Monday, February 10, 2020

Well helloooo there.

I was over here minding my own business, going through some of my old posts because someone wanted to see my blog, and know I went through a weird phase where I didn't care about paragraphs and grammar? It kind of bugs me now. You'd think I'd try to improve or something.
Anyhoo, while I was looking them over I noticed that my last post (made not too long ago) telling you my posts were now available for you to peruse got 65 views.
Honestly, I thought you were all dead.
You didn't comment either, which offended me, but actually  I'm so old now I can't remember if I disabled them or not.
Now that I think of it, maybe it's just robots. Sixty five robots reading what I wrote. Makes me feel better. Maybe their just taking notes on bloggers, finding the ones that can write and the ones that cannot.
If you are a real person, and you were reading my blog? Some of my posts....o.k. a lot of them, weren't that great. I'm sorry you had to read them. There's too many to go back and fix, and I never plan on writing a book, so does it really matter?
I'm telling myself it doesn't.

I'm not actually believing it.

Wednesday, January 16, 2019

Don't get too excited.

I mean, go ahead if you want to get too excited, but I wouldn't, if I were you.
I'm just publishing all my old blog posts. Again.
The problem?
They're not in order, which drives me crazy.
They range from 2006-2011, and they're all mixed up.
Oh well.

"Cursum Perficio"

Listen to "Cursum Perficio" by Enya, and tell me they're not saying...
Curt's seafood
Curt's deep seafood
Curt's seafood
Curt's deep seafood
I used to sing "Herb's seafood" along with our Enya cd, but now that I hear it on the computer, I'm totally convinced she's chanting "Curt's seafood. Curt's deep seafood."
Which is great for business if your name is Curt, and you own a seafood shop, eh? Sorry Herb. Why Enya named it "Cursum Perficio", I'll never know. Maybe it means Curt's seafood in Latin.

"War is hell..."

...And so is sheetrocking. My husbands philosophy is "Anything I can do, you can do...too." Lift sheets of wallboard above your head? Sure, she can do it. Mud and tape? No problem. Sand walls for a thousand days? She's your woman. Of course, he works harder than I do. But, he's a man, right? I'm not one of those "Equal Rights For All!" sort of gal. I'm more of a "I can't do that! That's man's work! Don't get me wrong, I'm the one that usually takes the garbage out, mows the lawn, etc. But construction? I just don't wanna do it.
I don't want to be Mr. Handyman's helper. toilets leaking, and we gotta pull the floor out? Hated it. Moving steel plates up to 200 lbs? Waaah. Pack up and move when you're pregnant? I did it, but I didn't like it. I've tried the whole "I am pregnant!" but it doesn't get me out of anything. Whatever happened to all the man friends that came over to your house back in the day, painting, carpeting, sheet rocking? My grandpa always had plenty of men helping him paint his house. I say to my husband "You need some man friends to help you do this. Call this person, or that person." His answer? "Why, when I have you?" *sigh*
I never saw my mom hammer anything. Not even a nail for a picture. Maybe she did when I was younger, and I just don't remember it. My dad was always painting, wallpapering, hanging pictures, or hiring someone do to landscaping. If he didn't do it, then another man did. NOT my mom. So man friends, where are you? Can't you come over and finish sanding the basement so we can paint and put flooring down before the carpet comes next Saturday? Please?

I don't know about you, but....

something about this just seems, well...wrong, lol...

I was looking at Christmas candles on ebay, and came across this set. I wonder if there's a punishment in the next life for burning the nativity. Baby Jesus with a wick coming out of his stomach just seems really wrong. Maybe it's just me.

Jolly Old St. Nicholas

The following is a conversation I had with my 2 1/2 year old...
Nicholas: (handing me the digital camera) Mom, take a picture of me pweeease?
Me: Your face is all dirty (I had given him the brownie batter bowl to clean)
Nicholas: Pweeeeease mom?? Pweeeeease??
Me: Okay, but your face sure is dirty
*snap picture, and hand the camera to Nicholas to look*

Nicholas: (with a puzzled look on his face) What's on my face?
Me: That's brownie batter
Nicholas: Take another picture please!

He did a good job of hiding his messy face, didn't he? LOL.


I don't know what it is about my children, but they like to announce when they're about to vomit. They either stand in the hallway, and yell it, or they stand at the foot of my bed whimpering, until I ask them what's the matter. "I'm going to throw up!" they manage to gag out. "WELL GET IN THE BATHROOM!" I bark. Why do they announce this? I might never know. It is 3:37 a.m., and I am blogging. Why? Because my son awakened me, by crying out at the foot of my bed, "I'm going to throw up!" Why the warning? So I can rub their back? Get them water? I think my husband knew I couldn't do it, so he ordered ds into the bathroom, and went to get him a pillow and blanket to sleep by the toilet all night.
I laid in my bed, and felt guilt for being wide awake, and doing absolutely nothing to help my son, while my husband, who usually gags at the sound of vomit, trudged around helping him. So I made the mistake of getting up. I had to go to the bathroom anyway, and thought I could stop in the kitchen and get him a glass of water. BIG mistake. As soon as I hit my bedroom door, which is right next to the bathroom, I smelled the most vile stench. It smelled like rotten eggs. I immediately covered my mouth, and ran downstairs to the bathroom. Ahhhh, fresh air. I knew I had to go back up, not only to go back to bed, but to show my son that I did care that he was sick. As soon as I hit the middle stair, I could smell it. Sulphurous vomit. *Gag* "Oh no! Now I'm going to throw up!" I ran to the kitchen, and began dry heaving violently. I don't know what it is about this pregnancy, but I don't just feel nauseous. No, I wretch violently. Even if nothing is coming up. And it lasts for about 10 minutes. I guess the baby doesn't like bad smells.
 Anyhoo, I managed to get control of myself, filled up a glass of water, and grabbed the lysol, and covered my mouth with my sleeve. I sprayed halfway down the hallway when my husband realized what I was doing. "Enough with the lysol!" he said. "I can't make it down the hallway if I don't spray it!" I whined. He told me to just come in the bedroom and close the door. I still had to deliver the water, so I scurried to the bathroom door, mouth and nose still covered, and stretched my arm around the corner to give him the water. "I threw up", he said weakly. Uh, yeah, I came to that conclusion already.
So, now I am awake, and for some reason, blogging while my husband watches a re-run of the x-files. I don't ever remember galloping into my mom's bedroom when I felt like throwing up. Maybe I did, and I just blocked it out. I need to do a better job training my children to just head straight to the bathroom, instead of making an announcement first. At least until the baby comes. I mean, when I feel sick at the grocery store, I don't run and get the manager. No, I head straight to the bathroom, and do my business. No fanfare, no alerts. Maybe this comes with age. *sigh* I guess I'll just have to wait, and hope that when they are older, they won't have to wake me up. They'll just vomit, and go back to bed.