Posts Tagged 'funny'

fallen down the croc hole

Okay, y’all. We need to have a conversation about crocs.

Not croc…odiles

Crocs

Those ridiculous, come in every color of the rainbow, add charms and bedazzle them until they’re more gaudy than before, how’s that’s even possible I don’t even know, Crocs.
Since forever I have been vehemently against the croc movement.

Let me play the Never Have I Ever game and ask me about Crocs and my sign would absolutely say N E V E R.

Now that we are clear on that, let us completely change direction and talk about our kitchen. 

More specifically, our floor.

Well, if I’m being thorough it’s more like our kitchen and laundry room and hallway and half bath and the area beyond the kitchen that’s supposed to be a living area but has been overrun by dog beds and dog toys and Kellan’s “work station” (aka the place to pile ALL THE THINGS so no actual work ever even happens there so we may as well just call it an “open closet with no doors”).

These floors are where we spend probably…ehhhhh….75-80% of our day. So lots of walking and standing and general being on your feet-ness happens on these floors.

We bought this house as “new to us but not new at all” and so the previous owners had redone the kitchen and in doing so, decided to redo the floor. Granted, this house has been around the block puhlenty of times and has had maaaaaany of owners and I am hella glad they took it upon themselves to put in new flooring.

But this floor you guys.

Not only did they decide to buy IMPORTED ITALIAN TILE (that was ZOMG expensive when we had to buy like 10 tiles when we redid the half bathroom because they apparently thought the dark red monkey and pineapple tree wallpaper, among other poor design choices like a vanity that was so big you could barely close the door, was worth saving), but they also didn’t do anyone any favors in the comfort department because this floor is like walking and standing on the hardest, most unforgiving surface you can imagine. 

Without shoes. 

Because we don’t wear shoes in this house. 

My feet and calves would literally ache every night when I went to bed. A throbbing ache that wouldn’t let me sleep and basically screamed, “FLIMSY HOUSE SHOES AND SOCKS AREN’T CUTTING IT!” I would wake up in the morning and hobble down the stairs because my feet, more specifically my plantar fascia tendon, was so sore and so stiff that it just decided to start protesting the second I put my foot to the ground in hopes I’d listen and do something.

So, finally, after putting up with it and dealing with the pain for two years (I’m a glutton for punishment apparently), I decided to try and find some shoes that were easy to get on, comfortable, and would support my feet.

Naturally, I went to Zappos. They are my favorite way to buy shoes because A: I don’t have to go anywhere, which leads to B: It saves me actual hours of time because I have Sasquatch feet and finding shoes in my size is always a disappointing wild goose chase. Anyone with feet bigger than a size 8.5 don’t deserve to wear nice shoes. Apparently all of us size 11 and aboves should just head straight to the men’s section. Do not pass go. Do not look at anything that sparkles because it will not be in your size.

Anyway. Zappos. 

I start my search for indoor shoes and house shoes and supportive shoes. I add some options to my cart to compare. 

I keep searching.

I have decided that I need to do this right if I’m going to wait two years to do it at all.

And what does the search pop up?

Crocs.

What are you doing to me, Zappos????

CROCS?!

Did we not already have this conversation about acceptable shoes? I’m so happy you have lots of size 11 options but I think we’ve gone too far here. We are stepping out of bounds. 

Throw the flag. 

Blow the whistle.

We don’t do Crocs.

Then my feet reminded me in no uncertain terms that they were having a full on rebellion and if I ever wanted to walk again  – without pain – I better buck up.

Sooooooooo I hesitantly clicked on them. 

The Crocs.

And wouldn’t you knownit? These shoes had like….no wait….let me get the actual number….These shoes have one thousand three hundred and seventy six reviews and five stars. 

If one thousand three hundred and seventy six people are taking precious time out of their life to sing this many praises for these godforsaken shoes, I may as well read what they had to say.

And they said everything I hoped they wouldn’t. 

They said they were perfect house shoes. Perfect for plantar fascia issues. Perfect for hard floors. Perfect perfect perfect heart smiley emojis sunshine and rainbows.

In my brain…the rational part…the part that said NO WAY was like, well, I can always return them, right? I can say I gave it my all and it just didn’t work out and these people have no idea what they are talking about.

Heh. Crocs.

So…..I can’t even believe I’m admitting to this….so after much waffling, I bought myself a purple pair and Kellan a green and blue pair.

And then before they came we randomly left for LA for two weeks and I forgot about them (that’s acting life for ya).

When we got back home, I started wearing the crocs…because I had to do something for my feet or else (that’s what they said).

And low and behold! They were the most amazing shoes I had ever put on my feet! They looked ridiculous! I felt ridiculous! I loved them!

No more foot issues. No more screaming calves.

Hallelujah! I AM A BELIEVER!

I think I told Tim every day for at least a month straight how amazing my Crocs were. How they had solved all my problems and were so easy to clean! So fast to put on! So perfect for every situation!

Tim just rolled his eyes like suuuuuure. Whatever you say, sweetheart.

Then, one morning, Tim comes hobbling into the kitchen all, “oh…ouch…ohhhhhhh I was on my feet too long in here yesterday and I wasn’t wearing shoes.”

I saw my window and I jumped right through it.

You need to get a pair of Crocs.

Tim side eyes me all say whhhaaat? No way am I wearing Crocs.

And like the overly enthusiastic convert I was, I grabbed my phone and pulled them up on Zappos and tried to have him see the light that was CROCS.

BUT LOOK! So many color options! Special kinds for men! Here! Try mine on! You don’t understand! These shoes are ah-mazing!!! They will change your life! 

Tim finally….hesitantly….picked out a pair.

I ordered them faster than he could get the words out to tell me he changed his mind.

You won’t regret this! ::dazzle super smile DING star flashing off my teeth::

Once they came I was like an incessant grandma: DO NOT FORGET TO WEAR YOUR CROCS!

And Tim would be like OMG. FINE.

As the days went on, he slowly started to begrudgingly agree that the shoes really were useful, but he never outright said it. He wouldn’t wear them outside for yard stuff. And he’d only sometimes put them on if he was “going to be on his feet for awhile.”

Then, the night of the tornado happened. The night he was jolted awake by me running down the stairs yelling all kinds of words at him that were basically HONEY! TORNADO! SHELTER! NOW! TORNADO! NOW! SHELTER! NOW!

I ran into the kitchen. I put on my crocs. Kellan stumbled into the kitchen in his pajamas and what did I have him put on?

Crocs.

After Tim finally made his way into the shelter and we all got our bearings and took a breath, I look over at him and said, “Are you wearing any shoes??”

Because honestly we all hustled our asses out the door as fast as possible and I’m not even sure how I had the wherewithal to remember shoes for me or for Kellan and I sure as hell did not even think about Tim’s feet.

Tim looks at me with this YAH DON’T EVEN GO THERE look and says, “my Crocs.”

I had to stifle a laugh because priorities (read: tornado) but I know my face said enough. It said it all.

And Tim, seeing my look, shoots back a pleading, “but they were just so easy to put on!

::waggles my purple croc covered foot in the air toward Tim::

Don’t I know it.

goooodbyeeeee junk

So, there’s this book making the rounds called ‘The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up.’ Maybe you’ve heard of it, maybe not, but the basic premise is if any of the “stuff” you have  in your house doesn’t bring you joy (or serve some actual, daily or at least more than once every few years, functional purpose), it goes. Get rid of it. There is no need.

My friend gave me the book ooooohhhhhh I don’t know. A year or so ago? She read it, followed it, and now has one cutting board and two measuring cups in her whole kitchen. There will not be ten different measuring spoons in her household. Nooooooo way. Not having it. But, she was like, “It is so nice to get rid of all the STUFF.”

And I agreed with her. Because I am over all the STUFF collecting in our house. There is too much. It is overwhelming. I cannot handle it anymore.

About ooooohhhhhh I don’t know…a year ago, I told Tim we should do the same thing and he started hesitate-stuttering all, “But sometimes we use that. We might need this. You never know when it’ll come in handy.”

Yada yada yada and so nothing happened.

You guys.

We literally own a chair that NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO SIT ON because it’s too old and fragile.

It collects dust.

It’s a dust collector and a Tim hat stand and sometimes a clothes pile-up-on-er.

(Some of you may say, well, that chair absolutely serves a purpose! Look at all of those functional operations if performs!)

(But honestly people. We do not need another THING to hold more THINGS when those THINGS should really be put somewhere else…like the closet where the clothes and hats live)

The other…probably month by this point…I stood in the garage all, “I need another tote for this stuff…”

And then as I was standing there, it hit me and I was just like…ooooookay….if we are having to buy more totes to put more THINGS in because there are entirely too many THINGS floating around, there is a serious problem, here. Bordering on ridiculous.

So, suffice it to say I’ve been wanting to get rid of the stuff for quite some time now. I’ve just been waiting on the other half to get on board, and we all know nothing happens until it is their idea.

I mean it went something like this, out of the clear blue sky one Saturday morning:

Tim: I AM SO TIRED OF ALL OF THIS STUFF. IT HAS TO GO.

I used to go crazy over things like that all, “Um hello? I’ve been saying this for how long? And you think this is a new idea like some amazing lightbulb just went off in your head that has never been mentioned before? OMG. Are you serious right now?

But now?

Me: Yes! You’re right! Let’s do this!

Because I’m getting my way, after all….albeit months later…but we’ll just call it a win and move forward. I’ve learned a lot about being married and what you need to do to keep the peace and to also get what you want done. And when that delayed lightbulb goes off, you just roll with it, ladies.

We spent that entire weekend going through the garage and donating or shredding or recycling or putting items into a garage sale pile. After awhile we were both like, “WHY? Why in the world do we even have college notebooks and binders from however many years ago? Are we ever going to reference any of this? Can we even read and understand our own notes? Have we even opened these binders since the day before the final exam of whatever class?”

No, no we have not. We never will.

It brings no joy and serves no purpose other than to make us crazy.

AWAY IT GOES.

Tim was all, “I just want a conveyor belt to put it all on so it disappears and we don’t have to deal with it.”

Unfortunately, dear husband, the “dealing with it” is part of the process.

So, for this entire year, we are going to go through the entire house and attic. Every box and tote and drawer. We are going to ignore our sentimental side that wanted to keep a sticker from high school or a champagne glass from a college dance. We both like to keep sentimental things…but at this point the practical side is taking over and the type A personalities that cannot handle the clutter is behind the wheel because we are both. going. crazy.
Goodbye stuff.

Hellllllooooooooo freedom!

 

 

 

 

 

 

it’s not broken, just unmeasured

I guess I should have started a cooking blog or something.

Well, let me clarify:  one of those ones where all the things that aren’t supposed to happen…happen. I’m not someone you should ever take lessons from when it comes to the kitchen and events that are logically expected to occur there without incident  (exhibit a, b…I’m sure there are more). Things go very unplanned and off course and not measured in my kitchen. 

Granted that’s not always a bad thing.

“How much XYZ spices did you put in here? It’s really good!”

I have no idea?

Annnnnd there goes another amazing recipe unrealized and never to be exactly replicated because I don’t measure. I mean I guess I am pretty okay at cooking things. I can whip up dinner no problem these days.

Really it’s the baking where things go wrong.

Probably because I don’t measure. Damn that baking powder blowing up my cookies to the size of muffin tops or damn the whatever it is that happens when they end up so flat the chocolate chips are like giant mountains over a prairie terrain.

Chemistry. Mocks me every time. 

But measuring….measuring is such. a. pain. It means I have to actually get those little spoons out and find the right one and then two different things need the same amount but now that particular sized spoon is dirty and those spoons really are the worst dish ever to wash..save maybe cookie sheets because I’ll be damned if I somehow don’t turn the pan the wrong way and water either gets all over me or all over the counter.

I’m all about less dishes. Save the water. Avoid a mess. Whatever. Just no measuring. I guesstimate. Eyeball it. That pile I poured looks like abooouuut tablespoon. We’re good. Moving on.

Also about those spoons I don’t even like? I think we have five different sets. It’s probably so I didn’t have to wash a set in the middle of a project. But then that means there are multiple sets to man handle later and so really nobody wins.

And oh the irony….we BOTH still prefer to use the original set.

Anyway, so funny enough, the other day we were making tacos and I had taken out all of the spices and was putting them in the pan with the ground turkey (none of that packaged seasoning stuff here…making your own is so much better!) and I looked at Tim and said, “I don’t measure, just so you know.”

He just kind of nodded his head all Oh-I-know-and-there-is-no-sense-in-explaining-the-reasons-why-we-measure-because-it-falls-on-deaf-ears-I’ve-learned-to-pick-my-battles-and-this-is-one-I’ll-never-win-I’ll-be-over-here-saving-my-sanity-and-preparing-myself-to-choke-it-down-thankyouverymuch.

I continued about my extremely scientific ways, i.e. Eyeballing, and no one really says anything more about it until we sit down to eat. 

And then it happens. 

After Tim takes a bite, he is all, totally unprompted, “These are honestly the best tacos ever. The flavor of the meat is AH-MAZING.

Excellent to hear, dear husband.

She Who Does Not Measure will just be over here, doing what she does, damn all the spoons.

maybe I’m just weird?

I know. It’s been awhile. Like, I’ll be starting my third trimester in a few days and the last time I was around was to say that baby bista was a boy.

Which, by the way, he’s a boy with no name. Guess we better get on that…not that we haven’t tried. We are just having a really hard time coming up with a name, or even a few names (which is preferable), to choose from when he’s born. I’m hoping something just comes to us soon….like a lightbulb moment…I digress.

My whole point of this post really has nothing to do with baby bista. At least, not yet. 

So, lately, Tim and I have really been trying to pick out battles with Kellan the threenager (why didn’t anyone warn me??? Holy roller coaster of emotions every five minutes). We are trying (and I say trying because we fail a lot. Daily. It’s pretty frustrating to feel like you really suck at parenting at least once every day, usually more)….anyhow, we are trying to let things go unless it is a legitimate safety or respect issue. 

You want to eat standing up? Not use any utensil at all, ever? Make “animals” out of play doh and let them dry out? Wipe the stainless steel refrigerator with wipes to “clean it?” Use five different chapsticks every ten seconds and roll them up so far that half of the stick gets stuck in the top? Put stickers all over the banister to make it “beautiful?,” pack single toys and objects into thirty separate gallon ziplock bags? Race your cars through flour? You want to do alllllllllllll of this along with a myriad of other activities that can make a type A person go insane and also take forever to clean up?

Knock yourself out, kid. Do it. Do all of those things. We aren’t here to stop you.

Do we want to say no?

Yes.

All the time. 

ALL. THE. TIME.

But…we aren’t.

We may be cringing on the inside, but we let him go. Unless it’s respect (like hitting the dogs’ crate to scare them) or safety related (like trying to jump while on the stairs – OMG kid almost gave me a heart attack. Had he fallen, it would have been 15 steps down and backwards).

We are trying to just go with it, and it is HARD. 

[cue me whining] I don’t want to wait five minutes for him to pick a bedtime story and then change his mind after he gets all settled in. 

I was like too bad. 

And Tim was like, is this really that important to battle over?

No, it isn’t….([whining again] but I’m tired!!!!)

I guess that’s where the rub lies. Kellan wants to do, or not do, something that we don’t want to deal with because we can already see the outcome. We know the end game.

But….he doesn’t. And how is he to if of they he is never given the chance? Trial and error. Hypothesize. Experiment. Fail.

And fail and fail and fail.

Or, maybe he’s just expressing his creativity. The 30 gallon bag activity was a beast of a mess to clean up, but Kellan was so into it. What he was doing he was calling an “important job” and who am I to tell him it’s not?

Or trying to be helpful, like with the wipes. Tim has an OCD thing about streaks on stainless, and let me tell you, baby wipes leave more than just a streak. More like a film or impossible to remove streaks. But, Kellan sees that activity as cleaning. He’s trying to bechelpful. Why kill that desire, even if at the time it isn’t 100% correct? Yes, we can give him the appropriate cleaning tools, but that was a spontaneous act and why stop him when he sees what he’s doing as helping mom and dad?

So, I’m not exaggerating about any of this. All real. All happening on a daily basis. I told Tim that we are going to have to have and keep a sense of humor about all of this, plus the sass and attitude we are getting and will continue to get, or this whole parenting experience is going to be miserable.

And no one wants to be miserable.

So, enjoy our messes, and go make your own. Maybe I’m in the minority and I’ll end up with hooligans, but this is how we have decided to approach this. We are letting go of control (and it’s really hard)….and neat and tidiness…and trying to overlay what we want Kellan (and eventually baby bista) to do and/or how to do it versus what he wants to do. Unless it comes to safety or respect. Then we draw a line.

I’m sure lots of parents think we are crazy. And maybe we are, I don’t know. That’s the benefit, really, because no one knows what they’re doing when it comes to being a parent. You’re learning on the job, just like everyone else, and no two kids are the same, so no method isn’t a catch all. 

I figure you have to ebb and flow.

So. Here we are. Real life. Ebbing and flowing.

The bags. The other half were on the coffee table:



The lack of utensils. That’s birthday cake frosting by the way.

The Chapstick….



The five hundred play doh animals that were eventually thrown away:



it’s rolling away!

So, let it be known that we bought a $20 watermelon the other weekend.

Yes, you read that correctly.

A twenty dollar watermelon.

Twenty. Dollars.

An entire Jackson dedicated to a single piece of fruit.

Since moving to Arkansas, we have had to drive basically an hour both ways to the grocery store. Where we live has exactly zero options for organic produce. I know. I’m so annoying. Just buy the other kind. Except, I can’t. Now that I know what I know about GMOs and what we are doing to our food these days…it actually hurts my soul to buy any produce without a 9 in the front of its little fruit code. My bananas? 94011. So, we drive every weekend to the only – and I mean only grocery store with a decent selection of produce that is within close proximity. Why not Whole Foods, you say?

I think the closest Whole Foods is two hours away.

We live in the sticks, you guys. At least when it comes to healthy eating options.

Anyway, on one such trip to said grocery store, I let Kellan pick out a watermelon on the way in. They were in one of those giant cardboard bin things and the kid loves watermelon. It’s only good in the summer. Who am I to deny him?

We go about our business buying the remainder of what is on our list and finally get to the checkout. The girl behind the counter was brand spanking new. She had the cheat sheet explaining how to scan everything literally two inches in front of her face and was struggling with how to do the watermelon, so she had to save it for last so she could ask someone to help her.

Finally, whoever was in the checkout counter next to us told her what to put in and she did while Tim, watching the screen to see how much everything is, sees the watermelon price pop up, looks at her and goes, “The watermelon is how much?”

“Twenty dollars.”

Tim: “Twenty dollars?” Obviously he’s sure she punched something…multiple somethings…in wrong.

“Yes sir! Twenty dollars!” She says with a smile. Because I guess this is a normal occurrence here. Twenty dollar watermelons.

Tim looks at me, his eyes about to bug out of his head like what in the world kind of watermelon is this?!

I just look back at him completely innocent all I have no idea. It’s organic? (But seriously that’s ridiculous for a watermelon).

Me: Do you want me to put it back? (This is always the response when the husband is about to have a coronary over the price of anything. You’ll see why…)

Tim: No.

Me: Are you sure?

Tim, through gritted teeth: NO.

Tim was not going to be shamed by a watermelon.

Right before Tim lifted our precious cargo into the cart, the guy waiting in line behind us looks at him dead in the eye and says, “better savor it, man.”

****

My story was actually going to end there, until our watermelon drama continued today. Except it wasn’t twenty dollars. Instead, it was poorly secured (read: not at all) in the back of my car. I have a Highlander and if your groceries aren’t properly stowed, they’re going to roll around everywhere.

Somehow, the watermelon Kellan and I bought today managed to escape its little nook and was rooooolllling all the way to the left and then rooooollllllling all the way to the right every time I turned a corner, all the way home.

When we made it to the garage, I took Kellan out the the car and then opened the back hatch to get the groceries. The watermelon was right at the edge, basically about to fall onto the bumper.

Before I could load my arms with all the bags of groceries my arms could possibly carry and do the grocery bag shuffle to the house – because that’s what you do when you have a toddler – I went to unlock the door and put my purse on the counter. Past experience has taught me not to have a locked door and a million grocery bags. New moms take heed.

Right before I went inside, I hear this dull thud. In that moment I knew. I knew what had just happened.

Kellan! Did you crash the watermelon to the ground?? The hard, cold, concrete ground….

The response was a very happy “Yes!”

“It’s ruined!” I yell back.  I know this because just a week or so ago, a watermelon fell out of the back of my car and when we got it home, it was completely ruined inside. You’d think I’d learn to strap that baby into the seat by now.

I put my purse down and turned back to go to the garage to survey the damage when I hear a panicked Kellan yelling, “Oh no! It’s rolling away! Oh no! It’s rolling away!!!!”

In the ten seconds it took me to put up my purse and make it back out to the garage, our watermelon had managed to find its way out of the garage to our downward sloping driveway and tried to make a run for it.

Where is it? I asked Kellan, between fits of laughter. I knew that in his mind, he had just made the biggest mistake of his life. He crashed his watermelon to the ground (haha! Look at what I did!) and now, now it was paying him back. Cause and effect in the greatest of lessons.

There! Down there! In the road!

We have taught Kellan that the road is for cars and if one is coming, we move to the grass because we have no sidewalk here. He knows the road is no place for a kid or a watermelon to just casually meander.

Kellan points frantically to the gutter all the way across the street, looking at me like, “Why are you just standing there and laughing, mom? This is an emergency! The watermelon! It’s rolling away! It’s in the road!”

 

 

yah. that didn’t happen.

Have you ever read that “story” about the dad who comes home to utter chaos – kids running around in their pajamas, half-eaten food everywhere, every room a complete disaster? And he’s searching frantically for his wife because something must be wrong? And he finds her upstairs, in bed, reading? And then she says you know how you ask what I do all day? Well, today I didn’t do it.

That’s the situation with the kitchen and family room right now. Complete disaster. Buttons – hundreds of buttons in varying shades of green – are in every corner, scattered all over the floor, under the table, in places we won’t even realize for months, probably. And it looks like Hobby Lobby exploded all over the kitchen table. Scrapbook paper, sewing needles and thread, ribbons and miscellaneous buttons, felt and probably a pair of scissors.

All because I wanted to try and complete one tiiiiiny piece of our advent calendar for this year.

Leave a toddler unsupervised for thirty minutes and your whole house will turn itself inside out. They’re all conspiring against you, really. Toddlers. Houses. Toys of all kinds.

I told Tim yesterday that I felt like I had zero time to so anything other than domestic duties. I mean, really, is the laundry EVER DONE?

No, no it’s not.

Neither are the dishes.

They both auto populate with things you don’t even remember using or wearing or seeing on another person. We may as well slap an infinity sticker on their fronts because they’re always full, half full, or being filled.

I cannot seem to catch up and my need for organization and order is sounding bells and whistles in my brain. Note: The Container Store is my BFF. If you don’t know what to get me for Christmas, start there. I’d be forever grateful. There are about seventy million half finished projects going on in my life right now. The advent calendar “fillers” being one, because I can’t just write the activity on a piece of paper and call it a day. Noooooooooo. I have to go and make *special* tchotchkes.

Granted, once they’re done, I never have to make them again, so, really, I’m saving myself work in the long run, right? That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway….

It’ll be super cute once I’m finished. I mean, when you buy this advent calendar, you can’t just put paper notes inside. It’s blasphemy!

So, I guess there will be many more days of utter house chaos and destruction, if I am ever going to finish anything…

typical man behavior

You guys.

STORY OF MY LIFE.

Me, yesterday: Thanks for leaving juuuuuuust enough toilet paper in the downstairs bathroom to not have to change the roll. I feel like I’m always changing that blasted thing and I RARELY USE IT.

Tim: I checked to make sure there was some in the spare tin first.

You checked to make sure…wait.

Juuuust wait onnnne second, here.

You checked the spare tin to make sure there was another roll of toilet paper?

Let me make sure I fully hear what you’re saying: You checked the tin. As in you physically bent down, lifted the lid, focused your eyes while you peered inside, and then – and then – seeing another completely functional and unused roll, put the lid back on again to make sure….what?

Ohhhhhhhhhh.

I understand, now.

You checked to make sure your plush, cotton soft savior was inside so, fingers crossed, *I* would be the one to use the last two squares on the toilet paper holder and then be faced with the scraping sound of the cardboard roll of despair.

Gee, thanks, dear. Kind of reminds me about the time you left one q-tip in the jar.

PS: I’m writing this in jest. No arguments were had over the TP.


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