Play on color.

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Guess what? Money doesn't grow on trees.

I have the excuses:

1. I have way less "free" time (with "free" meaning without Mateo around) than I had before.


2. I'm tired.


3. As long as checks aren't bouncing, we're good.


4. I can't go through the piles of receipts, I just can't, I can't.

Well, it's finally time to come to the realization that we are, in fact, in debt. And I need to get on the ball and get us rolling on a budget again. I mean, every one's in debt, right? It's nothing to be ashamed of. How else would we have a condo? Or put Mateo in daycare? And with how the economy is today, we have no choice but to keep the condo, which means Mateo has to be in daycare.

When I was much, much younger, I was much, much wiser with my money. I think it's because I never had to consider another person, or two people plus two cats, in my money situation. I saved money. Hoarded money. And when I moved in with my husband, he was footing a lot of the bills and I was contributing when I could. We hardly went out. We hardly ate out. We watched every penny, dime, dust bunny, and we did as best we could.

When I got my corporate job, right out of college, I went a little nuts on buying stuff. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I got on this really odd Beanie Baby kick along with Boyds bears and random Laurel Burch cat things. I think it was my midlife crisis come early because I spent so many years not spending and not having money, and now, all of a sudden, I felt like the richest person on earth!

At some point I realized we were getting no where fast. I put my husband and I on a budget, socked away a lot of money for, well, something unknown, and we were doing really well. We still went out and had fun, but we weren't being excessive.

Then we bought our condo, and a huge chunk of our savings and our monthly money simply....vanished. We were still doing okay, nothing really to worry about, following a strict budget, and managing some fun here and there.

And then, the biggest cost of our life showed up: our son. When I got pregnant, I was immensely tired all the time and lacked any sort of motivation to do anything relatively productive except stuff food down my throat. I spent many hours sitting on the couch, dozing off, incubating my wee one while our two cats snuggled up against my big body.

This time in my life, I can honestly say, was when it all when to poo. My husband started fretting over the piles and piles of receipts I wasn't doing a thing with and requested I show him how Quicken works. I did, but then he never really took over the money duty. So I did what I could when I could muster the brain power and energy (because you all know it takes a lot of energy to tippity type numbers into accounting software, puleeze), I would go through the receipts, pay the bills, and make sure we weren't missing anything and had enough money.

When I actually had Mateo, I would deal with the money as I could, usually when he was passed out, sleeping his new life away. It was hard to do anything for any length of time, but I managed.

Then I went back to work, and it took me months and months to get into any sort of routine. I would have to say that it's taken me little less than year. I look back on the past year and feel like it was the most chaotic year of my life; trying to manage work, life, baby turning slowly into toddler, husband, family, friends, and anything I just wanted to do for myself (write, read, draw, be creative - some how, some way, however I could manage) was hard. Very hard. Like lose your brain hard.

Luckily I didn't lose my brain, although I cracked a few times.

Now that I've got things settled with Mateo and chores and work and I feel like I might possibly be accomplishing something besides raising the happiest little goofball on earth, I have realized the one thing I haven't done is taken a good look at our finances, created a budget that will allow us to pay off credit card debt, pay our mortgage, utilities and other bills, plus allow us to buy clothes when needed (and I'm not talking about Mateo, that boy will ALWAYS have clothes, even if I have to run around in holey shirts for the rest of my life), do some fun extra things here and there, and, most importantly, eat.

After going through the huge pile of receipts, and not even looking at the lovely breakdown of where our money has gone courtesy of Quicken, I have realized this: We eat way too much. WAY TOO MUCH. Not just groceries, which has seriously gotten out of hand, but eating out due to weird situations or late nights. I'm afraid to figure out how much we spend on food per month because I know half of that is completely unnecessary.

While this may seems stupid to most, I'm buying a book on budgeting to help me get my head on straight, figure out how to pay debt and save, while still living a life we all will be happy with.

So today, July 29, 2008, is the day I realized money doesn't grow on trees. Again. Because I was raised to know this fact. And I did know it once upon a time. But somewhere, when I lost a bit of myself and my sanity when I began incubating my wee one, I lost the realization that some day, if we keep it up, we might not be as okay financially as we are now.

And yes, dear sis, I did look into the Utah school thing, and yes, I will be figuring that into everything as well because I'll be darned if my Mateo doesn't go to Harvard too.

Another new shirt - Lock Your Daughters Up.

My husband suggested adding something to the back of the Swallow shirt I created for Mateo, so after much pondering, we came up with a banner and "Lock your daughters up" in old school tattoo font for the back. I posted it on Zazzle, and I decided to keep the other one up without the banner saying on the back.

Mateo's new shirt is on its way...Lock them daughters up!

My child is SMART.

He never ceases to amaze me. When new things happen, I might be very nonchalant about them, but inside I'm bursting with pride. This weekend the following happened:

1. He knows where his nose is! He was watching Yo Gabba Gabba when some song came on about what your nose, eyes and mouth does. When the singer sang "The nose on my face...," he pointed to his nose.

2. He knows where his head is too! Last night I was giving him his bath, and one of his bath toys is a plastic bowl (the best toys are, in fact, not a toy). I told him to put it on his head. So he did. He's brilliant.

3. He's polite! He knows to cover his mouth when he coughs (although he probably does this 3 times out of 10), he wipes his mouth with a napkin, wipes his runny nose with a napkin (or shirt), and all of a sudden doesn't like having dirty hands while eating (which makes me his constant hand cleaner).

4. He calls me Momma! But slowly I realized he's calling everyone Momma, including his Dad. And his Grandma. So....The thrill of being Momma has passed.

5. He follows simple commands! "Give it to Momma." "Bring that to me." "Go give this to your Daddy." Soon I'll have a full blown slave!

6. He's trying to follow dance moves he sees on TV. Then he just goes nuts and dances his Monkey Dance.

7. He truly is a show-off. We had a friend over, and Mateo spent 30 minutes doing everything possible to ensure our friend paid attention to him. This included flipping over while on his giraffe rocker (soon to be leaving his toy collection because of this), dragging his play tent everywhere, handing our friend dust bunnies that only he can find, and basically making me crazed and causing me to sweat immensely from having to chase him around.

Seven fabulous and fun facts about moi.

Kmommy at The Poopie Patrol tagged me for this 7 facts meme. (I included the definition of a "meme" for those of you who have never heard the term.)

There rules of the game are:

• List these rules on your blog.
• Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog.
• Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs*.

So here goes:

1. My literature brain candy is medical thrillers. I have a particular fondness for F. Paul Wilson. I've also read Robin Cook and some others whom I don't even remember. It's certainly not about the authors, it's all about the medical thrillerness of it all.

2. I have "specialized" interests (some call them weird): feral children, hauntings, psychics, possessions, evil, and just about anything else. Right now I'm reading The Lucifer Effect: Understanding How Good People Turn Evil. I'm more interested in deciphering fact from fiction and learning the psychological aspects of events and human activities.

3. I'm a jack of a trades in the creative department. I paint, draw, take pictures, make jewelry, sew (to a certain extent, never quite perfected that ability), design, cook, write...the list goes on. I don't think I'm particularly good at any one thing which will probably be my downfall in getting my act together and working for myself some day.

4. I have a degree in English, minor in Creative Writing, with a Certificate in Technical Writing and Communication. I can switch my writing style in 2 seconds, which comes handy in what I do for a living. I also edit fairly well, both for content and grammar.

5. I'm a music fanatic. I wrote music reviews for an online web site and also for a music store newspaper (once upon a time). I listen to music incessantly, which means people get annoyed with me at work a lot because they'll be talking to me for a good minute and I don't realize it. I wish I had learned a musical instrument, but I just never did (and yes, I know, it's never too late...).

6. If you google me, I will come up. But you'd have to know my name. And yes, it is buried here somewhere in one of the 100s of posts.

7. I've been with my husband since I was almost 20, and I'm 34 now (married at age 25). Yeah, that's a lot of years, a lot of madness, and a lot of growing up on both our parts. While it's worked out for us, I don't recommend it for others (the getting serious so young part, that is). We have one fantastic and well-worth waiting for 17-month old as our prize for sticking together for so many years. I dearly love them both and would cut off all my limbs for them.

My seven tags:

Okay, I'll admit it. I read a lot of other people's blogs, but they seem so high up in the blog ladder that I don't think they would play along. I've never been one to reach out to others easily for fear of rejection, so I'm going to just leave it at that. Yes, I'm a wimp.

A wimp who doesn't mind writing about herself all the time!

If you have 7 things you'd like to share, please do so either in the comments or on your own blog and pass the word on - I'd certainly like to read them (sis) (#8 about me: I'm REALLY nosey).

*#9 I'm bad at following directions.

New shirt: Swallow Tattoos

Instead of napping, I made this shirt for Mateo. And no, one bird is not bigger than the other, that's just how it got put on the shirt for display because the kid is tilted slightly. He's the only model to choose from, so I'm stuck with it.

Mateo would be so much cuter...

I must share.

I love reading the odd google search terms people use and then somehow get to my blog. Some are just regular things like "gold crown stickers" and "baby proof litter box" and "husband TV."

But there was one today that was just the topper of toppers:

"Is it okay to put petroleum jelly in my butt."

Certainly this person didn't find their answer on my blog, and I'll apologize ahead of time to the person who searched this question in case they do it again and mysteriously end up on my blog again because I just posted the search term verbatim.

So why did they end up on my blog? Because of this post, which in no way discusses putting petroleum jelly in any one's butt. This post has actually been one of my most popular, as it seems people get little cuts on the side of their mouths a lot.

Momma

I picked Mateo up from daycare today, and he was outside with his old caretaker, Miss J. She was holding him and being silly, making him laugh in glee.

I walked to the gate surrounding the playground to watch him. As soon as he saw me, his eyes got huge and he said, "MOMMA!" Miss J was turned the other way, and she said "what?" while turning around.

I tell you, the 'mommas' were so few and far between while the 'daddas' were all over the place, it was making me feel very sad and neglected. Today was the first time he said it that spontaneously and out of the blue, and it means more to me because he didn't expect to see me.

I'm finally a momma after 17 long months.

When your child gets a certified letter, what do YOU do?

There are two places where the employees of the establishment feel no necessity in making confidential or personal information unknown to the masses waiting: The pharmacy and the post office.

Today's post is about the post office.

Today I had to go to the post office to pick up a certified letter to my 17-month old son (yes, that’s correct, I’m not making this up). I wasn’t sure how I was going to get the letter from the clerk since it wasn’t addressed to me, and Mateo couldn’t sign the notice saying I was his agent and could pick it up for him, so I did what I’ve done in the past for checks written out to him; I signed his name, then “minor by,” then signed my name. The space I had to do this in was extremely tiny, and even I had a really hard time reading what I wrote when I looked at it again.

If it came down to it, sure, I would bring my baby in, but he certainly doesn’t have an ID, so they’d have to just assume I wasn’t making it up. I could bring the school-issued “emergency” picture ID of him. But he looks like a wild boy in the picture and slightly lost and even more confused, and I’m not sure they’d believe the child in the picture was him.

When I got to the counter, the clerk took the notice, barely looked at the side where I had to sign, walked to the cabinet where the "to be picked-up" mail is held, and began sorting through all the envelopes until he found the one address to my son.

He brought it back to the counter and said, “Oh, Kaiser! They must want to get a hold you pretty badly!” And yes, everyone could hear him.

I mean, come on. Who does that? Sure, he has every right to open sealed packages and rummage through them, looking for bombs and guns and illegal drugs, but why did he have to make an announcement of how a giant in the health care industry really wanted to get a hold of me*.

You might be thinking, so what, who cares, no one knows who you are. But what I was thinking was, Ohmygod, everyone’s going to think I’m some deadbeat who doesn’t pay her bills. But I do! Yes, on occasion, I have been known to forget, and I pay the required late payment, beat myself up mentally at spending money on something so stupid, but didn't I just write a post about how I paid Comcast TWICE, which certainly proves to me I'm a wonderful bill payer. Why else would Kaiser be sending out certified mail? Unless they were telling me I was dead or dying. And even then, that’s pretty cold.

Then the clerk noticed the envelope wasn’t addressed to me, per se (it was addressed as “To the parents of….,” which I would think means it is addressed to me, but how the heck does the clerk even know I’m the parent of this person? It’s all madness).

“Oh, you’re not the addressee,” he said.

Ah, my time for redemption, I thought. I’ll show you. No, I am not the addressee, because “Mateo” is clearly a male name (or so I think). And therefore, that means you shouldn’t be insinuating anything about me and how Kaiser really wants to get a hold of me and making all these random people waiting for their turn to be humiliated think I’m some loser who can’t pay bills!!!

“No, I’m his mother,” I said. “He’s only 17 months old.”

“Oh! Well, then. I’m sure they’re sending you a letter saying he’s going to grow up big and strong and healthy,” he told me.

Yeaahhh…okay.

The letter was not telling me we owed money and that Kaiser was sending goons after us, nor was it telling me Mateo was going to grow up big and strong and healthy (even though he will), but it was something totally unrelated to both. My husband even predicted the night before what the letter was about, and he was correct.

You’re dying to know, aren’t you? Well, I’m not telling.

*I’m now thinking, hindsight being 20/20 and all, that I should have said, “Oh! It must be about the Head of ER Physicians job I applied for!” because even though I hardly get carded anymore (but then again, I hardly go anywhere to be carded at, and I probably don’t look as young as I used to (thanks, Mateo)), I still do look a lot younger than I actually am, which confuses some people on occasion.

Bottle opener. Or, how we ate plastic fumes.

Last weekend my husband offered to make turkey burgers for us. Of course momma didn't raise a dummy and I agreed.

On weekends we tend to enjoy a few beers. While he was making dinner, I decided I wanted to have a beer, more because I need to start early since I can only drink tops three beers but most likely two, and after the first one, it takes me about two hours to finish the second one. And I go to bed early. That's really the more important part.

My husband, who was in the kitchen, and since our kitchen is tiny, got my beer for me, took the top off and handed it to me.

After a bit my husband decided he wanted his beer, so he got it out of the fridge.

"Where'd I put the bottle opener?" he said.

"Huh?" I said.

"The bottle opener, I can't find it."

We both looked and looked and looked. I even looked in the trash compactor. Every cabinet drawer, the freezer, the fridge, the table, the dishwasher were all looked through.

The bottle opener was simply missing. Just. Like. That.

My husband tends to do this a lot with things, so I figured it would show up again someday, and in the meantime, we'll fork over the two bucks to buy a new one. After some rummaging, he found some tool with 50 purposes, one being a bottle opener (in case you need a beer while working), and all was okay in the world again.

Yesterday I was putting the dishes in the dishwasher. Conveniently the broiler pan is always left for me to deal with even though my husband is smart and puts tinfoil down to catch all the grease and yuck and muck. I took the top part of the pan off, the part where the burgers sit, and saw something weird sitting in the tray part. I looked again. This is what I found:



As you can see, it's a bottle opener with a very melted plastic backing. It's also slightly browned.

My husband just walked out of Mateo's room after putting him to bed.

"I found the bottle opener," I said.

"I just closed the door when you said that," he told me. For some reason.

"That's nice. I found the bottle opener," I said again.

"Oh yea? Where?"

I pointed to it and said, "in the broiler pan."

"Oh.....Well, I guess it's good nothing happened to us."

"Except that we ate burgers full of melted plastic fumes," I said.

Dumbstruck by Barney.

And I SWORE there would be no Barney in my house. Barney is my, and Mateo's, new bestest pal.

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One of them BART peeps.

I've complained over and over about the people who take BART are generally stupid or just plain rude. Sometimes they attack. You can't get more diverse than a train full of random people.

Yesterday I was waiting in my usual line while listening to a podcast. The Dublin/Pleasanton train arrived and left, then the Fremont train arrived. The BART driver announced what train it was. The doors nearest my line didn't open. I saw the stickers on the door, which meant the doors weren't going to open, but the BART driver wasn't saying anything about that.

I, and the rest of the Fremont train people, stood still. Honestly I was waiting for the other doors on the car to open. And since I couldn't see further down the train, I just assumed the doors hadn't opened yet. And maybe I'm a little sheep-like. Just a tad.

That's when everyone in my line started hightailing it to the next car to get onto the train before the train operator (who was now showing signs of verbal annoyance with us all) decided to close up shop and take off.

I followed suit.

As soon as the doors closed to the car, the operator told us all as a reminder that the doors on the first car would not open (dummies). And at each stop, after the doors had closed, the BART operator announced that the doors weren't going to open on the first car. And he did so with much annoyance in his voice.

The obvious question is why didn't he make these announcements as soon as the train arrived so that everyone waiting for the first car could start walking to the next cars and actually get on the train. But this is BART. And BART doesn't always make sense.

In the past, I would have been one of those who were totally with it and knew the doors weren't going to open. Before any of the people waiting to get onto the car realized what was going on, I'd be sitting pretty on the train, thinking, "man, what a bunch of idiots!"

Now I'm just as stupid as everyone else it seems.

New things about my wean.

I taught Mateo how to blow kisses along with a very loud "mmmmmawwwww" sound. So he's been doing that all weekend, the most while at Trader Joe's, where he was blowing random kisses to women. Part of our deal of where I teach him this smooth move and he uses it, is that he was only supposed to blow kisses to me. He's already learning how not to listen to me.

I've got a little Casanova on my hands, I tell you.

He's starting to say "go, go, go" because I say that a lot to him when I'm trying to get him moving faster and to stop lollygagging.

Yesterday we were hanging outside in the “greenbelt” (I just love that term), both of us sitting on a bench (okay, I was sitting, Mateo was standing and trying to fall on his head as I kept a firm hand on any part of his body or clothes that couldn't get away from me), when we both noticed an old woman pushing a shopping cart from the Foodmaxx across the street. She full-on Froggered it and didn’t cause any accidents either!

I had a brief moment where I thought I should be nice and unlock the gate for her since she was heading our way. I had a quick vision of me letting go of Mateo for that split second, him careening over the back of the bench, landing on the cement and cracking his delicate skull open, which was enough for me to sit still and keep hanging on to him.

When the lady got inside the courtyard area (adjacent to the greenbelt, of course), she slowly pushed the shopping cart off to her condo unit, as do many residents at our condo complex.

That’s when Mateo started saying, “Go, go, go! Go, go, go!” towards the lady. Luckily it wasn’t really loud or coherent enough for anyone but me to hear it.

So what I’ve learned about my baby boy this weekend: He’s a Casanova in training and he’s slightly rude. Half his daddy and half his mommy.

I've lost it. It's final.

With less time to myself, and with tons of time to spend with my constantly getting into everything toddler, I find that managing our money has gone to the wayside. I know what's going on, and I'm not afraid anything is going to bounce or I'll forget to pay something because I tend to store things in my brain fairly well.

But today was the topper. I have a HUGE pile of receipts to go through, as well as going through charges and debits that don't have a receipt, and getting it all squared away on Quicken.

On Friday I remembered we got a Comcast bill a week or so ago, and I didn't remember if I had paid it or not, so I assumed I didn't. I got online, paid the bill, which was higher than normal because of a pay-per-view charge, and all was good in the world again.

Today I was going through our online bank statement and saw some random check I didn't remember writing. I clicked on the link to view the image, and low and behold - it was a check for Comcast. I had paid the bill and didn't remember.

So now another huge chunk of money will be taken from our account. Good news is now we're paid up for a month and a half. If you could call that good news.

The really bad news is that I've lost it...finally lost it.

Ah, sleep.

I take Mateo to daycare Fridays and my husband picks him up. Normally I either take him and pick him up or just pick him up - it depends on the day.

I usually look forward to my Friday mornings, even though I still get up at the icky hour of 3:50 AM, because I get to spend about 20-30 minutes alone with my dear pal, laptop.

Yesterday was no exception. I was uploading pictures to Mateo's blog while watching Big Brother 10. Each picture was taking a really long time to upload, so at about 5:35 AM I decided to put my head down for a little rest. I was going to wake up Mateo in 10 minutes to start the morning routine...so a nice little 10 minute head lay down sounded really nice.

When I opened my eyes, I realized our bedroom was unusually bright. And that my laptop was blank because it went into standby mode. And that it was 6:30 AM.

I kept staring at the clock, thinking, why is it 6:30? Then...why didn't my husband wake me up before he left? Then...wait, was I asleep when he left? Then...where's Mateo? I heard him murmuring over the baby monitor. Then...was I asleep when my husband left? Why'd he just leave and let me sleep? (I really wanted to blame this on him.) Then...do I really need to go into work? Can't I just stay home and keep sleeping? I remembered it was basically impossible for two reasons: 1. I had a 10 AM meeting and 2. my co-worker (as in, I really only have one co-worker) works at home on Fridays.

I got my butt up and by then had wasted 5 minutes trying to clear the cobwebs from my brain and trying to remember exactly what happened an hour ago and how I found myself sleeping for an hour, causing my hair to go all funky since I was lying on it for that hour.

I got Mateo's milk and went into his room. He was standing in his crib, waiting for someone to come get him (probably thinking, "where momma? where dadda?" like I was thinking "where's Mateo?" earlier). He had pooped, so instead of giving him his milk, I changed his diaper, then changed his clothes, and then figured since I was now in a rush, I slathered his sunblock on him. After putting him down, I handed him his sippy cup and walked out of his room, going into our bedroom to change my clothes.

About 30 seconds later, he whipped around the corner and came into our bedroom, all smiles. For some reason this rush-rush-RUSH business was quite humorous to him. I got dressed, tried to fix my funky hairdo, slapped on some deodorant, told Mateo to come with me, brushed his teeth, put his shoes on, put his hoodie on, put him in the stroller and out the door we went. We left the condo by 6:50 AM. Record time, and thankfully, Mateo was cooperating with me (for once!).

We made it to daycare by 7 AM, and I was on BART in enough time to catch the 7:20 AM train. Which made me late, but not as late as I thought when I first shook off my stupor.

New design: Meet Artemis, an elephant.

Artemis is waiting for you on Zazzle. You and see him by looking at my slide show over to the left, there. Zazzle is so much nicer than Cafe Press. Once I get my Grumpasaurus and Triple Threat shirts moved to Zazzle, my Cafe Press stores are shutting down and never to return. I just don't like how they have their site set up and the quality of their products is sub par. Zazzle hasn't disappointed me yet.

I'm thinking Artemis might be the start of a character line which will turn into characters for a children's book since I've always wanted to create one. I still love children's books, and now I'm so glad I have a kid so I can buy more and more and more of them!

Foster Farms frozen chicken is sooo not ready to cook.

I thought I was outsmarting the grocery store by buying a 6-pack of flash frozen, individually packaged, boneless skinless chicken breasts. Why? Because they were 10 bucks instead of the normal 12 bucks for 4 unfrozen chicken breasts.

I generally plan quick, easy, healthy meals for my husband and I to eat during the week. Tonight was no exception. And with my lovely flash frozen chicken, it was going to be even quicker!

Or so I thought.

The box said to cook the frozen chicken in a preheated 375 degree oven. Check. Put in shallow dish, apply seasonings of choice, and lightly cover with aluminum foil. Check. Cook for 30-40 minutes. Check.

I was making "Asian Chicken" (yes, that's what the recipe was called), which was a combo of soy sauce, vinegar (I used rice wine vinegar), brown sugar, garlic and some pepper. I poured the sauce on the frozen chicken, the sauce slid right off and pooled under the the chicken. Oh well, I thought, I'm sure it'll soak up some of the sauce as it defrosts and cooks.

I spent the next 30 minutes with my child and husband. The husband and I talked about random things, basically catching up with the day's happenings while our child ran around tormenting Zoe and eating fruit jellies, sometimes with a box on his head.

Right before the chicken was done, we moved into Mateo's room to start the bedtime process. I left my husband with ensuring Mateo goes to sleep duty so I could finish preparing dinner.

I took the chicken dish out of the oven, took off the foil, and was greeted with four mostly raw chicken breasts swimming in sauce and patches of solid chicken funk and fat. Normally this would make me ill and I'd not want to eat it. But it was actually smelling darn tasty, so I decided to just put it back in the oven for another 30 minutes and cook the heck out of it. Chicken jerky, anyone?

And this is how we ended up not eating the chicken or the Thai coleslaw I never made or the leftover potato salad for dinner last night, and how we did end up eating pizza. Because by the time the chicken was done, it was going to be way too late to make anything more as this lady's brain shuts down around 7:30 PM.

Lesson learned? Defrost the individually packed chicken breasts like I would any other frozen chicken. And don't believe everything I read.

I might not be a hater, but I sure am snarky.

Seems my little ol' post way down there has went and caused a big old uproar with the internet peeps.

After careful consideration, and much, much badgering from random people (wish I had such a posse, man oh man, the country we live in would soon turn to NutNutastan where only my friends and I would have a voice), I decided to rewrite my original post where I linked to a certain product on a certain web site.

Why? Cause I'm a hater snarky.

Why give someone publicity? I mean, I just got a whole mess of hits last night because of that one post, albeit hits from people who know the person whom I linked to or know of this person, so on the flip side that person gave me a lot of publicity. Just think if the direct link to my post wasn't blasted on Twitter - my hit count would be so much lower and every blog owner loves the hits.

Now, I'm a reasonable person and mature person. And I actually emailed the person, explaining myself, offering the peace pipe and hoping this person would understand that, ultimately, this is my blog, and, much like a diary, it can be a stream of consciousness sort of thing, and well, when you're dead tired from being up since 3:50 AM and having to work all day and then take care of a very unhappy toddler most of the evening, and you've got a brain full of 1o bazillion thoughts and ideas but you have to take care of the very unhappy toddler because dear husband is out drinking beers, you're just not going to be as clear as you'd like to.

And I could have taken care of the complete misunderstanding on this person's part where this person thought I was accusing her of stealing my or other people's ideas (hello, carnival theme?) if this person had contacted me, even publicly, to ask for clarification. Instead, things were assumed, my url was blasted on Twitter (I'm still getting the hits from it - thanks!), and her posse of protectors and friends posted their comments about the post, which are now deleted because I'm simply not going to stand for that sort of thing.

This is my personal NutNutastan and I am dictactor! Here me roar!

So hater, I am not. Snarky, yes. Jealous? Not really. Offended? Of what. Apologetic? Not after the responses and comments I've received. Especially when I was informed by this person that this person has no control over what other people say, yet this person thanked everyone who participated in blasting me and told them they will get cookies. (I'd prefer money, myself. Cookies just make you fat, and I know fat, oh yes I do.)

I'm not in High School and I don't play the bully games.

As the old saying goes, if you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. It's unreasonable to think every single person will cheerlead your work and will only have positive things to say. And if attacking someone who didn't even say something negative just because you're a tad sensitive, annoyed and can't take any amount of criticism is the way you want to show your professionalism, then more power to you.

And you, you know who you are. You and your 60 friends. Twitter that.

New onesie or shirt design on ZAZZLE.

I'm still distraught with Cafepress, so I decided to check out Zazzle, a site I've used before but never for public selling.

Upon request for a more "girlie" design, I've created this lovely little item.

I have yet to figure out how to pull a picture from the site itself, which I'm now starting to think is impossible, and really, that's okay because that means others can't totally steal my design, so I'll just go ahead and post it down here full well knowing someone can just steal it like they can anything else I've stuck on my blog. Hmmm....Anyway.

Wow! I'm tickled!

Kmommy from the Poopie Patrol just awarded me this fab-u-lous blog award:



I came across her blog on Wordless Wednesday because of this too perfect post. It reminds me of our living room after the storm known as Mateo rushes through it, dumping out all his toys onto the floor.

As part of this award process, I am to award 7 blogs I frequent this same award. Since I'm "supposed" to be working right now, I'll have to do that later.

Thanks so much! Tickled!

What's up with bad service lately?

My sister sent me a coupon code for free Safeway grocery delivery. Since grocery shopping always seems to be a HUGE ASS chore in our household, one that is often left for me to do in the wee hours of Tuesday morning (which I kinda like because there are no otheres around, and those that are are weird and fun to think stories up about, like the Foodmaxx cashier I call "crackhead" cause she acts like she's hopped up on something), I was keen to get my groceries delivered to my door.

I've made a new rule about not shopping at Safeway because I was walking out with a receipt totalling $120 bucks on average, but I tend to do a lot better when shopping online. There aren't really any impulse buys or creative meal plans I can come up with when I actually have to search for things or shop aisles by clicking "next" over and over. Food loses its thrill.

I managed to only spend roughly 70 bucks, which is the best I've done in a long time, with a small extra list of things to purchase at Foodmaxx because I knew I could get them cheaper there. AND I bought chicken breasts and pork tenderloin. How good is that? Amazing!

The delivery guy came and went. I was in my PJs and looking bag ladyish, so my husband dealt with him. Then I was let loose from my hovel (bedroom) to put the groceries away. After I was done, I looked at the receipt again.

Two things were missing:

• pork tenderloin that was supposed to cost way cheaper, but was listed at $12 something, and
• a lemon.

The lemon was expensive too for some reason.

So I had to send Safeway an e-mail telling them the delivery guy ran off with my pork and lemon and I wanted my money back. Even though not getting the items delivered is annoying, at least this Service Rep (or CR, as I've been calling them, or "Joel" as he's called himself) didn't respond to me with an idiotic, misspelled e-mail, although it was completely canned. How do I know? Because he used the word "assure" correctly, something most uncanned e-mail writers hardly get correct.

This morning I went to Foodmaxx to pick up the items from my small list I mentioned above. I walked out with about 7 bags of food items and spending almost 50 bucks. In my defense, most of the food items are for Mateo. Although I, myself, do enjoy a mean Ritz Bitz Cheese Cracker sandwich thing on occasion.

Remember that shirt I made?

Well, let me tell you this, Cafepress sucks big stanky monkey toes. And I don't mean the Mateo-kind.

Now let me tell you why. The quality of the shirt leaves a lot to be desired. I can forgive this since it's a toddler shirt, and who cares, said toddler will only be wearing it for so long. But what I can't forgive is ordering a 2T and receiving at 12 months shirt*, essentially making my child look like a belly-showing hustler, out to get some love.

*note my child is 17 months old, way past the 12 months stage.

At first, I actually thought the shirt was too big, since most 2Ts are too big for Mateo, and then when I looked at the tag and saw "12 months" on it, I was really perturbed because even it is does fit him okay, it's not going to for long.

I got onto Cafepress's web site and submitted my "I want a freaking replacement, like NOW, you losers who can't get things correct if a bat bit you in the neck." In the box, I stated I ordered a 2T and received a 12 months. Very soon after I received an e-mail from a CR telling me she was sorry the shirt didn't fit and that she wanted me to be happy and therefore as a lovely parting gift, I can keep the shirt because they ("they" being Cafepress) didn't want me to have to pay for shipping to return the shirt.

What the?

So I wrote back, thanking the CR, but also making it very clear that it wasn't my fault the shirt didn't fit, in fact, it was Cafepress's fault, and I had stated this in my original message to the company.

The CR wrote me back:

I do apologize that Cafepress sent you the incorrect size. However, you replacement order does contain the correct size that you order. You are scheduled to recieve your replacement order by July 23rd.

I hope this helps.

Suuuuure, that helps. Yeah, okay. So I have to wait forever to get a shirt I ordered over a two weeks ago.

The misused words and misspelled words are in bold. Apparently CRs are required to answer all email responses, without benefit of a form email. Why are CRs afraid of spellcheck?

Of course, when I got home with Mateo tonight, I had to put the shirt on him to test out the shirt's cuteness (very) and how cute Mateo looks wearing it (really). Getting the shirt made helped me realize some minor tweaks I need to make to the illustration, so I guess it wasn't all that bad, and even though it looks like a half shirt on Mateo, of course I'll make him wear it until his replacement shirt arrives.

Oh, but that's not all. Someone else bought a Grumpasaurus product, a mug, to be exact, which was received by this person yesterday. Cafepress did a fabulous job of shipping, and the handle of the mug arrived broken in three pieces. When this person emailed Cafepress about the mug being broken, she got the exact same response I got by the exact same person. Well, except for the shirt not fitting part.

Zazzle, here I come.

You can view my model wearing the Grumpasaurus shirt here (grumpy model) and here (not so grumpy model).

What I learned about my child this weekend.

It's pretty amazing; Mateo seems to change so fast these days that I thought I might post weekly updates about the new things I've learned he can do (and some he's been doing for some time, but it takes a master of rearing children to open my eyes and see the baby light).

So these are the things I've learned about my wean this past weekend:

1. He has added "where'd it go? where'd he go? where'd dada go?" to his vocabulary along with "sit," "down," and "up."

I never realized he was saying "where'd it go?" until Grandma informed me. I think this is something he has been saying for some time now, but more the inflection of it. This morning (2:30AM to be exact) he said it clear as day when I dropped his pacifier on the rug when I was attempting to plug him up and get him back to sleep.

My husband has heard "down" before, but I never have until he was sitting at his new desk and I kept asking him if he wanted down, and he would say "no!" When he finally did want down, he would say, "down? down?" while trying to get the chair to move. When he first saw the desk Sunday morning, he walked over to the chair and said, "sit?"

I'm not sure why everything is a question to him, but as long as he's talking, I'm all for it.

2. He pat, pat, pats his lap or belly when watching the part on Little Einsteins where the kids have to pat their laps to get the ship moving.

3. He blows kisses. I've showed him this all weekend, but he never did it until this morning - totally unprovoked at that. My heart melted.

4. He can "sssshhhhh" by putting his finger up to his mouth. He thinks this is funny and doesn't get that it means to be quiet, but regardless, it's really cute.

So, basically, my kid is a genius. And next weekend he'll be even more of a genius because I'm sure there will be more to post. Jealous? Haven't received a blown kiss from you child today? Don't be a hater.

Ah, to be alone again.

To give some history. My husband used to work a nightmarish retail job where he had to be there basically from morning to evening, sometimes not coming home until 7 or 8 PM, and always working Friday and Sunday (and sometimes Saturday). I worked a normal "corporate" job, slinging loan documents about and causing havoc with my bad attitude. I still work a corporate job, but now I sling other stuff, and I still have my bad attitude, but it's toned down a lot since Mateo arrived and my meds kicked in.

Basically I was alone a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean, A LOT. I was lonely. I was sad. I was lonely and sad. I picked up some hobbies that kept me busy, but I was still lonely and sad. I was even more sad when my husband had a day off with me and would constantly be on his cell phone making sure his employees weren't burning down the store and fighting customers. I was probably at the loneliest when the phone would ring at 2 AM and the store's alarm company was calling to tell my husband (the first person on the list to call, of course) that some one just broke into the store, the police have been called, he needs to be there like 15 minutes ago.

Then he got a corporate job, slinging junk and making phone calls, and he has had a regular schedule (give or take days where he's a whopping 15 minutes late getting home, something I can definitely deal with), and is pretty much around all the time now. Well, at least on the weekends he is.

My loneliness is long gone. I have company 24/7, including two annoying and neurotic cats. Now I wish for solitude. I don't want to be lonely, just peaceful and alone. There is a difference.

My husband wanted to go out tonight after work with our work friend, and I was all for it. Why? Because when I got Mateo to sleep, I would have a couple of hours to myself doing what I wanted to do. This time last year, if he had said he wanted to go out after work, which meant I would have to go get Mateo after work, which meant I couldn't go as well, I would be very irate and a tad jealous. I wanted to go out after work too! I wanted to drink a couple of beers and shoot the breeze! I wanted to people watch and make fun of them! I wanted to have some fun with adults!

Then I realized that my tolerance for alcohol is pretty much zilch at this point (over 9 months of not drinking will do that to a gal), I'm tired, I shoot the breeze at work enough as it is, and why people watch when you can write about people...on your blog!

My jealousy soon diminished.

I was looking forward to tonight since the moment we agreed he should go out and I should pick up Mateo. I was going to get that little boy to bed way before 7 PM, have my luxurious two hours or so to read, watch the shows I wanted to watch, blog, fall asleep, listen to music, eat junk food (it is my foolish diet day) - whatever. But especially, I'd be alone. For the most part.

Mateo, of course, had other plans. He was perfectly fine after I picked him up from daycare. He even made a quick pit stop with me at the eye doctor's so I could pick up some contacts to tie me over until my appointment at the end of this month. But as soon as we got inside, he saw a sippy cup, decided he was dying of thirst, and needed water RIGHT NOW, so he flipped out. My time to get him fed and relaxed for the night was limited, so instead of trying to soothe him, I hurried to get stuff put away before I fed him.

Right when we stepped in the door, our phone started ringing. It was my husband asking me to call him back to tell him how Mateo was today, and then he added that he wanted me to look up the BART schedule to see when the last direct train to Fremont was leaving. "If you could do that for me, that would be great...... I love you," he said.

Okay, add that to my list of things to do tonight, I thought. Because trying to get onto my laptop to look up a BART schedule while my child was turning into a real grumpasaurus was not happening at the moment.

My normal routine when getting home is to go into our bedroom and change. When I walked into our bedroom I was greeted with two piles of cat puke. Since I had a screaming toddler on my hands, I couldn't take the time to clean it up.

I grabbed my clothes, went into Mateo's room, changed while he flopped about the floor, grabbed him when I was done, took him into the kitchen and gave him dinner. The food seemed to help him calm down, so when he was finished, I took him into the bathroom to wash his hands and brush his teeth. Then it was PJ time.

We watched Barney (he watched, I surfed the Internet), and when the show was over we went into his room to get ready for bed.

I thought it was going to be easy. He seemed tired. But with his cup of milk he turned into a toddler who just woke up from a nap. All he wanted to do was play and mess around. After a bit, I put my foot down and put him in his crib and left.

I went into our bedroom to write, and listened to Mateo mew. He mewed, then mewed louder, and louder, and then started crying. Lately he's been going poop after we put him down, so I had to go check to make sure he didn't need to be changed. I walked in and he was standing up, crying his little head off.

After a bazillion attempts at trying to get him to calm down, I gave up and gave him more milk. This did the trick and he soon passed out.

When all this was finally done, it was 7:45 PM. My lovely night relatively alone was shot. I wasn't too happy, but what was I going to do. My husband called at bit after 8 PM saying he was in Fremont and was picking up or dinner. Forty minutes later he walked in the door.

So I basically got an hour alone, which is better than nothing, but still.

The topper of the evening was my husband getting mad because I didn't want to watch TV for another 15 minutes and had requested that since it's taken us 20 minutes to watch 7 minutes of 30 Days (pausing to talk), we should just stop it for the evening so I could go to bed. After he got annoyed, I informed him that I can't have a nightlife because I have to get up with Mateo every Saturday and Sunday, and since I never know how long he'll sleep in (average is 5:30 AM), I needed to go to bed early so I wouldn't be so tired in the morning. If he wanted to stay up and watch TV, more power to him, but this lady was tired and ready for bed.

I still don't get the whole watch TV with me thing.

And yes, I cleaned up the cat puke.

This just bugs! (updated)

Last winter I was asked to make a carnival flyer for work. So I did. Here it is.




Then today I was looking at Cool Mom Picks and came across something on the internet that is completely unique and original and not stolen from any other person or company, however, might possibly be printed by another company, but after the many comments I've received, no one's addressed that part of my post and has turned it into a gigantic slam fest on my behalf. But that's okay! Because I can take it. I could so do the thing I found on Cool Mom Picks, which only I would know (and the 60 or so friends of a certain person) based on the example above where I used the exact same font and similar banner courtesy of Illustrator, that it makes me crazy that I don't have my own side business where all I do is slap some one's name on a banner I didn't even create using a font I didn't make.*

Okay, okay, while I have aspirations of learning typography, I can't make fonts either. I download them free.

I mean, look at my cute shirts I just made - three different designs this week alone and I have so many others brewing in my head it makes me nuts there aren't more hours in the day. ...

Alright, I've had my wah-wah session.

Anyone want to front me some money so I can get some samples made FROM MY OWN CREATIONS so I can post them on a web site and wait for people to order them so then I can order them from another company BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE ROOM FOR A PRINTING PRESS OR SILK SCREEN MACHINE (or the money for either) in my condo?*

I might be slow in getting things done, but I'm not stupid. Game on.

*blog post adjusted by author of said blog because why give someone free publicity? Which is partly why I never actually named anyone or any web site beside Cool Mom Picks, which is a great web site, by the way. Ah, but I was found regardless. Nothing is sacred. Not even Twitter.

More clothing items coming your way (if you have triplets).

I was asked to come up with a "girlie" design for a onesie. Instead of doing that, I did this.






You can find the girl version here and the boy version here.

When the kindness of strangers really f's you up.

I'm trying to get Mateo to walk more instead of being strolled, especially during less busy times in parking lots in case he gets it in his head to run off or won't hold my hand.

Today he did pretty good leaving daycare and held my hand until we got to the parking lot. It helped that someone was entering the gated area as we left since he gets timid, even with people he sees all the time.

When we got home, I called my husband to see if he needed the stroller tomorrow morning to bring Mateo out to the car or if I could leave it in the car. He said he didn't need it.

As soon as Mateo's feet hit the parking lot pavement, a mischievous grin opened on his face and he started walking off. I was about 2 feet behind him, so I hurried up and took his hand. As with most toddlers, when he's not feeling timid, he thinks he's invincible and king of the world. And so, with the touch of my hand, he turned into a Grumpasaurus, freaked out and melted to the ground.

No coaxing could convince him to get up, so I had to carry him into the condo complex. When we got through the gate to the "greenbelt" as it's known in real estate listings, I put him down again. He immediately freaked out, fell to the ground and screamed his little head off.

Since I don't deal with this too often because I'm not lucky enough to actually take care of my own kid on a day to day basis (notice the weird sarcasm there?), I usually find this funny. I spent some time trying to gently persuade him to get up off the ground and to calm down, but I realized it was pretty futile.

I looked up and noticed one of my fellow condo residents standing in his back yard area, watching me as I was trying to get my screaming Grumpasaurus up off the ground. He waved at me, so I waved back, even though I had never seen him before.

"Does he want candy?" he asked me.

For a split second I began to doubt he was even talking to me. Since I had Mateo, I'm way more friendlier with strangers than I ever was....well....since probably age 2. So I didn't hesitate to wave back. But now that he asked if Mateo wanted candy...maybe he wasn't talking to me. Ah heck, I answered anyway.

"No...he just wants to be picked up," I said.

I decided to ignore the man since my child's face was turning bright red and he was now really freaking out. I picked up Mateo and started heading to our building.

A few seconds later I heard, "Excuse me! Wait!"

I turned around and the man was coming out his back yard area to the pathway. He had something in his hand. Something shiny. Something purple. Something candy bar-shaped.

"Here you go, big boy," he said to Mateo. Mateo grabbed the candy bar and smiled.

"Now you're all smiles," I said. "Say 'thank you."

There was no way Mateo was going to say thank you, but you know, parents should reinforce these things. Plus the whole thing was weird, so I wanted to get out of there.

Mateo had calmed down a whole lot now that he had the candy bar in his hand. I briefly saw an image of a nut on the package, so I already knew there was no way he could have it. You know, because of the peanut butter incident and me telling the doctor I wouldn't give him peanut butter (or any nuts) until he was three? Ya, because of that.

When we got inside, I knew I had to take the candy bar away from him, and I also knew this was going to break his little heart. I braced myself for another freak-out and took the candy bar away from him.

This is what the man gave him: Cadbury "not for a 17-month old child who can barely eat animal cookies without almost choking" chocolate bar.

And....said freak out ensued.

He clung to me, followed me, wailed at me, had to sit on my lap and nowhere else, refused graham crackers, refused water, refused any sort of love as long as it was on his terms. His favorite shows wouldn't calm him down. His woobie wouldn't calm him down. The one thing I knew would calm him down I wasn't about to give him (pacifier), so we both dealt with the situation until it was time to feed him, which just brought on another bout of tears, clinginess and trying to get in between me and the counter - at all costs.

So yeah, for all you weirdos out there, don't give toddlers candy. I know you have nothing but good (and sorta weird) intentions, but just don't. It really screws up a mom's night. Really. Like REALLY.

Husbands and TV: A repeat.

I've written about this before. And I will do so again and again, including today.

Why do men get so weirded out when the lady (or man) in their life doesn't want to sit and watch an hour of recorded TV with them?

This week has been not too tiring, not too stressful, not too boring, dull, annoying, etc. It's just been...okay. And what comes with okay to me is being able to relax a bit after a certain time at night, which also means not being tied to the TV for an hour (which normally lasts much longer due to pauses for conversation or pee breaks or having to obsessively take care of something (both he and I are victims of such obsessions)).

Each night this week, we've started watching a recorded show, and I've either gotten lost in my laptop or just wandered off only to be eventually found and asked, "why'd you leave?"

Tonight we started the finale of Hell's Kitchen, but we both found out who won in the morning when someone blasted the winner on their Facebook status update. My husband started sweeping the floor while we were still watching, so I got up and started helping by cleaning up our dishes and TV trays. Then I said I was going in our bedroom.

"Don't you want to watch?" he asked me.

"But I know who won. I'm tired," I said.

About 10 minutes later I was followed in by my husband who started playing Scrabulous with me, which is just about the same as watching a TV show - it keeps me trapped until I say "NO MORE SCRABULOUS! This lady is going to bed!!"

Maybe I should hole up in the bathroom with a book for a good hour....

So I made this little shirt....

(I so was going to be good on Wordless Wednesday, but I just can't seem to shut up.)

One of my terms of endearment for Mateo is 'Monkey Love.' He's also called 'monkey' and 'monkey boy.' And various other things like 'booger butt,' 'sniggle snuggle' and 'grumpasaurus.' So I made a shirt to show off my love for my little Monkey Love, which is right below here.



I sent my husband the link to the shirt yesterday, and he responded with "that's cute."

Even though his response was via IM, I had a feeling he was slightly scared I might buy the shirt for Mateo. While it's not necessarily feminine or masculine, I don't see many fathers wanting their sons to wear it.

I posted the official Monkey Love shirt on Mateo's blog yesterday, and when my husband came home, he looked at Mateo's blog since I told him I added new pictures.

I walked into the bedroom to take my scratchy contacts out. He was looking at stuff on the Internet.

He turned to me and said, "I didn't know you made that shirt...."

"Yes, I did," I said.

The look he was giving me was some strange mixture of awe and confusion.

"I thought you just found the shirt. I didn't know you made it."

"You know I always call him 'Monkey Love," I said.

"I know, but I thought you just came across it. A coincidence," he said.

"No."

I'm still not sure what was going on in his brain. He knew about the Grumpasaurus shirt, so it's not like me making another shirt should be that weird to him. Maybe it's because I used a heart, and I'm so not a heart person.

Or maybe I could just ask him. There's a thought.

And I was thinking I could get away with not giving him a bath.

(Check out other wordless posts on Wordless Wednesday.)

Zoe needs her protein.

I don't know what's worse. Coming home to find a giant Daddy Long Legs on our bedroom wall, right next to the bed, the wall I sleep next to. Or. Zoe* jumping on the bed, finding the Daddy Long Legs on the wall and eating him.

And then coming over to me and giving me nice spidery lick on the arm.

I'm deathly afraid to go near the spot where she enjoyed Daddy for fear of finding legs strewn about.

*a cat
_____________________________________________
7/9/08: I changed the title of this post and am clarifying that Zoe is a cat. Apparently I'm secretly a perv (or just stupid) and my original title really came off badly to some (my mom) and well, after I thought about it, yes, it was really bad. Zoe is a cat who likes to eat bugs. Our other cat, Sophia, can't catch a bug if her life depended on it.

Who needs sleep?

Apparently Mateo doesn't, and because he doesn't, I don't. Which has lead to an impromptu day off for me.

Mateo decided 1:30 AM was the perfect time to wake up. My husband, thank goodness, or so I thought, decided to get up and deal with whatever it was that was making Mateo cry and wail. It seems he's suffering from night terrors or turning things in his room into scary objects, we're not really sure, so it's now a rare night that he sleeps all night without one time waking up full throttle, tears flowing down his cheeks.

I got up to use the bathroom, thinking how lucky I was that I didn't have to get up and take care of Mateo, and then went back to bed. An hour later (confirmed by the clock when I squinted enough to make the numbers clear) my husband came back into the room.

"You need to take over. I've been in there an hour, he's had milk, he's been changed," he told me.

I got up and listened to Mateo's mewings. I didn't want to go in and cause an unnecessary ruckus, and in hopes that he would just put himself back to sleep so I could go back to sleep, I just patiently waited. His mews got louder, louder, and then finally he was crying again.

I went in, and he lost it. Crocodile tears were streaming, he was Dr. Jekyll / Mr. Hyding on me (I want you to pick me up! No! Don't touch me!) and he was on the verge of really losing it.

I tried, unsuccessfully I might add, to get him back to sleep. I even went to so far as to lay on the floor next to his crib and do some intense hand holding (the only way he'd lay down and not freak out). Every so often I'd look up and see his eyes, wide as saucers, staring at something in his room that may or may not be scary to him.

I finally gave up and took him into the living room so I could sit with him on the couch while he watched the Sprout channel. Then I decided maybe he was hungry because he didn't eat dinner very well. I took him over to the fruit bowl and pointed at a banana and asked, "do you want a banana?"

He smiled in glee.

Back to the couch for some banana eating and TV show watching. When he was finished, Mateo decided he wanted to get down, so I let him down, stretched out and tried to not completely fall asleep, but get some sort of rest. I also had to figure out if I was capable of getting dressed for work, going to San Francisco, working all day, picking up Mateo, taking care of him and all that good stuff on about 4 hours of sleep.

At about 4 AM my husband came into the living room (this is our normal waking time).

"You've got to be kidding me," he said. Mateo was wandering around the living room, looking at toys and talking to Zoe.

I shook my head "no."

"Did he ever go to sleep?" he asked me.

I shook my head "no."

"Are you going to work?"

I shook my head "no."

That was pretty much the extent of my communication abilities at the time.

I decided to try getting Mateo down again, this time with some more milk. I told him to go to his room, so off he went with this woobie enveloping him (blanket around shoulders, capping head), and after drinking most of the milk, he passed out with his eyes and mouth open.

I was back to sleep at 5 AM to be woken at 7:20 AM by a very grumpy little boy.

And it makes me wonder: How did I do it when I was getting up every two hours, three hours, four hours, etc. to feed him? I know the simple answer is: Because you just do it. But why is it harder now, when I am getting a good 6 hours of sleep straight most nights (although every night I am woken up by a certain fuzzy cat who wants some company, and her one way of ensuring this happens is by trying to run off with my glasses), to run on barely any steam? Not even the thought of caffeine being pumped into my body all day seems a feasible solution.

All I know is I love my little grumpasaurus, clingy as he may be. And I hope tonight is better for him because it's barely noon and my brain has fuzzed over again.

A few things I learned about my child this weekend.

We knew our child loves baby crack (aka whipped topping with caramel swirls from a Starbucks frappuccino), but we didn't know to what extent.

We walked to our local Starbucks on Saturday while pushing Mateo in his car with icy, caffeine-filled frappuccinos dancing before our eyes. My husband not only had visions of a refreshing drink, but he wanted to load our child up with sugar.

"I'm going to ask if they'll give us a small cup filled with whipped topping, even if I have to pay!" he told me.

Ah, good idea, I thought. We've already screwed up Mateo's routine by taking him to Happy Hollow and eliminating a nice two hour nap from his day, now we're going to load him up on sugar.

When we got there, my husband asked if he could get a small cup of whipped topping with caramel on top. The girl didn't blink an eye and said, "sure."

When I was thinking small cup, I was thinking like a shot glass or something. Because who really consumes a "huge" small cup of whipped topping? But that's what we got. And the top was covered with caramel. No swirls here, no sirree.

Mateo sat in my lap while my husband used a straw to feed Mateo the whipped topping. After a bit, my husband thought it would be cute to teach him to dip his pacifier into the whipped topping so he could suck the topping off his pacifier. The things we are teaching are child, I tell you.

Mateo wasn't going for this plan, and when we weren't paying attention, he grabbed the straw. He then dipped the straw into the cup, got some whipped topping on it, and put the straw into his mouth. My husband and I sat dumbly watching him do this. Not only is it amazing that he took the initiative to administer his own baby crack, but he was actually doing a really good job of it.

This morning he started doing the other thing that he was taught but we thought he didn't learn - putting his pacifier in his yogurt and then putting the pacifier in his mouth. While this probably seemed like a great idea to him, especially since there weren't any straws around, it really just made a huge mess of him and his food tray.

The other things I learned about Mateo: He can say Elmo, he can stomp on command and he willingly tells his Daddy "bye" by waving when his Daddy is leaving the house or Mateo's room. I know, I know, not quite as spectacular as self-administering baby crack, but we take the little milestones when they come.

Another company on my list.

DHL.

DHL sucks.

DHL leaves packages just about anywhere except with the person they should be delivering too.

Yesterday I kept checking the status of delivery on my AC Adapter. At 12:06pm DHL updated their site saying it was delivered and a C Chan signed for it. There isn't a C Chan on my floor, however, there is one on the 8th floor. Instead of trying to figure out of she (she being 'C Chan') signed for my package and had it, or calling the admin on that floor to see if he had it because she didn't know who I was and decided to dump my package on him, I convinced myself that my package was now with the mail hub in Fremont and I wouldn't get it until Monday.

It's funny how we can convince ourselves of things so we don't have to be disappointed.

Since yesterday was the day before the 4th, I decided to leave early because my husband was leaving early. Early for me means a whopping 15 minutes early (in case my boss is reading this...).

My husband called me to say he was coming over to my desk at about 3:10pm.

At about 3:11pm, the admin from the 8th floor showed up at my desk and handed me my two packages (one holding a power cord, the other holding the actual adapter).

"You just made my weekend!" I yelled. "I knew they got delivered, but I didn't know who had them!"

"Oh...they just left them in the hallway downstairs," he told me.

"Thank you for bringing them to me!!!" I yelled some more, clutching my packages to my chest.

He looked at me like I lost it.

"Well I'm glad I made your weekend," he said as he walked away.

I grabbed my stuff and met my husband as he was walking towards my desk.

"Look what I have!! They left them downstairs!!!"

My husband grumbled about how stupid DHL is, which they are, and we left.

Now that the joy of actually get my packages has diminished, and I got to post a million pictures of Mateo and make a Grumpasaurus t-shirt last night, this morning I'm feeling rather perturbed with DHL and their delivery practices.

Why do they not care if packages actually get to the correct person? The address label clearly stated 11th floor. Not 8th floor. My name and phone number were on the label as well. I've hated DHL for some time now, and now I'm hating them even more. And I hate Dell for using DHL as their shipper.

Dell. DHL. Devils. Demons. Die!

Low and behold.

I just purchased another AC Adapter, adding another 83 bucks to the suckiest club in town's funds. After I did that, I thought, hmmm...let me go check on the other order. The one that was placed yesterday and isn't to ship until next week.

Guess what.

Shipped: Yesterday.
Delivery date: Today.

I still hate you Dell. But man oh man I can't wait to get my new adapter today (hopefully)!

Okay, okay. It's DELL.

I'm as mad as a box of frogs! I could spit! Wait, let me just go ahead and do that, and then I'll be right back....

Okay.

I received my answer to my questions from yesterday.

1. There aren't any parts available, and so it's going to take longer to get me my adapter.

Hmmm. That's odd. Okay. Fine. Whatever. Single word comments equate immense anger.

2. My AC Adapter is not under warranty - any longer. And it would be a separate warranty from my laptop. Of course it would be. Why not.

So it looks like I'll be in the suckiest club in town until I decide to get rid of my laptop.

I think I'll go purchase myself a new AC Adapter right now. That way, when one of the two dies, I'll have one at the ready. Then I'll just order another one. And so on and so forth.

I'll be making t-shirts soon about being a member of the suckiest club in town known as being a DELL laptop owner. If you want one, send your orders in.

(Ingenious way of making revenue so I can keep paying my membership dues, huh?)

Playmobil rocks.

Over to the left there you'll notice a nice slide show of items you can buy on Amazon.com. I've spent many hours randomly looking for things that I find interesting. Today I came across a lovely set of guinea pigs made by Playmobil. Do I need to say I was hooked? Just because of some guinea pigs? Okay, I was hooked.





There's also the friendly butcher shop you can buy. Who doesn't love to play with a butcher action figure wielding a knife while cuts of meat hang from a rack?

And for you laundry lovin' ladies, you too can have your very own laundry room setup, vacuum, while you'd think would be an extra, is included.



I for one have my eye on this spectacular office setup. I could have my very own office in my very own cube!



And then there is the land of ginormous household items! If that toothbrush and toothpaste get any bigger, "boy cleaning teeth" will soon be "toothbrush and toothpaste kill small boy by crushing him to death."

For the marine animal lovers who just happen to have kids not afraid to bottle feed a baby seal while the mom seal looks on, you can purchase "Child with Seal."

I got caught at work with this beautiful chicken coop set on my computer screen. The person who saw it sorta shimmied around my cube wall after seeing it. The only thing redeeming me is that everyone knows I have a kid. Why my kid would want a chicken coop toy set? That's another story.

And the piece de resistance is....VULTURES!

Are you convinced that Playmobil rocks? Go find your own Playmobil treasures. Seems anything and everything is out there. Almost. And the things you would never think they'd make (butcher shop), they do! And the things you wished they made (boss), they don't. Hit or miss, Playmobil simply is the coolest thing - ever.

Why does my laptop manufacturer (who I'm "this" close to naming) hate me?

Today would be the third business day in the 2-3 business days I should have expected my new replacement AC Adapter. Excited at the prospect of receiving the adapter today, I spent a couple hours last night on my laptop, using only the battery power.

Curious as to when my adapter was shipping, I decided to look up the order on the company's web site.

A couple of things very wrong with what I saw:

1. Order was placed on 7/2. Um, that's today. I was told it was placed on Sunday, June 29th.
2. Ship date: 7/9. That's next week. That's TWO weeks after I first contacted the company. And, since we're all geniuses here, that's definitely WAY longer than 2-3 days. Way longer. WAAAYYYY LONGER!!
3. I'm being billed, or at least the web site is indicating I am. As far as I know, my laptop is under warranty. Unless I'm not understanding things, and that may very well be the case cause I never looked into it nor did I ask, charging me for a defective adapter goes against my warranty.

So instead of just sitting idly by and waiting for my adapter and bill to come to me, I decided it was time to pick up the phone and call the company.

I called the general customer service number. A very loud automated voice yelled at me that if I knew my party's extension, I could enter it now. Otherwise I was to say "Espanol" to talk to someone in Spanish (I know enough Spanish to get that, comes with living with my husband). Since I didn't do anything, I was then asked to choose one of three options, none of which fit my situation, which was just wanting to talk to someone about my issue. After a prompt here and a prompt there, I punched in my order number and waited.

Some lady got on the phone and babbled on about something not working correctly and she needed to ask me two questions about the reason why I was calling. Both of which I answered "no" to.

Then she said, "Since that is the case, I ask that you call back in three hours so you can be directed to the correct person to speak to."

Was I surprised? Not really. Was I mad? Sorta. Did I let her know that? No.

"Okay," I said. Like the loser my laptop manufacturer has deemed me, I had no fight left and I hung up.

Since calling didn't work, I immediately went back to my pal Surmukh and gave him a piece of my mind. While talking to people seems to work quicker and better (that's if they'll talk to you and not tell you to call back in three hours), I prefer to do my stern talking-to in the written format. Gives you time to ponder your thoughts and sound smarter than maybe you really are.

It's been a few hours and my pal has yet to write me back. I'm starting to feel less of a customer and more of a bother.

Childproofing a litter box.

I've had a few hits lately on people searching about how to baby/childproof a litter box.

Amazingly we haven't had any issues. Mateo is 16 months old, almost 17 months, a walker, a runner (sorta) and very inquisitive.

He has managed to learn that the litter box area and the cat food area are definite "no" zones. I think one of the things that helped us is we never made a big deal about the two areas, unless he does show some interest, and then we firmly tell him "No - that's the cats' food" or "No - that's dirty."

It also helps that he's never been left alone (too much) to wander around these areas. Granted, our condo is small, so he's usually in eyesight wherever he is.

With that said, I would suggest putting the litter box on a platform or somehow gating if off so the baby/toddler can't get to it. Those were our two thoughts, but then we realized how much of a non-issue it became.

I am still waiting for the day Mateo has a handful of litter or pee clumps in his hand. So far, so good.

All I wanna do is blog.

I'm not happy with a particularly large computer manufacturer who just happens to be the manufacturer of my laptop, a laptop I love and lug around with me everywhere in our condo. If it was smaller, it would be in my pocket. Why am I not happy? Because you can only use said manufacturer's AC adapters – you can’t purchase another brand’s adapter to use with their laptops. And said manufacturer's AC adapters die in less than a year and sometimes in less than 6 months.

It’s called a monopoly of AC adapter sales, I tell you.

So, as you can imagine, every time I plug in my AC adapter, I have a fear that the little green light won't come on, which means the adapter is dead, which means I'm only running on battery, which means I have about a good 4-5 hours of laptop life before the battery dies, and well, without a working AC adapter hanging around, I can't recharge my battery, and that makes me very sad and quite a disgruntled laptop owner.

I'm not the only person out there who has this problem. If you go to this particular manufacturer's web site and look up reviews for AC adapters, pretty much every single person has the same complaint as I do. One person put it best: You end up paying almost 100 bucks a year to replace the adapter just so you can use your $1000 plus laptop. Like a membership fee to the suckiest club in town.

Last time this happened to me, in January 2008, I got fed up with the situation, and I sent in a complaint. Low and behold, the person who answered me said they were sending me a new adapter, and I received it the next day. Well. Now that's service, I thought. I wasn't sure why I was getting the adapter sent to me with no questions asked, but I assumed it had something to do with it dying in less than three months of use.

Fast forward to last Thursday. I needed to use my laptop for work purposes while I was working at home, so I plugged my baby in and lifted up the screen. The screen was dim, which means the laptop was running on battery power. I unplugged and plugged in the adapter again into my laptop. I did the same from the outlet. I tried another outlet. Nothing. Dead.

Keeping in mind what happened last time I sent in a complaint, I started the process again. There was no way I was going to pay for another adapter when the one I got in January lasted only 6 months.

I answered all their questions (customer number, order number, address, mother's maiden name, recite the alphabet backwards, what's the real figure for pi) and smugly sat waiting for some nice customer service rep to respond telling me my new adapter would be in the mail and I should get it by Friday.

What I got instead was an automated e-mail, asking me to perform all kinds of things to ensure I wasn't just a big dummy who didn't know how to use my AC adapter, and, if it turns out I'm not so stupid, I had to answer another batch of questions, some of which were repeats of the initial set I had already answered.

One question was about my service tag. I kept looking at my adapter and putting in numbers, but nothing took. I had this problem last time, and then I remembered that it's the service tag of my laptop they want, not the adapter, which doesn't have one. Since I was going to give them that, I figured I'd look up my warranty since I didn't remember when it expired. I apparently bought the best warranty plan available, which was 5 years plus all the bells and whistles, including but not limited to: 24 hour replacement shipping (as in, if I need a new adapter, I should get it the next day) and complete customer care (as in, I'm the best and they must bow down to me and kiss my feet).

Well, well, I thought. I'll just answer these questions, give them my service tag, and I'll get that friendly e-mail telling me I'll be receiving my new adapter by Friday, Monday at the latest.

So I waited. And waited. Aaaaand waited. Friday came and went. Saturday flew by. I figured no one works on the weekends, so I surely wasn't going to hear from anyone on Sunday if I didn't hear from anyone on Saturday.

Then I received an e-mail from my buddy Surmukh.

My buddy Surmukh was lucky enough to be assigned to me. Surmukh politely asked me to do the following:

I would request you to check if the original 65 Watt adapter is also not working with this system. If possible, please try your 90 Watt adapter with some other Laptop.

Now, I've owned this laptop for about three years now. The original 65 Watt adapter my pal wrote about is long gone (well, it's somewhere around here since I don't know how to throw it away without killing the environment) and is dead, dead, dead. Why would I try an adapter that no longer works? Also, I don't know what crack pipe my pal is smoking, but if I try my adapter with another laptop, wait, that's ‘Laptop,’ then how will that prove it's working? Because assuming that it'll only work with my manufacturer's laptops, and considering I only own one laptop, and considering I wouldn't begin to think of trying to blow up my work laptop since I don't own it (whose AC adapter, by the way, has been working just fine for years now), I just don't see how using it on another laptop would determine anything.

As you can see, my pal was making me mad. Very mad indeed. And insulting my English Major sensibilities.

Then my pal said if the adapter was damaged, he/she would be glad to replace it. But I had to give him/her some information first. Namely:

1. I had to verify the ownership information the system (read: laptop) and must give them, again, my name and address as per their records.

2. The shipping address where I want my CDs to be shipped. Yes, that’s right, CDs. I was just as confused as you might be.

3. My alternate phone number.

So I gave my pal a piece of my mind. Because this was the third time I was providing the same information to them. I also let my pal know that I don’t know why I would be getting CDs, but if that’s really going to solve my problem, please tell me what they are and how they’ll fix it. Then I gave my pal every address I could possibly have used and are using, every phone number I could be reached at, and my name, again.

Finally I told my pal that time will not make my dead adapters rise again. Send me my new one. Now.

My friend promptly wrote me back:

I apologize for the term 'CDs' mistaknly written in my previous e-mail. I welcome your suggestions regarding verification procedure being followed on e-mail. Your comments and suggestions are very important and will us assist in making improvements.

Yaaa….now you see why my English Major sensibilities were ready to fly to whatever place my pal was located at and beat them upside the head with an English Dictionary and an English Grammar book. Or just teach them how to use spell check, word processing software’s most helpful tool if you don’t abuse it.

It’s now Tuesday, I’ve yet to receive said adapter, and my need to blog is getting bad.

The lesson I have learned from this: Next time, call. Because getting irate with someone on the phone is so much better than yelling at them in e-mail.

And I’m now welcoming any propositions from laptop makers who make AC adapters that actually work for long periods of time. Please contact me. I think I’m a darn fine writer, and if your AC adapter works just as fabulously as you think it does, I’ll be sure to remind people of your fine products and services (apple).