would not try to help me down. The Husband did not seem at all jealous when I told him about my new admirer. He laughed at me instead. I tried to tell him about the Taco Bell employee who gave me a free fruit freezee thing because I was “working it.”, but it seems that he does not feel threatened by carneys or teenage fast food employees. (Please do not send me emails about how your Daddy is a Carney and he has sleeves and works triple shifts to put you through Wellesley or something. I get it. Carneys are people too.) I felt really sick (maybe from the half a fair eggroll? Or the half a fair barbeque sandwich? Or the half a cold fair hot dog?) after the SBoD ride, so I shared my grape sno-cone with The Son and we went back to the compound.

Oh speaking of The Son, it seems when you go to the fair with your Gigi and Pappaw, you get to ride what ever you want. He rode an alligator shaped kiddie coaster, spinning ladybugs, a sparkly,  wheelie-popping motorcycle, and a rotating Jeep. I went to strap him into the Jeep, and the seat belt (you are going to think I am exaggerating here, but this is the truth, I swear!) was half a bungee cord, and the other half was one side of the blue seat belt from a Wal-Mart shopping cart. It still had Wal-Mart imprinted on the faded fabric strap. I was then supposed to tie the two parts together around my precious only child’s abdomen. Yeah right. I asked the skinny, Lucky smoking carney if I could ride with The Son and he said, “if you think you can.” I wedged into the “back seat”  (really that would be ten inch fiberglass wide spot)of the toddler sized Jeep, hung on with one arm, leaned forward and held The Son tight with the other. With a creak and the three non-burnt out bulbs flashing, we jerked forward, and I slipped deeper into the “seat”. It spun, and spun, and went entirely too fast for a kiddie ride, and I was extremely grateful when the ride ended.

Last night I stayed up way late enjoying my in-laws DISH. I watched Project Runway, The Rachel Zoe project, Top Design, and then some show about a scary British hair stylist. I stumbled to bed at two or three AM, and then this morning went to the Middle of Nowhere County fair parade with The Son and MMIL. He loved it; fire trucks, horses, floats, bands, and beauty queens–what is not to like? Actually, I enjoyed myself too, I love doing stuff like that. On the way back to the compound, about twenty minutes away, I realized that we had forgotten to pick up The Son’s pictures (stay tuned for those) we had taken! When I brought this to MMIL’s attention her response was “OH, CRAP!”. Immediately The Son said, “OH, CRAP!” Great. Now my baby knows a PG-13 word. Always the quick thinking educator, she said, “Gigi said OH, SNAP! Can you say OH, SNAP?” So for the rest of the day we said, “Oh, Snap!” whenever crap would have been appropriate. I am not entirely sure that The Son bought it, but he has not repeated “Oh, Crap” again. He is probably waiting until he is at church in front of my eighty year old grandmother. It’s okay, MMIL. My Mom accidentally taught him “shut up” while yelling at her dogs.
Can you hear my Mom somewhere moaning about what I post online? “Oh, SNAP!”

In which Hey You learns not to hit send quite so fast.

I, like every single other heterosexual woman in America, think looking at swimmer Michael Phelps is better than a sharp stick to the eye.   In my daily jaunt around the blogosphere I happened across a lovely picture of Mr. Nine medals and counting.

I have a very, very good friend named Christi. I happen to know that she also is a heterosexual woman, so I sent her an email containing this picture of Michael. (Go ahead, click on it, but don’t lick the computer screen, I would hate to be responsible for any electrocuted tongues ((Oh, semi NSFW)).

I have another friend named Chris.  He is not a heterosexual female.  What he is, is a ultra-conservative Christian youth minister.  You know what two names are next to each other in my email address book? Christi and Chris.  Guess who I really emailed this speedo-licous picture?  Good guess.

Good Idea, Bad Idea: the burnt to a crisp edition

Good Idea: Taking advantage of a beautiful morning to take your toddler to the beach at a local state park.

Bad Idea: Not checking the web to see when beach opens for swimming. (Noon)

Good Idea: Killing time until you can swim by making sandcastles.

Bad Idea: Thinking you can make sandcastles with an (almost) two year old for an hour and a half. (Actual attention span? 30 minutes, tops.)

Good Idea: Bringing a picnic from home to save money.

Bad Idea: Not bringing a back up lunch for when the first lunch gets dropped in the sand.

Good Idea: Waiting for the lifeguard to (FINALLY!) appear so you can swim without being fined.

Bad Idea: Waiting to swim until it is nap time, and the sun is at its burniest.

Good Idea: Applying a high SPF sunscreen.

Very, Very Bad Idea: Asking your (almost) two year old to apply sunscreen to the places you can’t reach.

Good Idea: Aloe and Advil

Bad Idea: Going anywhere that requires a bra. (Anywhere past the front door for me)

Note: This is not my actual back; that would require posting a picture of my naked back on the internet, and therefore is not going to happen. This is, however, a good representation of how my back looks. Except it has grill marks on it like the hamburgers from burger king. No pickles though.

Stupid Cellular Security Blanket.

When you are married to a techno geek you can’t just get a new cell phone, oh, no. You must first read all of the reviews, reports, and price check. This usually takes about…..oh, six months or so. (This is where you roll your eyes and say Hey You acts like a stupid girl) Two years ago when it was time to upgrade phones, I wanted the Pink Razor. It was in the store, it was a decent price, and most importantly, it was pretty. It matched my makeup bag, and the inside of my purse would be cute. Since it would be pink, we would never pick up the wrong phone by mistake. The Husband said it was a crappy phone, and we were not getting one. After many reviews and discussions that ended with me pointing at our old phones being held together with duct tape, the KRZR K1 (see above) was the phone that was deemed worthy for both of the Huckablogs.

They only came in the above blue, and I whined. Immediately we started getting our phones mixed up. He was avoiding Heartless Cellular Company on my phone, and I was avoiding Batsh!t crazy Ju–, er boss lady, on his. I whined some more. I wanted to go to one of those kiosks in the mall and get a skin thingy for my phone so it would be pretty, but no, apparently those are somehow bad for phones. I whined some more. For Christmas last year The Husband put in my stocking a hot pink metal body for my phone he had found from Hong Kong or someplace. It required him to completely rebuild my phone to put it in the new body, thusly making our phone insurance NULL and VOID. I am sure you can pretty much see where this is going.

My phone got dropped yesterday (anybody care to guess who did that?). The one teeny tiny non-metal piece snapped. The Husband took it apart and spent a good hour with his soldering iron last night trying to make it last until it is time to upgrade in the fall. I, of course, threw away the old ugly blue case months ago in one of my thorough, if infrequent, cleaning sprees. The Husband has ordered a piece to fix it, but it will take a couple of weeks to make it here from Thai Pae, or Phnom Penh, or wherever he ordered it from. I am at a loss without my phone, I might miss important calls! About play dates, or um, other important stuff I do. And the camera! I actually use my camera phone, what kind of world is this where I can not take that millionth picture of The Son on the slide?

Long story short: phone dead, email or call the house (for those who have the number) instead. Don’t expect me to call you, because every single number of every single person I know is in that pile of pink and screws. I had to write down my home phone number to remember it today. What did people do without their cellular security blankets back in the day?

Cheap in the Wal-Mart discount bakery case

Hupdates: the excuses post.

Thanks for hanging with me through my light posting this past week, ready for a secret? I am slowly weaning myself off of Lexapro. I have been on it for 15 months now, and most of the things that were causing my anxiety have passed. I hate taking drugs, and they do have some side effects that I could live without, so I am going to come of off Lexapro over a two month period. I hope to be fully drug free by The Son’s 2nd birthday.

Since I have now had two separate episodes of serious depression/anxiety ( the other was when I was in Grad school when we lost three relatives in a four month period), according to my doctors I will probably have another one at some point. If I do, then they will recommend that I am on some kind of SSRI for the rest of my life. I will just cross that bridge when I come to it. If I come to it.

You want to know what some of the super cool side effects of coming off of this drug is? Sure you do. No? Well I am telling you anyway.

• General malaise
• Chronic lethargy
• Crying spells
• Dizziness accompanied with “electric brain zaps”. (By far, the most persistent symptom for me)
• Irritability and unreasonable aggression
• stomach upset

It is pretty hard to look at the computer when the room is spinning. I hope that my body will adjust quickly, but it may be a rough couple of months. If you are a praying kind of person, then feel free to add me somewhere towards…oh, let’s say the middle of your list.

Also, The Son and I have crammed in as many hours with my Ma (maternal Grandma) and cousin Gabby as possible while they were visiting this week from KY (the state, not the jelly). Gabs, The Husband and I took The Son to a water park on Wednesday, and had so much fun. I brought my camera and never even took it out of my bag. I tried my hardest not to think about all of the germs running around rampant, or that we were walking barefoot in a puddle of candida infested sludge in the locker area. In the land of a thousand tears (aka the Toddler Zone) I turned a blind eye to the sagging swim diapers of thirty rude children. The Son loved it, and was having a grand ole time til his daddy scooped him up and stomped off after having watched our baby get shoved for about the twelfth time. He cried, but a float in the Lazy Cesspool cured him. Half way around he decided he needed to Nur-Nur. I tried to assuage him, but he would not be pacified. So I popped out a breast and nursed floating by dozens of teenagers. The Husband was mortified. I was….kinda proud of myself, and kinda wishing he was weaned. I do not think any one noticed, but they could have.

On the fourth we went to my parents house (all the way down the street) and were joined by my grandparents, Ma and Gabs, and MMiL and FFiL! We feasted on baby back ribs, fresh corn, baked beans, seven layer salad, fresh bread, home-made ice cream, blackberry cobbler, fresh peach shortcake and gallons of sweet tea. We then all rolled ourselves up the hill to the country club to watch fireworks, and see the people behind us sit in a sprinkler zone! All in all, a lovely day. All that was missing were our baby brothers. The Husband and I agree that sometimes it sucks to be the oldest.

I have switched the ads so that they have to be approved by me before they are published on the site, hopefully that will get rid of the mail order wife ads.  I am sorry if you were hoping to find an Asian subservient bride here, you will just have to try somewhere else.

One last update. It is in regards to my son’s toilet habits, so if that kind of thing does not interest you, then move along. He has used the potty 100 times! He received a special truck (instead of a car) sticker, and then got a Hot Wheels truck thingy (the name painted on the side of the truck? Big Dump. Make your own joke). The three of us shouted and clapped and danced around the five square foot bathroom. Being a parent rocks. Who needs Lexapro.

The grass is always greener. Er…Shorter.

It is really not his fault. Those damn allergies are to blame. I am sure that if he was allergian free The Husband would mow the yard on a regular basis. I fully plan on doing it myself once The Son can be left inside by himself for awhile. We used to pay someone to do it for us, but of course that went the same way as decent haircuts. I sure as hell am not going to pay $30 for the lawn to be cut, and $4 for my hair.

This has left our yard looking…..horrific. It has not been weed-eated (really? is that a word?) since last year. Tonight as our boys frolicked on The Neighbor’s stunning grass, I took the opportunity to capture the stark differences. Oh, how lucky we are to have such first world problems.

The Boys did a little Yoga while I stared at the Jungle in our front yard.

Just who is getting trained here?

Alternate Title: This Blog may be getting a little boring.

Did you know that I used to talk to grown-ups all day, every day?  I used words like tax structure, and wireless capabilities, and grace periods.  I wore heels that matched my bag.  I worried about things like rush hour, and 401Ks.

Then things like this started to happen.

Yes, that is what you think it is.  The Son is ready to potty train.

Today I said the words Potty, Pee Pee, and Poop about eleventy billion times.  Verbose? Not anymore.  I wore jammie pants with pee dribbles on them almost all day.  I cleaned poop out of not only a little plastic toilet, and underoos with cars on them, but a laundry basket.

Here at TheHuckablog World Headquarters it is all potty training all the time.  We started out the day with a morning constitutional on the possessed singing potty.

Fabulous! The Son actually sits down and goes, no whining! He gets a sticker on the creatively named “Potty Chart”,  ten stickers and he gets a matchbox car.

After breakfast we watched a little Elmo. (a note:  The Husband and I decided before The Son was born that following the AAP guidelines, we would not let The Son watch any TV until he is two, and then just half an hour a day.  Gee, it would be nice if I followed all of my own rules.)  According to this brain numbing DVD, Elmo is already potty trained, so we got to watch a bear with a speech impediment learn how to use the facilities.  You would think that a bear would go in the woods right?  I made The Son aware of this quandary and he said “NO! Shhh Mama!”.  Well, fine then.  We snacked on Goldfish, and carrots dipped in chocolate frosting while watching Elmo Potty Time twice and playing with his new car, wearing his favorite undies, the ones with cars of course.

We then sat in the bathroom and read books about, you guessed it, going potty, while he made pooping noises with his mouth, yet never really went.  After giving up, we broke out the organic playdough and made this.

Can you see the tiny little poop in the tiny little potty?  This activity burned about an hour and a half of potty training purgatory.   After this, lunch, and nap, I was putting away clean clothes, and heard that same noise as earlier.  I turned to tell him to save it for Daddy, and he was naked, pooping in a laundry basket.  In his defense, the basket was white and plastic.  I did not take a picture of that.  You are welcome.

To sum up, he did not get dressed all day.  He ate chocolate frosting as a snack.  He watched 90 minutes of Elmo.  He played with playdough. He made boy noises. And he took a sh—uh, poop, in something I put clean clothes in.  Oh, and I gave him stickers for doing all of that.  I am thinking the wrong one of us is getting trained.