Full zip hoods and how they are CREEPY.

I talk to people about what and what will not make me mad as parent when Mateo is a teenager - in terms of fashion or how he looks in general. Basically I feel like there isn't much that would shock me, but I have no idea what kids will want to do when he's 14 or 15.

The one thing that will make me crazy is if he does that baggy pants / showing off underwear stuff that is just the stupidiest fashion on the face of the earth. There is no way I could let him leave our house that way; what he does after he's gone, I have no real control over.

Then comes my trip to the mall today. I'm not much into kid's fashion and what's considered hip and who is wearing what, so I tend to look at some of the clothing displayed in windows just to get an idea of what the crazy kids of today are up to. (Don't I sound like I'm 70?)

One item in particular gave me the willies. It truly creeps me out. I think more so the idea of someone just wearing it and me coming across them on the street or on BART freaks me out - the surprise of it. Then I think about why anyone would even wear this because they can't exactly breath. And finally, I think about the fashion designer who quite possibly used to work in the S&M industry, and why, why, why they ever thought this was a fashionable item to create:

When I saw this sweatshirt, it was on a mannequin, fully zipped up. So a sweatshirt laying flat doesn't seem too threatening yet just as stupid. I had to walk by it twice, and each time I just stared at it like it was a car wreck and I was a rubber necker. If you can't tell what's going on, the hood of the sweatshirt zips up and around the face of the person wearing it. This is creepy. In case you weren't aware. Creeeepy.

What's next? Body bags? Should I just go ahead and start working on that idea?

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.

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.

Let's just bring back foot binding!

I just saw a video on Yahoo about high heels for babies age 0-6 months. I started this post off differently and then went back and changed it. I was going to put a direct link to the web site, so everyone could enjoy the ridiculousness known as high heels for babies, but then I thought, why should I? If you, dear reader, are that interested in seeing these stupid shoes, you have your clues, go head on over to google and search to your heart's content. You might not find the actual site, but you'll find plenty sites discussing it.

Back to the video: The two women who invented this atrocity and who were being interviewed have got to be the stupidest women on the face of the earth. One lady said she didn't equate high heels with sex and seemed perplexed at the thought that others would. She didn't see any problem with putting the stupid shoes on a baby because the shoes would be baby's "first pair of high heels" and hey, let's just go ahead and start them early.

If I had a baby girl, I would dread the day she would want to look like a mini adult. While high heels don't necessarily equal sex to me either, I do believe that they have a social, sexual and oppressive stigmata. Then you have to think about all the creeps out there who view children and infants as sexual objects. They're sick enough as it is, so why would you want to add fuel to their fire by sexing up your child?

We went to birthday party for a girl turning three, and one of the gifts she received was a bikini. All the women guests oooohed and aaaaahed over it, the person who gave it was proud as a peacock, and my husband and I were baffled.

My husband, who usually doesn't find things weird like I do, told me he felt it was inappropriate and weird, and it was even more weird how all the women acted. I said that I wasn't sure a bikini was a good way to go for a little girl, but then, it might just be how the world is these days that makes us think this way. Obviously not everyone feels the same way we do, otherwise there'd be no market for high heel crib shoes or bikinis for little girls.

I don't much like high heels for adults let alone teenagers and not to mention 5-year-old pageant girls. Babies? Come on. A bit too much.

So it makes me wonder....make-up for babies? Bras for babies? Jock straps for babies? S & M outfits for babies?

Get real people.

Now I must go dress my little boy in a tux and top hat and find his cane.

Mom vs. the toy.

Remember this little story about bursting Mateo's bubble? Well, I think I'm being punished because the toy I ordered for him is now my personal toy nemesis.

First, After I put it together and flipped the switch to "on," it didn't work. I swear the Amazon listing said it came with batteries, but apparently not based on the toys lack of spewing out the balls from its insides.

Yesterday I bought the needed batteries, so when Mateo and I got home, I put the batteries in so we could get this toy spewing balls. Of course, since I put it together a few days earlier, and I left it on the ground, Mateo happened upon it Wednesday morning and removed all balls from its inside by knocking it over. We have a cat who loves anything that moves or twinkles, so most of the balls got moved around the living room and dining area. I grabbed two balls and put one in, which easily fell into the tube, and then the second, which didn't.

So, me being the brilliant one, I started pushing the ball into the hole more and more, wondering why it wouldn't go down.

Oh wait. You're wondering where Mateo is during all this? He's sitting next to me, watching everything I'm doing and wondering why I'm sweating so much.

I grabbed the screwdriver I had to use to open the battery compartment and started so hit the ball, which made it lodge into the tunnel.

Hmm. Why would the toy peeps send this toy along with a ball that won't actually work with the toy?

Then I realized, he has another toy, with three balls, almost the same size as the balls for this toy, and I'm trying to force the wrong ball into the wrong toy. And that's why it's not working.

I spent a good 10 minutes running around the condo, trying to find a small screwdriver because the screws I needed to remove to try to remove the lodged ball were tiny. I finally got the ball out.

During this time, Mateo was playing with the parts to the toy that I had to take off in order to perform surgery.

Okay. So I got the toy back together. And since I realized that using the three balls that don't work with the toy is not the brightest thing, I searched for all the balls that came with the toy - I made sure they belong to this toy. While I was doing this, Mateo was crying and following me because he was on the verge of calling it a day and didn't have time for my nonsense.

I realized one of the balls I grabbed went to the other toy (I'm telling you, they all look the same, and the size difference is so slight, it's really hard to tell) when it wouldn't quite fit through one of the holes. I put the ball with the other toy - the toy it belongs to.

After all the balls were put in the tube, I grabbed Mateo, sat him in my lap, and turned that baby on.

Nothing happened.

After inspecting, I realized that Mateo had grabbed the ball I put off to the side and stuck it in the tube while I wasn't looking. Somehow, this ball got in, but it couldn't get out. At least, I couldn't get it out, no matter how many screws I unscrewed.

I eventually had to abandon my toy project because Mateo was on the verge of cracking and needed to eat dinner.

The toy is sitting on the kitchen table, just waiting for someone to rescue it. I swear, this is the worst 18 dollars I've ever spent.

Another Friday on BART.

Last weekend there was a fire at the BART yard that then caused the BART folks to decide to eliminate the train going to Richmond (for once, my goodness, how many times do people going to SF have to transfer? it's about time the Richmond people suffer), and this topped with the heatwave (people passing out, trains passing out), has caused BART to be no fun at all this week. No fun at all.


I left work at 4:30, pretty much knowing it was going to be a mess for some reason, and low and behold, I was correct. The trains were all running late. So what would normally be a sorta kinda full train turned into a cattle car.


I was first in line on my side; some tall skinny man was first on his side. He, of course, being male and young and having nothing wrong with him, had to dart onto the train and get the first available and easy to get to seat. I was next, so I head to to back, where there were what looked to be two free window seats.


I usually avoid sitting in the back row because stinky homeless people tend to live back there, leaving their stink and funk and garbage. But when there is no where else to sit, I'll succumb to the ick.

Both guys sitting in the back rows were in aisle seats. I turned to the one on my left and said, "Excuse me," while gesturing to the window seat. That's when I saw he had fifty bags piled up in the seat next to him and on the ground.

ARGH!

To show my disgust with him, I waved my arm down at him and said "ugh!"

I turned to the guy on the right, who should have known he was my next "excuse me" victim, and he too had a bag on the seat next to him.

Come on, people! It's the busiest time on BART and you really think it's okay to do that??? Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, you're all dumb, dumb, dumb!

He actually got up for me, and so I actually got to sit down. The only complaint I have about sitting next to him was that he had slight BO, and every time he'd lift his arms up to adjust his newspaper, I'd get hit in the face with his stink.

At the next station another lady tried to sit down next to the guy with 50 bags, but he just smiled and gestured towards his bags like, "well, as you can certainly see, I have 50 bags in this seat, so you, my dear, cannot actually sit down." She glared at him.

The young man who rushed onto the train to get a seat before anyone else never once gave it up for anyone, even these two ladies who, I'd like to think were doing this to make a point, but probably not, were sitting in the aisle.

It's pretty amazing.

Actually what amazed me more was that neither lady stood up to get out of people's way when they were trying to leave the train.

Just another fun Friday evening in extremely hot weather while on BART.

Say it like it is, did I say?

One thing about taking public transportation almost every day is is you begin to realize how we, as human, just don't care about each other. I admit, I do this most times myself because I just really don't want to be bothered and I tend to attract sucker on-ers who won't leave me alone and all I want to be is left alone. But there are two things I will always do, one sparked more from my pregnancy than out of kindness (and, as we all know, I'm not kind, at least my friends don't think so - thanks, friends!), and one out of just being considerate and polite.

The first thing I will do is give up my seat for an older person, handicapped person or pregnant person. I will not bum rush the train for a seat if I know there are others trying to get on that probably should be sitting down more than me, and I definitely will not try to get to a recently vacated seat on a cattle car train because that fight just isn't worth it.

Interestingly enough, on Friday, I gave up my seat for an older gentleman with a cane. And, even more interesting, I got to sit back down almost immediately, without fighting any men for the empty seat.

So there I was, reading away. The bench next to me was perpendicular to my bench. A man sat in the window seat, the aisle seat was occupied by a young lady with a suitcase blocking the aisle (another pet peeve -- if you plan on taking a train, sit somewhere where you're not blocking everything!), two bags on her lap, and she was reading a book.

At some point, the man next to the window needed to get off the train. So what does this girl do? She leans ever so slightly into the aisle, not attempting to make much room for him to get out into the aisle. In order to do so, he had the almost push his groin into my face. This, I did not appreciate, but I knew it was her fault and not his.

I rolled my eyes and huffed but let it go.

Never once did she looked up from her book, but she did make some noise indicating displeasure of having to move.

There was an older man standing, and he decided to sit down in the vacated window seat. I thought, okay, after what happened last time, this girl will at least attempt to get up and get out of the way, and who cares about your f-ing bags and your stupid book, just get up, you lazy jerk of a person.

What does she do? She leans ever so slightly into the aisle.

I was pissed. You just don't do these sorts of things to people! Especially older people who could possible fall on top of me! I will always get up and get out of the way, no matter how many bags I'm totting. It's just common courtesy. I would give her more leeway if she was old or crippled or pregnant, but she was visibly none of these things.

"You can stand up and not be so rude," I said and probably really loudly since I was listening to my music and I tend to talk loudly regardless.

She started spouting off stuff at me, but, as I've said, I couldn't hear anyone's voice because of my music. And I realized that this was really the best way to go when you want to tell someone what an inconsiderate idiot they are. I ignored her, she eventually went back to reading, and when the man wanted to get off the train, she did her same thing, leaned ever so slightly into the aisle.

As the people behind her wanted to move forward, she would move her suitcase blocking the aisle ever so slightly as well.

Obviously the world revolved around her. Obviously I didn't realize this. And even more obvious, she hasn't met my 15-month old who KNOWS the world revolves around him.

Fire door or doctor?

I'll take the fire door any day! Okay, not really that true....

I went to the doctor today, and he brought out his medieval soldering iron thing and burnt a hole into my fingernail. He was surprised that thick blood came out because he assumed it was too late to bleed me.

After about five minutes of him squeezing my finger to drain as much blood as he could and me feeling like I was going to pass out from the pain and thought of my loosened fingernail feeling like a loose tooth that you can wiggle around with your tongue, the doctor left me to lay on the table after the procedure.

In other words, no numbing, no pain medicine, no lollipop, nothing except a bigger hole in my finger nail, lots of blood and a tiny band aid.

He did, however, give me props for trying to burn a hole in my nail myself.

Ouch.

Puffy, hurt finger on left, normal, slender finger on right.

Bruise.

Excuse the horrible pics. I am laptop-less for a few more days...

1387th stupid thing that's happened to me.

I have a tendency to do stupid things to myself or stupid things just naturally happen to me. Like my eye infection that came out of no where and turned me into a one sided Quasimodo.

Yesterday as we were leaving to go out to breakfast, I was trying to keep our front door open so my husband could wheel Mateo out the door without the door crashing on them. See, our front door is a VERY heavy fire door with a broken swing mechanism that should slow the door down from slamming shut since it's so HEAVY. The swing thing broke last year and we just never bothered to fix it. As I was trying to get myself out the door, the door closed quickly, which is something I should be used to, and slammed on my index finger. I immediately screeched and stood there with my wounded hand held up and my mouth hanging open.

My husband asked me which finger got crushed, thumb or index finger, and I just turned around, went back inside, sat on our bed and began to cry while watching my index finger and fingernail turn bright purple.

My husband came back inside with Mateo (who thought it was quite fun being in the stroller while in our bedroom). He came over to me and looked at my finger, grabbed it, which I then yelled not to do, and told me how much he knows that hurts, do I still want to go out to eat, what did I want to do.

Not realizing the severity of my crushed index finger, but trying to be a breakfast trooper, I told him I still wanted to go. I sucked it up, tried to act like it didn't hurt, that I was perfectly okay with the pain, and off we all went.

I'll skip the story about how I realized as soon as we go into the restaurant that it was a really bad idea going out to eat with Mateo because of his age and that he's basically a nut ball who wants to be on the go all the time and into every one's business. My finger continued to scream out in pain and was throbbing horribly during the whole meal. Even though what I really wanted to do after stuffing food down my throat quickly and being spat upon by my Linda Blaire child was just go home, curl up into a ball of sadness and pain, I suggested we still go to my Mom's to visit and pick up some stuff she was holding for me.

After a couple of hours being there, and after already suggesting that we leave, which I got no response to, we left (football was on, we left during half time, go figure). My dad arrived home from work right when we were leaving, and he took a look at my finger, declared it not "that bad," and asked if it was throbbing. I said yes. He said when he got his fingernail poked to relieve the pressure/blood, he immediately felt better. I said I was thinking about that because it was getting really bad.

After we got home, and I had become rather passive aggressive because all I wanted to do was what I said a few paragraphs ago (curl up into a ball - just a reminder), and all my husband wanted to do was clean, which meant I was on Mateo patrol, and after doing some brief research on poking a hole through a fingernail to relieve the bruising pressure, I told my husband to go ahead, do it.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. At this rate, I won't even be able to sleep tonight. I just won't watch," I said. Firmly.

He ran around, getting needles, gauze, peroxide, a plier to hold the needle, while I sat in Mateo's rocking chair and he toodled around his room, investigating all that he could.

When it was time, I brought Mateo into the living room and went into the kitchen. Mateo immediately went to the baby gate blocking him from the fun and began to whine.

My husband had boiled my sewing machine needles (yes, even while in massive pain, I still had to notice this, point it out and make fun of him) to make them sterile. I put my finger over the kitchen sink and tried not to pass out.

He gentle placed the sharp end of the needle onto my nail. And then pressed. And I cringed. And he pressed. And I felt sick. Like I was going to faint. Then he told me he didn't think the needle was hot enough.

I suggested a lighter. We looked for one, found one and were good to go.

I stood at the sink while he heated up the end of the needle. The middle of my stomach kept tightening up, and I knew I was pretty much a goner, that if we continued with this minor surgery, I was going to pass out. I looked at the needle, saw the bright red tip, and said, "I can't do this. I'm going to faint."

My husband sighed. I ran to the couch and curled up into a ball.

He came over and told me to go to the ER. I said no. He said go. I said no. He asked if I would do it for Mateo. I said no, I wouldn't do it for anyone.

After a few minutes, I decided if any hole was going to be poked through my nail, I would have to do it. I'm just the kind of gal that has to be in control of things, and if that means I do it myself and risk fainting, then so be it.

I went into the kitchen, got some more needles prepared, heated up the tip of one, and started poking a hole through my nail.

Now, this is where I want to interject and tell you all that 1. I don't recommend doing this at home only because of risk of infection, so just because I'm stupid enough to do it, doesn't mean you should be, and 2. the guy who wrote about doing this to himself lied. It does hurt. Regardless of how much blood is pooled under your nail. It. Hurts. A. Lot.

I finally got through to the blood, a minuscule amount of blood came through, I sucked some air in while reheating the needle, thinking, okay, this is it, one more try, and all this blood must splatter through, the pressure will be relieved, and so what if I faint? At least my finger will feel much, much better.

For some stupid reason, I no matter how many more times I tried (probably 5 more), I couldn't get any more blood to come through. And for some reason, just doing what I did, seemed to help. Or it was the motrin I took just before doing all this. Don't get me wrong, my finger still hurt like a dickens, but it didn't hurt-hurt. Not like before. Like I was on the verge of passing out from pain-hurt.

So I gave up. And now, not only is half my nail black and my finger swollen, not to mention still extremely pained, I'm sporting a lovely black hole in what used to be the white half-moon of my nail. You can actually see the dried blood around the edges of the hole, and I swear, when I rub my fingernail over the hole, I can feel the flesh under my bruised nail.

With that said, I'm getting our door fixed as soon as I can.

Like a bag lady with a baby on the hip.

My mom buys bulk items for me at Costco each week, which means I have to go pick them up from her house, which means a fun visit from Mateo for Grandma. Yesterday Mateo and I had our visit and left with our stuff, which consisted of a package (not from Costco, although I'm sure they sell packages), a big thing of paper towels and two double containers of powder formula (my child has turned into an eating machine). Plus I had my child, a stroller, a diaper bag, the daycare bag, two 12-packs of soda and myself. And my purse. And some baby blankets. And now that I think about it, I think I left his pullover in the car. Oh well.

I had called my husband to tell him that there would be things in the car for him to bring in, and after an awkward conversation, I determined this irritated him. So, me being me, I decided to bring everything in on my own.

Mateo had passed out in the car, so I was hoping I could use his stroller to load everything on it and hold him while using my other hand to steer the stroller into the condo complex. By doing this, I would have to get through a locked gate and locked door before getting to our door.

Of course Mateo woke up when I was getting him out of his car seat, so I now had to hold a wiggly infant while trying to drive a stroller that was resembling a homeless person's stroller of possessions.

I got to the first locked door, which is the gate that goes from the parking lot to the inside of the complex, when I saw this lady walking towards the gate. Never to be one to assume anyone will actually help me, I managed to get the gate open and the stroller into the doorway when the lady ran over while exclaiming I had my hands full. Understatement, but yes, true.

She then proceeded to grab hold of the stroller and pull it through with enough force to cause the wheels to fall into the dirt, off the path. While I stared at the stroller, thinking, how did that help me, you darn stupid condo lady (my husband and I call her that or the crazy condo lady who we desperately try to avoid at all times because she's annoying), she was running at the mouth about some service she runs and how I should do it because then I wouldn't have to do what I was doing today and it would be wonderful and soooo helpful.

But wait. Don't I have my hands full plus a stroller now half in the dirt and half on the path and I have to somehow get it back on the path because you helped me? And you're doing what? Trying to sell me something? That I don't want? Cause all I want to do is get into my condo, put my stuff away and feed my wiggly not to mention very tired baby?

So instead of really listening to her, I worked on getting the stroller back on the path, and when my silence didn't clue her in about what she just did to me and that I wasn't really listening to her at all, I said, "Whhhaattt? What service? What?"

I turned around and looked at her and noticed that since it was now evening, she had caked on the 10 lbs of make-up she puts on her face and was all dolled up for some sexy exercising at the condo gym (her haunt, which is one of the reasons why I haven't decided I should use our condo gym to try to lose my chubs). Usually I see her in the mornings when I'm working at home, and for some reason she doesn't feel it's necessary to put make-up on in the mornings, only at night. Either way, she doesn't look too hot.

"I run a personal health service blah blah blah home," she said. I stopped listening again.

"Oh, no, that's okay," I said.

"You wouldn't have to do this all the time," she said, indicating the stroller and my wiggly child.

So. I barely get to leave the house, so you're suggesting I eliminate one of the few times I have an excuse to get out into the world? Plus limit the times Mateo gets to see his Grandma? What I'd rather have offered to me is a maid service. Or a personal chef. Or a masseuse. Or a cat trainer. And the only reason I was doing what I was doing is because I assumed my husband didn't want to do it, and hey, I'm a woman of the 2000's, I can load up a stroller like no one's ever seen before. I don't need him! Well, okay, I do.

"Oh, that's okay, my mom buys this stuff for me, so it's not really a problem," I said.

"But it would be delivered to you!!! For free!!!!!" she said.

"That's okay. Grandma gets to see him, he gets to see Grandma; if I stopped that, then Grandma would be mad," I said. And yes, I was trying to escape this whole time, it's just hard to do when you're rolling with loaded stroller and wiggly child and are being talked to by pancake make-up sexy exercise lady.

"But it would be delivered to YOU!!!!" she said again. Apparently I'm either dumb, deaf or a hard sell.

"I'm hardly home," I said. Which is not true. And I think she knows that. But oh well. When nothing else works, lie.

"Oh, we can schedule it around when you are home!!!!" she said.

"No, thanks, I'm really okay," I said and finally got momentum with the stroller and began to walk away.

"IF YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND, JUST LET ME KNOW!!!" she yelled at my back.

Invisible car.

I have a general joke that I'm the invisible girl. Which means: People don't see me. And no, I'm not kidding. I get ignored in public a lot. I get ran into, ignored when drinks are being refilled, or when orders are being taken, or when I'm in line, or whatever. I just get ignored. I'm invisible.

Unfortunately, I'm now the invisible girl in the invisible car. Remember my Momma Bear post? Well, at the same intersection where I was in the double left turn lanes and the lady decided she wanted to move into the space I was occupying, it happened again. And what really kills me is that I was sitting there, waiting for the light to turn green, when I glanced over at the lady next to me, and I thought, it's obvious I'm right next to you, so wouldn't it be odd if you decided to move into my lane after we turned, just like that one lady did and then who started honking at me?

Ah yes, you can see where this is going.

The light changed, we both began to turn left, and all of a sudden, she was moving into my lane and almost hit me. While I've been feeling sick and have a slight case of PMS, I wasn't having much road rage today. So instead of honking the horn like a manic rabid monkey and screaming every swear word I could think of (this usually consists of "lady, poophead, jerkball," and yes, that is admittedly sad but very good for my son's ears), I just said in disgust, "Oh. my. god. lady. what. the. hey," while slowing down so we wouldn't collide. After she moved into my lane, she immediately turned into the shopping center on our right. Sorta like what that other lady wanted to do and eventually did after she honked at me repeatedly.

Being invisible is bad enough, but being invisible while driving a small SUV-type car (that's bright red, by the way -- really difficult to notice) and transporting my most precious cargo in the backseat is really bad. Perhaps we should paint our car a garish color like bright orange or yellow or two-toned of both colors so people will at least notice the car. Me? I know there's no hope.

The coffeemaker hates me.

I make coffee every morning when I work from home. I do this after I make Mateo's bottles for the day. We bought a new coffee maker a couple of months ago, and it requires a paper filter, which is different from our old coffee maker and the one at work. So I got the coffee going, went into our room to continue getting myself ready for the day, and that was when Mateo decided he wanted to wake up. It was about an hour to an hour and a half earlier than his normal wake up time.

While I was trying to get him to go back to sleep (ha, ha), I heard the beeper from the coffee machine going off, indicating it was done. Ah, good. Fresh coffee! A working parent's joy.

My plan was to let Mateo loose on the living room floor while I had my first cup of java and started working. His plan was to eat before his belly shrunk to the size of a raisin.

I dropped him off in the living room with his toys, walked into the kitchen, looked at the coffee maker, which was now sitting in a flood of brown liquid.

My brain, at 5am, well, no, anytime at this point in my life, really can't adjust quickly to things that don't seem correct. Like our coffee maker sitting in a flood of brown liquid. Brown liquid with specks of dark brown bits. That sorta look like coffee grounds.

My first thought was, man, our coffee maker is new! What the hey! Why's there coffee leaking from it? How'd that happen? Did I overfill it? Did I put water in the pot after pouring water into the machine? So then it leaked? Does it just hate me and want to complicate my morning more? Because Mateo wants to eat and doesn't want to sleep like he should be doing? And because of those reasons, I didn't wander into the kitchen earlier to notice the brown sludge all over?

And hey, the cord, that's plugged in, is sitting in the water. That creates some morning fun. What do I do? What do I do?

What I did was pull the plug. And I lived to tell this tale. Go figure. Although I did have a fleeting thought that my husband would come home from the gym, to find Mateo lying next to me on the kitchen floor, with big tears streaming from his eyes cause he was so hungry and mommy wasn't doing her job anymore.

Well, it turns out I'm a complete idiot who didn't put a simple paper filter into the filter holder thing and therefor, coffee grinds and water went everywhere. Who knew one simple paper filter did so much?

Elevator doors do close.

We needed to buy some rechargeable batteries and soda yesterday. After it took 5 minutes to get from one side of the Walmart parking lot to the other, we decided to forgo Walmart and the tons of idiotic people seeking cheap deals and head over to Target where the clientele is a smidge better.

We had to go downstairs for the batteries, and so after spending some time looking around and pondering whether Mateo needed a new toy or not (the answer to that was: no), we headed over to the elevator to go back upstairs. This is one thing I never really thought about before having Mateo - that elevators and ramps are the only way to get around when you have a baby -- all of a sudden I saw the world quite differently when Mateo arrived.

There was a lady at the elevators with a shopping cart; one of her kids was in the cart, the other was walking. As the doors opened up, the walking kid trotted inside right as the shopping cart kid kicked off his shoe, which the shopping cart jammed on and wouldn't move any further. The lady, who I will loosely call a 'mom,' exclaimed "OH!" and reached down to remove the shoe from under the cart...as the doors started to close.

Right after my husband and I got to the elevators, some annoying old man showed up and acted like no one was there except him, and if the lady wasn't blocking the elevator doors, he would have easily bypassed us all and stepped into the elevator. So, when the doors started to close, he panicked because that meant he wasn't getting on the elevator, and so he told her the doors were closing. My husband and I said the same thing.

Instead of acting quickly, while her child was screaming as the doors closed, by sticking her leg or arm into the opening so the safety laser on the elevator would detect her limb and reopen the doors, she stood there and said, "My boy! My boy!!" which made the kid start wailing even more loudly. She somehow thought he would pop out on the other side (the elevators at Target open on one side to let people off and then close, then the other side opens to let people on), so she went over to the other side to see. My husband, who is naturally helpful, went as well. I stood there with Mateo and the old man, wondering how long this was going to go on.

My husband came back and I informed him that I could hear the kid upstairs screaming. The lady came back with her kid and the cart. The other set of elevators came down, and we all piled on, including 4 more people who just showed up.

As soon as the doors opened, the lady said over and over, "are we up or down? are we up or down? are we up or down?"

Finally someone told her up.

Then she started saying loudly, "WHERE'S MY BOOOOOOOOOOOOOY! JOHANNNEEEEE!!!!"
We didn't stick around to see what happened. I know I should feel bad for her or the kids or both because I'm now a mom, and I'm sure the first time Mateo ups and runs off, I will freak out as well. But. Come on. Elevator doors do close. You only have so much time before they close. She never once looked at the doors or her kid inside the elevator, not until we told her the doors were closing. She's stupid. Her stupidity makes me feel bad for her kids, but not her.

Colossel AND giant.

Who knew soccer could be so...big?

Earthquake hits east bay! Donuts knocked awry!

I'm currently taking a class in SF on Flash, a lovely software that I'm eager to start using. When I left at lunch time, I headed a different way out of the building lobby, which happens to pass by the guard station. The guard station has one of those black signs where you insert white letters to create words. As I walked by it, I noticed it had important news regarding the earthquake that hit this morning (which, by the way, I was awake for, but did not feel). I caught:

Quake knocks donuts....

I figured it said something like, "...on the ground and got them all dirty with glass shards..." or better yet, "...through the air and kills patrons...," but I missed the end since I wasn't expecting to see such a sign and was already way passed it and didn't want to look silly by walking back to read it.

When I walked back in, after walking around for a bit, I made a point to walk by the sign again. I read the remainder of the sign:

"...awry. Mayor states...."

As I was reading the sign, and contemplating whipping out my cell phone to take a quick picture (even though I still haven't bought a cord to transfer pictures from my cell phone to my computer, but this would probably cause me to do so), the guard, who was obviously bored, I'm assuming, because he made a sign about the donuts said "hi" to me. Darn.

Not only could I now not take a picture at this point, but since he said "hi" to me, his guard instincts were probably kicking in and he probably took a mental photo of me, so when I left, I couldn't try to sneak a picture.

But alas, I'm glad to know that donuts were knocked awry. Those poor donuts, being the only victims of today's earthquake. Sad, sad donuts.

Danger! It's smells like popcorn!

I bought some snack packs of popcorn today (Pop Secret, which I just realized is a play on "top secret," those clever, clever popcorn folks) because I'm starting my diet again in hopes I lose all the milkshakes, chicken sandwiches and french fries I consumed while pregnant with Mateo.

I decided to have some popcorn because the snack packs of Sun Chips I bought were tempting me but I didn't want to spend my weight watcher's points on them just yet. I quickly glanced at the instructions. It said to keep in the microwave for three minutes but that's the maximum time and each microwave is different and that I should keep my eye on it. I put it in, closed the door, set it for 3 minutes. I stood there, but then thought to myself, I should go sit down and keep working while my tasty popcorn pops away.

I sat down, worked for about two and a half minutes, heard the timer go off, went over and saw massive amounts of smoke in the microwave.

Uh oh, I thought.

I opened the door and dead popcorn smoke billowed out. I turned on the exhaust fan, started fanning away, and then ran to open the back door. I went back into the kitchen, grabbed the bag, which was still puffing out smoke like a small dragon, and opened the bag a bit more. More smoke puffed out, and the inside contents looked like charred popcorny sadness. The bag and remains would not stop puffing away, so I put the bag in the sink and turned on the water. After about 30 seconds, the smoke stopped. And I had a bag of smokey-smelling, watery, black popcorn goo.

Hmmm, I thought. This is so not good. Not only am I sad, sad gal who cannot read and then remember simple instructions, I almost burnt the place down. I'm not sure if smoke even triggers anything in our condo, but I've been through enough real fire alarms here to know I don't want to be the idiot who set her kitchen on fire because she was popping popcorn. And one person alone is not enough to rangle up two frighten cats to put them in their cat carriers so they can be saved as well as oneself.

However, still in the mood for said popcorn, I opened another bag and popped away. This time I set the timer at two minutes and stood there the whole time, waiting for the popping sounds to slowly...stop.

I'm waiting for my husband to come home and ask why our place smells like smoke...or is that popcorny smoke?

Now I have seen it all.

I thought the baby urinal that Costco sells was the last item I'd think "now I've seen it all" about, but nope. Now there is the Mangroomer. And now I have seen it all.

Vagisil

Tonight when we were watching TV, a commercial came on that I tuned into while I was looking stuff up on my computer. It said something about women not feeling like themselves, so I turned and looked at the TV and a dead lobster was being shown. I turned and looked at my husband and stared at him like, "What the hey?" and he just started laughing his head off. This commercial was for Vagisil itch cream. Basically it was saying that women's nether regions smell like dead lobsters.

Um. Okay. Makes me wonder who's running the company. Either a female with a really wicked and twisted sense of humor who thinks it's perfectly fine to compare a women's nether regions to crustaceans or a man. I'm thinking man.

What happened to the tuna?

Oh yes, I was verry surprised.

I was putting cans of cat food in our kitchen cabinet this morning when I saw this weird creature in a plastic bag in the corner back of the cabinet. At first my heart stopped because I wasn't sure if it was a living thing or not since it didn't resemble anything I would have put in the cabinet. Then I realized it was in a plastic bag, so if anything, I could grab it by the bag and not the thing itself. And if it ended up moving, I could just throw it as hard as I could and scream really loudly. Low and behold, this is what it was:

















It was in a Safeway.com plastic bag, which means it's about a month or month and a half old. I was really impressed with its growth although a bit grossed out from the moldy spot on the side. Who knew I could grow such wonderous things in my cabinets??