Monthly Archives: May 2008

The fancy new cell phone. It scares me.

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So Hubby got me a new cell phone, as I mentioned before. Its a VCast thingee with a keypad thingee and it flips open. There are a lot of thingees that go with this particular cell phone.

Don’t get me wrong. I love it..yet, I don’t. You see, it scares me. It has all these features that totally confuse me. While messing around with it to try to figure it out I wondered how many buttons I had pushed that might be charging me $10 a bump on my next wireless bill.

You can download music on to it and take photos with it and spy on your neighbors with it and push a red button and blow up half of China. It is very impressive. And scary.

Did I mention it scares me?

See, that is what is sad about me. Not only do some people intimidate me, but phones intimidate me. That is sad. Pathetic even.

Let me tell you about the people who intimidate me. People who seem to be in control of everything intimidate me. People who are too out of control intimidate me. People who don’t talk a lot intimidate me and make me talk more. People who answer questions like “How are you?” with “OK,” and then don’t elaborate not only intimidate me, but irritate me. People who dress nice intimidate me. Skinny people intimidate me.

Shall I go on? No, I don’t think so either.

So this phone intimidates me. It’s like a girl in my office. Not because it is very thin and complicated and she is too, but because like her it is mysterious and I can’t figure it out.

She and I are alone together in the mornings, but I might as well be alone. I attempt to strike up a conversation with her, but each morning she makes it clear she’d rather not converse with me at all. I’ll ask her how her day is going and she’ll answer with “Good.” and then turn back to her desk. Sometimes she doesn’t even turn around, she just keeps typing away on her computer. It isn’t that she’s deep in thought or working hard either. She’s surfing the net a lot of the time (I don’t do that, of course. Because I’m perfect, in case you didn’t know. I’m also sarcastic, in case you didn’t know.)

Because she won’t talk to me I know very little about her. I know she’s married and her husband will soon be going to law school and she’ll soon be moving. But I don’t know her, ya’ know what I mean? So one day I see her on blogger (oooops…will I get kicked off WordPress for writing that?) Ummm..so one day I see her on a blog creating site. I can’t get a clear shot of what the name of her blog is, but it’s killing me not knowing what she’s writing about. I mean, maybe it is personal stuff and I might actually learn something about her. Right?

Eventually I figure out the name of her blog (no, I’m not going to tell you how because then I would have to kill you). Turns out it is about how she and her husband are going “green.” No, they aren’t becoming Irish. They’re getting more environmentally conscious.

Yaaaawn!

It details all this crap that she’s trying to be more healthy and use less chemical-producing products in her house. Whoop-de-friekin’-do.

Mysterious my butt. She’s just as boring as the next guy (girl, wha’ever).

So, maybe in the same way this phone is just as boring as the next phone.

Or maybe it is a weapon of mass destruction that has been placed in the completely untrained hands of little ole’ me. Thanks to Hubby I may soon blow up the world. Brace yourselves folks. Luckily, this thing is too complicated, though, so most likely I won’t know which button to push to do it.

Weekly confession: Yes, my boobs are rather battered.

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Come on in. Sit down.

Make yourself at home. It’s time for weekly confession at Boondock Ramblings.

My confession: I didn’t expect to be nursing an 18-month old, but I am. And my boobs are paying for it.

At this point, some who normally read my blog may want to log off. I’m about to talk about breasts – and not in a good way.

My boobs are dried up husks, pathetic specimens of womanhood.

They have been pulled on, dragged across rooms, and squeezed until there is barely any flesh left to squeeze.

I am nursing a toddler.

Holy crap. How did I get to this point? How did I become one of those moms? One of those moms who nurses a toddler and thinks it is normal?

But yet, I’m not all the way there yet. I do not carry cloth diapers in my homemade, knitted diaper bag while carrying a nine-month old on my hip with my hand sown sling and holding the hand of a 2-year old while shuffling along in my sandals to the organic farmer’s market. I do not scowl at women purchasing formula or shake my fingers at the mother shoving a pacifier in her screaming child’s mouth.

No, in fact, I stuff my non-biodegradable Luvs diapers in a plastic, Made In China backpack with Spiderman on the outside, leading only one child by his hand to the supermarket where we buy maybe one or two organic items and several boxed ones that may or may not have too much sugar and way too much fat in it.

I do ascribe to Dr. Sear’s Attachment Parenting philosophy, the one that suggests child-led weaning is healthy and beneficial to a child. I do not believe co-sleeping is evil. In fact I practice it. I don’t feel awkward when a woman breast feeds her child in front of me.

I do, however, feel awkward when said woman whips out her boob for all to see. Discreetly is preferred, even though I feel breast feeding is completely natural.

So, here I am. Nursing a toddler. A toddler who sometimes shoves his hand down my shirt in public and squeezes a boob or tugs on a nipple. A toddler who sometimes lifts my shirt and nuzzles my chest and has started giggling and pointing if I agree to allow him to nurse. A toddler who this week exclaimed “Ah!” when I disrobed the boob to let him nurse and then pointed at a nipple and inquired, “Boobie?”

Craaaap. I gotta wean. And soooon!

Do I plan to wean? Absolutely. Am I going to be pressured to do so before my son is emotionally ready? Nope. Do I plan to breastfeed for as long or co-sleep if Hubby and I have another child? Absolutely not. That kid is sleeping in his or her own bed and will like it. He or she is drinking from a bottle and will like it. He or she will eat like a normal child and …yep, like it.

It isn’t as if I planned it this way – to be one of those “extended breastfeeding” women.

My almost 19-month old has suffered through acid reflux and ear infections and because of those illnesses it just never seemed the right time to start the weaning process. It seemed too traumatic a process to begin when my child was so miserable and clingy and ill. So, I didn’t start the process and I haven’t – fully, anyhow. I have on a limited basis.

But I know I have to. I don’t want to be nursing a five-year old as my brother is sure I will be. The mere thought makes me queasy and light-headed, in fact.

There you have it. My confession for the week. That I am a extended breast feeding mama who plans to begin the weaning process and is simply a bit freaked out about it all.

So, how’s your week going?

Too cute. Almost. Too cute.

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Once again this week Jonathan did one of those hour naps early in the evening and then decided he would stay up the whole night. I tried to lay him down again, he kept popping up and looking at me with wide eyes. I finally took the mature route.

Does flopping on the bed and bursting into tears fit into the definition of mature?

I hope so because that is what I did.

After a few moments of laying flat on my face on the bed, I felt small hands patting my back, as if to comfort me.

I looked up and saw wide blue eyes watching me and a very somber look on my 18-month old child’s face. He smiled slowly, waved at me and greeted me like he does the cat, the dog, little girls, cashiers, anyone in fact — “Hi” in a cute little voice with the “i” going high at the end. He’s actually imitating me and how I have always said “hi” to him.

Then he giggled.

And it almost made the fact I was now going to be a walking zombie at work (again) worth it.

Almost, but not quite.

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To boost my score and find some fun …..CLICK right HERE. I’ve also updated my other blog RIGHT HERE. Is that annoying or what? HERE. HERE. and HERE. Wha’ eva. Just click it already.

Need to share: My husband is awesome

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This is just a quick post to share that my husband is very awesome. Yeah, I like to slam him and make fun of him and all that jazz, but truly he is a sweetheart.

A couple years ago we upgraded our cellphones and with our package we could get a very nice phone and a little less nice phone. He got the really nice cell phone and gave it to me. Then the toddler threw it in the toilet.

*sigh*

Well, it is time for upgrades again. I’ve been using this cruddy old LG that has horrible reception and battery power that lasts … oh, maybe 10 minutes.

Last night Hubby ordered our phones. I can’t tell you what he got me because it is too advanced for me to know the name of it. All I know is it is a very, very nice phone (not an iPhone, but really…I would lose that in a week and feel guilty about it for a lifetime) and once again he has sacrificed having something cool so I can have something cool.

And I think that makes him a very cool, very awesome Hubby.

So I wanted to share.

What makes your Hubby awesome and cool?

*wince* OK. That was awkward

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There are a lot of awkward moments in my job. I'm a reporter for a small town newspaper, if you forgot.

Anyhow, I was taking a photograph of a check presentation — which we call a "grip and grinner" today and the young man, an eighth grader, was accepting some scholarship money. He happened to have the same last name as a long doctor.

The woman presenting the check says: "So, are you Dr. So-And-So's son?"

"Yes, but I don't have any contact with him," the kid says.

No hostility in his voice. Just a matter of the fact statement.

Can you hear the crickets chirping?

I could.

Aaaaaawkward. Yikes.

I saw some more aaawkward things RIGHT HERE.

Unsolicited Sex Story (Not Mine)

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Sometimes you simply don't want to know, ya' know? But still, the other person keeps on talkin' and talkin' and talkin' . . .

This happened Tuesday and though it did not directly involve me, I was able to witness the oddness of it all. I often seem to witness the "odd" in life. What's up with that?

Anyhow, a group of about 15 high school seniors were visiting the local assisted living facility Tuesday to garner advice from the elderly residents. I was there to take photographs for the local paper. They were all sitting casually in a nicely decorated dining room.

It seemed to be going well.

But before long the scene became ugly, very ugly.

The students asked the residents what they had done after high school, if they had gone to college, what activities they had participated in during high school, what type of music they had listened to in their youth, etc.

It was going fairly smooth and then Little Italian Lady (I call her this only because she kept saying 'We're Italian, you know…") spoke up.
She had been talking about curfews and her father who was "a real gentleman," then somehow she got off track.

"Back in the day all the Italian woman owned boarding houses," she said. "My grandmother owned one and my father stayed there. That's when he saw my mother. She was 12."

I glance at the students and one of the girl's eyes widen to the size of saucers and she looks at a student next to her and then catches my eye. I can tell she and I are thinking the same thing.

"Oh crap. Where is this going?"

"He told my grandmother that he wanted to marry her daughter," said Little Italian Lady. "But my grandmother said, 'she's only 12.' My father said he didn't care and if she didn't agree to let him marry her he'd kidnap her. Well, they agreed to let him marry her and two months later he brought her back. He said, 'Well, all she thinks marriage is about is cleaning. She needs to have it explained to her.'"

Little Italian Lady and Second Little Italian Lady start to laugh. I'm holding my notebook in front of my face to cover the fact I'm about to burst into laughter.

Wiser Older Lady sees that wherever this story is going it is not going to be good and attempts to derail it.

"So," she says, turning to the students. "Do any of you hold positions in your class, like secretary or president?"

"I'm secretary," says one girl, seeming to be pleased with the interruption of Little Italian Lady's story.

"I'm president," another young man says.

Unfortunately, Little Italian Lady is not to be deterred and forges ahead with her horror story.

Other Little Italian Lady laughs and joins in with Little Italian Lady's story.

"I know. I know… back then they didn't tell you about that stuff," Other Little Italian Lady cackles.

"We didn't know about sex," Little Italian Lady says, now fully laughing at her story.

The students are talking over her here and there, trying to steer the conversation away from Tour of Old People Sex Lives.

"Well, she gave my father ten children, so I guess she figured out what it was all about," Little Italian Lady declares with a laugh.

And with that I excused myself, grateful I had another appointment and I could laugh my butt off in my car on the way down the road and not in front of those horrified and mortified students.

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For more horrifying and mortifying stories CLICK HERE.

For more unsolicited sex, or solicited, depending on the day, CLICK HERE.

Yes, Billy Bob real men can cook

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I’ve just told the local sheriff Hubby cooked stuffed pork chops for me for lunch and I won’t need the sandwich being offered to me at a press conference at the local jail.

I’ve known the sheriff for years, as has Hubby, so I know he’s teasing when he turns his thumb into his palm and tells the director of victim services I’ve got Hubby under my thumb.

The next day we see each other again for another meeting and the sheriff says Hubby’s making all the other married men look bad. The second in command at the jail is standing with us and laughs at the sheriff’s jokes. He’s a “man’s man” too after all. Has to put on a good face.

Sheriff wanders off to another meeting and Second in Command leans slightly toward me and says, “If your husband needs some cooking advice have him call me.”

He looks over his shoulder one way, then the other.

“I’m Italian. In my house, I’m the cook.”

Looks over his shoulder again.

“I mean, if I want hot dogs or grilled cheese sandwiches, I let the wife cook. Otherwise I do the cooking.”

Looks over shoulder, shifts positions so he’s in front of me, as if he’s afraid one of his co-workers will see him.

“Let me tell you this great recipe that you can give to your husband. I get four pork chops and put them in four packages of aluminum foil. Cut up red, green and yellow peppers and some onions. Get a glove of garlic for each package. Pour just four teaspoons of chicken broth over it all, close the packages and throw it on the grill for half an hour. It’s awesome.”

The whole time he’s making all the motions of cutting up and folding packages. His eyes are dancing with excitement. And in between it all he keeps checking over his shoulder, making sure none of his co-worker’s have heard him.

“You know what else men can do? Go to the spa. My wife and I went to this place. You can get a massage together. And facials. It’s awesome. Seriously. Do it.”

Second in Command and I part ways – him back to pretending not to be “whipped” and me to tell Hubby men can cook and still be a “man’s man.”

____

For other man who can “cook” click on to Humor-Blogs.

And for all the mommies out there, a photo of my little guy because he is too darn cute!