Don’t Buy Me Flowers

Keeping up. It’s nearly impossible and lately I feel like I am stuck on a 24-hour treadmill that is going way too fast.

Thanks to my great husband and kids I had a special Mother’s Day. I was treated to a new spin on “breakfast-in-bed”.


My son gets up unacceptably early (5:45 a.m.) and being that it was my turn, I got to go downstairs to turn on cartoons. I fell back asleep on the couch and woke up to a half-naked little boy serving me a cheese omelet.

“Breakfast-on-the-couch” and my son peeing in the potty for the first time was all I needed for the perfect Mother’s Day, but more surprises were in store.

On the kitchen counter I found a sweet card (signed with help from Daddy) and two mid-size outdoor flower plants.

My first thought, “MORE RESPONSIBILITY! Ugh.”

Isn’t that horrible?

Instead of a nice gesture like flowers, my husband should have gotten me a diamond studded t-shirt labeled, “Major Bitch.”

If our life were a sitcom the canned laughter would have been cued and I would have worn it later that day when my in-laws came over for dinner and brought me another potted plant.

It’s not that I am ungrateful or have anything against potted flowers. It’s just that I am already in charge of five heartbeats.

1. Mine
2. Tyler’s
3. Addison’s
4. Scarlett’s
5. Archie’s

I simply can’t be in charge of things that require water for survival.
I am aware of my faults and I try to compensate for them. For example, I am a little unorganized.

I make lists, but I lose them. So I write on my hand because I can’t lose that!
These types of coping mechanisms can work but things like washing your hands can abort a grocery store mission real fast. Circumstances like this lead to me digging through my messy purse looking for my lost list with my ink-smeared hand wondering what I came to get in the first place.

In regards to the flowers, they are still sitting on my front porch in pots waiting to be planted. I had a genius idea to use all of this recent rain to my advantage. I moved my pots to my neglected flower beds where Mother Nature could take care of them.


A bit Ghetto and half-assed I will admit. But hey, a girl has to do what a girl has to do.

The weeds keep on growing just like the unsightly roots on top of my head. On the 24-hour treadmill of life there’s not enough time to take care of everything.

So please, if you want to get me something, opt for a diamond studded t-shirt. Just DON’T get me flowers.

The Other Woman

I should be ashamed of myself. I have not blogged in over two months. I am not worthy of readers and it is highly likely that many Janie fans have given up and will never bother to look at my lame, tardy blog ever again. I understand. I do.

Maybe I deserve to have "The Other Woman" wreaking havoc on my life ...... Hmmmmmmm. I don't know, she is pretty awful. I am not sure anyone, not even my worst enemy, should have to share their man with Dora. That's right, D D D Dora, Dora the Explorer.



My hate for Dora is disturbing. Since my son fell in love with her I find myself consumed with nasty thoughts about this creepy little chick. I am embarassed to say that I sat through an entire stop light the other day daydreaming about how funny it would be if D D D Dora got D D D DEPORTED.

In case I still have any followers and- in case they happen to be followers who don't have kids- Dora is a cartoon character that teaches kids Spanish. She is also, you guessed it- an explorer. Thrilling. If this doesn't ring a bell, go to any Walmart and you will find lots of white trash kids apparel with her fat little face on it.

I dragged a sceaming and kicking Tyler out of the store the other day because I would not buy him a Dora bedding set. Had I known, I wouldn't have spent a bajillion dollars at Pottery Barn Kids.

"I want Doorwa- uh, uh, uh," he cried. "Boots and Doorwa."

Boots is a monkey. He is Dora's sidekick and he wears boots. Holy creative.

I've had hardass parents tell me, "You are the parent. You control what they watch."
Um yeah. Good luck. I do draw the line. No Nip Tuck. But really, controlling cartoons? Dora may be freaking driving me clinically insane, but Tyler is silent for an entire episode. A wise soul once said, "Silience is golden." I pick my battles, and I complain about them here.

On the way to work this week I hit a traffic jam and came up with this (I thought it was pretty good):

D= Dumb f*&^ing haircut.
O= On her way to being obese. Seriously D, no more belly shirts.
R= Rather eat my toenails with ketchup than watch her show.
A= An idea for prison reform! Dora 24/7 = Corporal punishment.

Thank you Jami B., Rachel S., Stephen E., and Sarah O. for pushing me to continue writting.

A Pictures Is Worth A Thousand Words

I started 2010 with three New Years Resolutions.
#1- Get in shape. Not anything crazy- like Jessica Biel shape- just not flabby, I want to vomit when I see myself naked in the mirror shape.
#2- Have newleywed relations. The goal here is frequency. A job and two kids getting up every other night can be killer on the love life.
#3- Keep up with my blog and post weekly.
I recently read a article that said only 40-45% of Americans make New Years Resolutions. That statistic made me feel smug. Atleast I am more motivated than 60% of people to set goals for myself.
Five weeks into the New Year I revisited that article. Not feeling so smug now. Only 75% of resolutions are followed past the first week, 65% after one month, and 46% after six months.
Wow......I guess my resolutions must fall into the 1% that never really get off the ground.
On the contrary, I have found a hobby that I have continued to exercise- with vigorous intensity I might add. Photography. I have always been interested in photography. For Christmas I got a new camera and while I haven't picked up a weight, turned into a nimpho, or blogged weekly- I have spent time exploring my inner photographer.

I love this picture of Addie. It's like she's looking at me and saying, "What are we going to do today?"
Trying to give her incentive to crawl. She wasn't buying it.


Moving on to pulling herself up. She was more into this. She was exploring Tyler's train table while he was napping. I think she is thinking, "Thank god he went to bed. Now I can play with those f"in cars and trains without him throwing a fit."


Both of my kids are precious. Addie is at my favorite age- 10 months. She is full of wonder and excitement. She is very sweet and loving. She is my Sunshine and she makes me happy when skies are grey.

The Pregnancy Diet

I gained 55 disgusting pounds during my first pregnancy. Only 44 pounds the second one. I decided it wasn't reasonable to eat a Snickers bar everyday.

I was so nauseated that I couldn't stand the smell of my husband, my dogs, or the first floor of my house. I had the kind of nausea that makes you want to die. I did my fair share of worshiping the porcelain God every morning.

I learned very early on that "morning sickness" is a myth. It should be called morning, afternoon, and night sickness. Or maybe 24 hour sickness. I am so sick I want to die and kill my husband sickness. I am a miserable excuse for a human being sickness. I hate the world sickness. You get my drift. Pregnancy is not a becoming condition for me. I am not one of those women who glow. I glower.

I did however, have a twinge of jealousy the other day when I encountered a giant pregnant woman in line at Panera. I was trying to decide what I could eat and stay on my diet. She ordered an entire container of blueberry scones and began eating them. I decided to stick around to eat my bland, low-calorie soup just to see if she was going to eat all of them.

She came pretty close. It was quite impressive.

This got me thinking... Maybe I do miss certain aspects of pregnancy. An official name for my aforementioned weight gain, The Pregnancy Diet is a 9-month pass to eat whatever, whenever.

Not trying to maintain a girlish figure is awesome. If you have never allowed yourself months and months to eat with reckless abandon, I genuinely suggest it.

My husband, the money Nazi of the house, likes to keep track of our expenses. Whenever I use my debit card he gets an email almost instantaneously. He jokes that when I am pregnant; he stops getting emails from my favorite stores and instead can track me by random restaurants.

What I miss most is my love affair with The Great Steak and Potato Co. I would open the place and order a huge chicken cheese steak with extra cheese, tons of mayo, banana peppers, onions, and green peppers. To make sure the post-meal heartburn was worth it, I would also ask for double, deep-fried French fries.

Another oldie buy goodie is McDonalds. The yellow arches symbolize my ballooning boobs, butt, and thighs after I hit the drive through window and order a bacon, egg, and cheese bagels. It's the best washed down with a coke and a strawberry milk shake. I probably had this nutritious meal 5 out of 7 days for the first 16 long, miserable weeks of my pregnancies.

Of course not all my pregnant food memories are positive. I had a particularly weird craving for a chili hot dog they sell at gas stations. I was topping it with mustard and onions when this fat kid, around 10-years-old, peeked around the corner of the gum aisle and called me, "fatty, fat, fat."

I thought I was just hearing things so I said, "What did you say?"

Clear as day, he said, "You don't need that. You are fatty, fat, fat, fat."

I didn't cry. I snapped, "I'm pregnant, what's your excuse fat Albert?"

His white-trash mom started yelling and threatening to call the cops and tell them I was "hollerin" at her son.

It wasn't my proudest moment. I left Speedway with my dog and my pride. First I ate it. Then I called my husband for a good cry and support. What I got was a lecture about calling a little fat kid- well, fat.

No longer under the influence of hormones, I do feel a little ashamed for what I said. I secretly hope that little shit makes it out of his trailer park and on The Biggest Loser. See ... no hard feelings.