While the weather maybe cold and gray, I'm excited about the Easter weekend. I was remembering how we celebrated the holiday as kids. We usually spent it with Momma T's side of the family.
In the morning there would be three Easter Baskets lined up on the hearth, each with one large chocolate rabbit nestled in that iconic florescent plastic grass, sprinkled with jelly beans and other various candies. There might also be some peeps and a Cadbury egg in there too.
We'd get ready for church, fighting the whole way with Momma T. about the outfit she pick out for us (OK, maybe that was just me. If you saw the pictures, you'd know why I was protesting). There would always be a picture taken in the backyard of us three girls together to be sent to family members afar. Then off to church where the thought of all that candy waiting at home would make us act like Satan's children during the longest Mass EVER.
One home we'd dash through the door to do a quick inventory on our Easter baskets, making sure none of that candy had gone missing. We'd dig into some of the candy before we could be told no. If we were having everyone come to our house, we would then be permitted a reprieve from the itchy, binding dress clothes.
The family then all came together for an early dinner. The parents hid the eggs. And we'd all be waiting patiently for the figurative horn to blow, unleashing me, my sisters and my cousins to scatter through the yard. We would diligently search for each of the hard boiled eggs that we so carefully decorated earlier in the week. We learned at a young age that the eggs that could be easily located were for the "young kids". We were smarter than those babies anyways, right?. A cry for attention would arise each time an egg was discovered, lauding ourselves for finding a well hidden egg (OK, probably only me again).
I did a quick survey at work today to see if others had the same tradition. Turns out most other families hid the plastic eggs full of candy or coins. That seems like less of an adventure to me. It would be OK if not all the plastic eggs were discovered. Now the hard boiled eggs, you HAD to find all of those or risk a smell come summer that left you running.
Because Momma T and Padre might have not been paying attention to where they hid all these eggs, they used the egg crates to keep track of the count. There would usually be one spot left in that cardboard crate that would send the clan clamoring back into the yard, searching for the last elusive egg.
After that we'd all keep ourselves busy, probably eating candy and driving our parents crazy as they attempted to get dinner on the table, ultimately celebrating the way our family always does - over food.
We had some great Easters growing up. What was your Easter like as a kid?
Friday, April 22, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Good Morning
Earlier this week I had a RUDE awakening, but before I get into all that, you have to understand some background.
Sammy used to have all kinds of stomach problems when she was a pup. There were weeks straight where we would come home to find her crate a mess with diarrhea. It was heart wrenching to see her ashamed, cowering in her own mess. We didn't keep her in her crate for long. While we were working with the vet to solve her 'issues' we did many things to ensure she could let us know when she HAD TO GO. First we hung a bell from the door and every time we let her out, we encouraged her to touch her nose to the bell. It's amazing to me that years later, she still uses this technique, especially when we are ignoring her. Second she must sleep upstairs with us. I am a light enough sleeper that I can hear her paws on the linoleum. This discover came after we discovered she would sneak to the basement to do her business in the middle of the night. Now if I hear those paws moving, I'm up in a flash. If I'm really sleepy I''ll tell her to get back in her bed. If she REALLY has to go, she'll whine and I know I'd better get up.
OK, fast forward to earlier this week. I'm snug as a bug in a rug when I hear those tell tale paws heading for the stairs. I was so comfortable..."get in your bed Sam" I told her as I started to drift back asleep. It could have been two minutes or five minutes, but I heard her paws on the floor again. Just as I was about to tell her to get back in her bed, i hear a sound of something between a liquid and a solid splat on the ground. No matter the end it came out of I was on my feet, out of bed, giving her a WIDE berth fumbling for the light switch. There was probably two seconds in the dark that my mind tried to discern based on the sound, which end the mess originated from.
The second I found the switch, the smell smacked me in the face. It wasn't puke. I raced downstairs to let her out and grab cleaning supplies. By the time I cam back to the bedroom, I was walking into a wall of the foulest smelling dog poop you could imagine. Hubs was in bed, covering his face with a blanket, gagging. I normally have a strong constitution for these type of things but this time, this time I almost vomited all over that mess.
I cleaned furiously. i did not want to give that smell enough time to permeate. When I got the mess cleaned as much as I could, I went outside to find Sammy. I opened the side door to see her hiding around the corner of the house. She wouldn't come near the door as she stood far away. Her ears were perked as she looked at me as if to ask, "are you mad at me mom?" Damn that dog is cute. Almost cute enough for me to forgive her. I cheerily invited her back inside to show I wasn't mad. She ran straight to her bed. I gave her a couple pets to reassure her that I know it was her fault while I mentioned that she could have at least whined once or twice. I mean, I thought that was our system.
So here we all are, back in the bedroom with the poop stench still lingering and I look at the clock: 5:30 AM.
Sammy used to have all kinds of stomach problems when she was a pup. There were weeks straight where we would come home to find her crate a mess with diarrhea. It was heart wrenching to see her ashamed, cowering in her own mess. We didn't keep her in her crate for long. While we were working with the vet to solve her 'issues' we did many things to ensure she could let us know when she HAD TO GO. First we hung a bell from the door and every time we let her out, we encouraged her to touch her nose to the bell. It's amazing to me that years later, she still uses this technique, especially when we are ignoring her. Second she must sleep upstairs with us. I am a light enough sleeper that I can hear her paws on the linoleum. This discover came after we discovered she would sneak to the basement to do her business in the middle of the night. Now if I hear those paws moving, I'm up in a flash. If I'm really sleepy I''ll tell her to get back in her bed. If she REALLY has to go, she'll whine and I know I'd better get up.
OK, fast forward to earlier this week. I'm snug as a bug in a rug when I hear those tell tale paws heading for the stairs. I was so comfortable..."get in your bed Sam" I told her as I started to drift back asleep. It could have been two minutes or five minutes, but I heard her paws on the floor again. Just as I was about to tell her to get back in her bed, i hear a sound of something between a liquid and a solid splat on the ground. No matter the end it came out of I was on my feet, out of bed, giving her a WIDE berth fumbling for the light switch. There was probably two seconds in the dark that my mind tried to discern based on the sound, which end the mess originated from.
The second I found the switch, the smell smacked me in the face. It wasn't puke. I raced downstairs to let her out and grab cleaning supplies. By the time I cam back to the bedroom, I was walking into a wall of the foulest smelling dog poop you could imagine. Hubs was in bed, covering his face with a blanket, gagging. I normally have a strong constitution for these type of things but this time, this time I almost vomited all over that mess.
I cleaned furiously. i did not want to give that smell enough time to permeate. When I got the mess cleaned as much as I could, I went outside to find Sammy. I opened the side door to see her hiding around the corner of the house. She wouldn't come near the door as she stood far away. Her ears were perked as she looked at me as if to ask, "are you mad at me mom?" Damn that dog is cute. Almost cute enough for me to forgive her. I cheerily invited her back inside to show I wasn't mad. She ran straight to her bed. I gave her a couple pets to reassure her that I know it was her fault while I mentioned that she could have at least whined once or twice. I mean, I thought that was our system.
So here we all are, back in the bedroom with the poop stench still lingering and I look at the clock: 5:30 AM.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Once upon a time...
...there was a girl that longed for sunshine. Her skin turned gray and her smile snuck into hibernation. Age began to show on this girls face, the weight of too many winters wore deep wrinkles around her eyes. Oh sunshine, please bring warmth and rescue this girl. Lift her spirits and smooth her worries. Remind her of the simple pleasures of birds singing and flowers blooming. This girl needs you sunshine.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Embarrasing story time
A group of people were talking the other day about the strangest places their cat has ever peed. This got me thinking about Franklin and how much I didn't know about cats before I got him.
As a dog person, I'd heard horror stories about cat pee. Cat pee will stay in your house forever, seeping into the floorboards, eating through concrete, contaminating the soil with a stench so deeply rooted that calls come in from the other side of the world complaining of the stench. This was my impression of cat pee.
Cut to me, living on my own, wanting a pet. I found Franklin at the shelter, no bigger than the palm of my hand. I brought him home.
Purchasing kitty litter and supplies, I remembered all the horrific stories. What was I going to do? When ever I was home, I would stalk him around my two bedroom apartment, always supervising to make sure he didn't pee. I think he thought this was a fun game as he dashed from room to room with me on his tail.
Eventually I relaxed. He was a good kid, used his litter box like a good boy. I figured all of those 'stories' I'd heard must have been from bad, temperamental cats.
Fast forward to moving into our house. He was a little shocked by the move, but pretty resilient for a cat. That Christmas though, we through him for a loop when we brought home SAMMY. Even though she was only a mere 40lbs at the time, that was 40lbs of crazy, tail flailing, limb flying shenanigans that Franklin wanted none of. And he wanted to LET US KNOW.
He decided to jump into a clothes basket, full of clean, folded clothes, and PEE. I have no idea when he did this, because by the time I was doing my normal morning dash through the house to get to work on time, I went to grab some clothes from the laundry basket and they were still nicely folded and DRY.
It was probably about 10'oclock at work when I finally yelled over my cube wall, "Do you guys smell that? It STINKS in here". They were all 'no, I don't really smell anything'. I was all "REALLY, I think it smells like PISS!" I think I might have even asked a couple of people to come in my cube to see if they could smell it. Either they said they didn't smell anything or I'm blocking it out......
Later that day I was in the bathroom stall when I actually took a whiff of my shirt. As you can deduce, IT WAS ME. I was wearing cat piss clothing.
I was horrified.
Of course, now, two jobs later, I can share this story and laugh at the way it all played out.
The moral of the story is, don't piss off your cat or he will piss on you.
As a dog person, I'd heard horror stories about cat pee. Cat pee will stay in your house forever, seeping into the floorboards, eating through concrete, contaminating the soil with a stench so deeply rooted that calls come in from the other side of the world complaining of the stench. This was my impression of cat pee.
Cut to me, living on my own, wanting a pet. I found Franklin at the shelter, no bigger than the palm of my hand. I brought him home.
Purchasing kitty litter and supplies, I remembered all the horrific stories. What was I going to do? When ever I was home, I would stalk him around my two bedroom apartment, always supervising to make sure he didn't pee. I think he thought this was a fun game as he dashed from room to room with me on his tail.
Eventually I relaxed. He was a good kid, used his litter box like a good boy. I figured all of those 'stories' I'd heard must have been from bad, temperamental cats.
Fast forward to moving into our house. He was a little shocked by the move, but pretty resilient for a cat. That Christmas though, we through him for a loop when we brought home SAMMY. Even though she was only a mere 40lbs at the time, that was 40lbs of crazy, tail flailing, limb flying shenanigans that Franklin wanted none of. And he wanted to LET US KNOW.
He decided to jump into a clothes basket, full of clean, folded clothes, and PEE. I have no idea when he did this, because by the time I was doing my normal morning dash through the house to get to work on time, I went to grab some clothes from the laundry basket and they were still nicely folded and DRY.
It was probably about 10'oclock at work when I finally yelled over my cube wall, "Do you guys smell that? It STINKS in here". They were all 'no, I don't really smell anything'. I was all "REALLY, I think it smells like PISS!" I think I might have even asked a couple of people to come in my cube to see if they could smell it. Either they said they didn't smell anything or I'm blocking it out......
Later that day I was in the bathroom stall when I actually took a whiff of my shirt. As you can deduce, IT WAS ME. I was wearing cat piss clothing.
I was horrified.
Of course, now, two jobs later, I can share this story and laugh at the way it all played out.
The moral of the story is, don't piss off your cat or he will piss on you.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Hot Dogs
So in light of last week’s uber serious post, I thought I’d let you know how irreverent our lives typically are.
The scene: Husband and I were going to go to grab dinner last weekend, but instead we drove past the movie theater and decided to abandon our previous plan and instead see a movie (LOOK MOM, I’M BEING SPONTANEOUS). On our way to the movie we concur that dinner will have to be composed of popcorn, candy and soda. No complaints here. So there we are in the concession stand line when I decided to get a hot dog too. We were already spending more on food than on the movie, what was one more item. That is when Husband added commentary regarding my choice.
Husband: you really love your hot dogs (I’m sure this was husband making a bad pun but I choose to ignore it.)
Me: I do! Why do you think hot dogs get such a bad rap? I mean, people talk about how they are made up of lips and assholes. I get that they aren’t made from the prime cuts of beef or pork, but who cares? Isn’t it important to not waste? Because I think hot dogs are a good use of the ‘other stuff’. Besides, they TASTE GOOD. Seriously, why do people hate on hot dogs so much?
Husband: that sounds like a blog post.
The scene: Husband and I were going to go to grab dinner last weekend, but instead we drove past the movie theater and decided to abandon our previous plan and instead see a movie (LOOK MOM, I’M BEING SPONTANEOUS). On our way to the movie we concur that dinner will have to be composed of popcorn, candy and soda. No complaints here. So there we are in the concession stand line when I decided to get a hot dog too. We were already spending more on food than on the movie, what was one more item. That is when Husband added commentary regarding my choice.
Husband: you really love your hot dogs (I’m sure this was husband making a bad pun but I choose to ignore it.)
Me: I do! Why do you think hot dogs get such a bad rap? I mean, people talk about how they are made up of lips and assholes. I get that they aren’t made from the prime cuts of beef or pork, but who cares? Isn’t it important to not waste? Because I think hot dogs are a good use of the ‘other stuff’. Besides, they TASTE GOOD. Seriously, why do people hate on hot dogs so much?
Husband: that sounds like a blog post.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
What's going on?
Ok, I know I haven’t written anything in very many weeks. There is a reason behind this. I had previously decided not to write about a specific topic. It turns out that so much of my energy has been focused on this that nothing else has seemed blog-worthy. So I’m just going to change my mind and write about it (with hubs permission of course)
Behind the closed doors of our house, hubs and I have been working diligently towards a common goal – to have a baby. We purposefully haven’t announced this to the world for several reasons 1) It ruins the fun/surprise when you do announce you’re pregnant 2) It’s private 3) We don’t want to set any expectations. In other words people watching what you drink or answering every phone call from you with baited breath. 4) I was scared to admit that it was something I wanted, afraid to be labeled “baby crazy” and desperate.
Well guess what? 1) Expectations are set the minute you say ‘I do’. 2) People know no boundaries and have no problem asking about your family planning situation. I’m not talking about family. I’m talking about the acquaintance that knows you through your husband and interrogates you about why you aren’t pregnant yet. This topic alone has some blog-worthy content. Besides, when have I ever been private? 3) It will always be a surprise. 4) I have to stop caring what others think. It is something I want.
I have been very private about this, and I’m not sure why. I am usually the first to open up and share my story. But, you know what? I’m done trying to make this process/journey into what I think it should be and take it for what it is.
This blog post is sadly not about our success. It is, instead, about my monthlyfailure struggle. Even though there are tears in my eyes as I type and cross out that word, I’m leaving it in. I KNOW I haven’t failed at anything, but it sure as hell FEELS that way (so far).
There are days that it feels like one of the hardest emotionally personal struggles I’ve encountered. Yesterday was one of those days. Through it all, my Husband has been my saving grace. Just yesterday as I was silently crying in my cube at work, he called to remind me how much he loves me. He constantly makes my heart smile in spite of how down I may be. While the husband makes me smile, Biscuit lets me cry. She is my champion. I can’t count the number of times I’ve showed up in tears on her doorstep.
One of the things I have trouble reconciling is how selfish it feels-so focused on our goal, our family.
There are also days when I let go of the pity and focus on the positive. I have faith that things happen for a reason. Ultimately it will work out. Luckily these days outnumber the former.
Anyways I am putting this out there. Why? Because I need to embrace the situation and find new ways of dealing/laughing/being inspired by it. Maybe now that I’ve opened the door, I won’t be as daunted to share, be it funny, interesting, depressing or exciting. There have defiantly been many blog-worthy situations along the way. There is an unconfirmed account that Husband actually peed on a pregnancy test to “see what would happen”.
So that's what's going on with me.
Behind the closed doors of our house, hubs and I have been working diligently towards a common goal – to have a baby. We purposefully haven’t announced this to the world for several reasons 1) It ruins the fun/surprise when you do announce you’re pregnant 2) It’s private 3) We don’t want to set any expectations. In other words people watching what you drink or answering every phone call from you with baited breath. 4) I was scared to admit that it was something I wanted, afraid to be labeled “baby crazy” and desperate.
Well guess what? 1) Expectations are set the minute you say ‘I do’. 2) People know no boundaries and have no problem asking about your family planning situation. I’m not talking about family. I’m talking about the acquaintance that knows you through your husband and interrogates you about why you aren’t pregnant yet. This topic alone has some blog-worthy content. Besides, when have I ever been private? 3) It will always be a surprise. 4) I have to stop caring what others think. It is something I want.
I have been very private about this, and I’m not sure why. I am usually the first to open up and share my story. But, you know what? I’m done trying to make this process/journey into what I think it should be and take it for what it is.
This blog post is sadly not about our success. It is, instead, about my monthly
There are days that it feels like one of the hardest emotionally personal struggles I’ve encountered. Yesterday was one of those days. Through it all, my Husband has been my saving grace. Just yesterday as I was silently crying in my cube at work, he called to remind me how much he loves me. He constantly makes my heart smile in spite of how down I may be. While the husband makes me smile, Biscuit lets me cry. She is my champion. I can’t count the number of times I’ve showed up in tears on her doorstep.
One of the things I have trouble reconciling is how selfish it feels-so focused on our goal, our family.
There are also days when I let go of the pity and focus on the positive. I have faith that things happen for a reason. Ultimately it will work out. Luckily these days outnumber the former.
Anyways I am putting this out there. Why? Because I need to embrace the situation and find new ways of dealing/laughing/being inspired by it. Maybe now that I’ve opened the door, I won’t be as daunted to share, be it funny, interesting, depressing or exciting. There have defiantly been many blog-worthy situations along the way. There is an unconfirmed account that Husband actually peed on a pregnancy test to “see what would happen”.
So that's what's going on with me.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Crafts take two...
Remember Crafty Crap? In case you forgot, read here.
Oh what a difference a year makes. I finally accomplished crocheting scarves that were straight and (mostly) error free. This year I decided that I would tackle the 'granny square'.
First I must tell you how every friend, person, instructional website, stranger on the street and Sammy told me that granny squares are the easiest thing to learn. I must be an idiot because it was NOT the easiest. Maybe it's because I'm self taught.Andthe crochet vernacular was just too confusing: single crochet, double crochet, half double crochet (isn't that a single crochet), chain stitch, and more.
I have no idea what I taught myself when i made the scarves, but it was the reason I couldn't grasp the granny square. I finally devoted an evening to watching instructional you-tube videos, yarn in hand.
Ok, ok, now I get it. I see why people say this is easy. Check out my first granny square blanket or Lapgan (afghan sized for your lap). When I took this picture, it wasn't completely done. You can see that Sammy thought she was going to be the model for this photo shoot - not this time baby girl.
I am really proud of this. The only problem was the size. I love the colors and the yarn texture so much, I might go back and make it bigger.
I proudly took my craft accomplishment to Biscuit's to show off. She immediately put it on her couch to show me how GOOD it looked right there in her house. Sorry Biscuit, I'm keeping this one.
Oh what a difference a year makes. I finally accomplished crocheting scarves that were straight and (mostly) error free. This year I decided that I would tackle the 'granny square'.
First I must tell you how every friend, person, instructional website, stranger on the street and Sammy told me that granny squares are the easiest thing to learn. I must be an idiot because it was NOT the easiest. Maybe it's because I'm self taught.Andthe crochet vernacular was just too confusing: single crochet, double crochet, half double crochet (isn't that a single crochet), chain stitch, and more.
I have no idea what I taught myself when i made the scarves, but it was the reason I couldn't grasp the granny square. I finally devoted an evening to watching instructional you-tube videos, yarn in hand.
Ok, ok, now I get it. I see why people say this is easy. Check out my first granny square blanket or Lapgan (afghan sized for your lap). When I took this picture, it wasn't completely done. You can see that Sammy thought she was going to be the model for this photo shoot - not this time baby girl.
I am really proud of this. The only problem was the size. I love the colors and the yarn texture so much, I might go back and make it bigger.
I proudly took my craft accomplishment to Biscuit's to show off. She immediately put it on her couch to show me how GOOD it looked right there in her house. Sorry Biscuit, I'm keeping this one.
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