Monday, December 31, 2007

I'm Ashamed

Dear blog,
I'm sorry I have ignored you for so long. 10 days! That's a long time. But to tell the truth, I have nothing to say. Once I thought I would write about Christmas, but decided not to. Then I though I would write about the cats some more. Then I thought I should write about the baby, since the poor baby has been denied precious blog time, but there really isn't any new news.
What I'm trying to say is, I am dull. I have nothing to write about, and I really don't want to post more about poop. So until I can think of something intelligent and worth reading, I won't write. I am reading Anna Karenina, so maybe that will spark something. I am also visiting my family. Maybe I'll take pictures and write about my family.
Until further notice,

Friday, December 21, 2007

A Smorgasboard, If You Will

I don't suppose there will be alot of flow or cohesivity (yes I just made that word up) to this post, but I shall post it anyway.

I have done alot since I last posted. A. Lot. For instance, I ate two of the most delicious brownies on the face of the earth. They were choclately, they had chunks, they had frosting, and crunched up candy canes on the top. Normally I don't like mint and chocolate together, but dang if I didn't eat two of those brownies in about 2.4 seconds like some kind of crazy person.

I made a cake. And iced it. And ate none of it. Miraculous.

I made no bake cookies. Or, as Alex called them, Easy Bake No Cookies.

I made sugar cookies to decorate, then left them out like an idiot and they ended up strewn about the house with cat tooth shaped holes in them.

I then suffered a diabetic coma from the eight pounds of sugar I have eaten.

I spent all of Thursday morning with the shelter boys, and was again amazed and blown away by how precious and awesome they were. Again I was expecting to end the shift by duct taping all of them to the walls, but ended instead by loving them all dearly. Then I spent all of Thursday night with four more boys, three of them teenagers. The vast differences between teenage boys and teenage girls are incredible.

I drove to work today at 11. I had about ten minutes of my drive left when the baby shifted and found a more comfortable place in my uterus. It just happened to be right on top of my bladder. The rest of the drive was torturous, and I really thought I was going to pee my pants. Please take a moment to imagine a mango sized person sitting on top of your bladder. Not pretty. Right on cue, when I got to the shelter, the baby moved and I was fine. Bah. Babies. I spent the next few hours answering the door, organizing presents, answering the phone, moving boxes, throwing things away and breaking down boxes. Then I spent the next eight hours with the babies. The babies are awesome. They poop, cry and sleep and they are happy to eat, have their pants changed, and be sung to. All of these things I can do with exceptional grace and little brain power. Because I am awesome. And because these skills are essential in doing a job like mine.

For example, I was on my way to the bathroom, when I heard a wee voice from down the hall. "Hey...Hey", wee voice called out. I turned around and saw one of the pre-schoolers standing just inside the bathroom doorway, pants around his ankles. I asked him if he needed some help and he responded "I need you to wipe my butt." A lesser woman would have balked at his request. Not me, I calmly whipped out the diaper wipes and cleaned his little booty, and even helped him change into clean pants, all the while whistling a jolly tune. Later, when one of the baby babies was not terribly excited about having her diaper changed and would have rather run around naked (which we really aren't supposed to allow) I entertained her into submission by singing "Daa Daa Daa", the same three notes over and over.

Unfortunately, and still poop related, I happened to hear the intestinal symphony of a co-worker when I walked too closely to the bathroom door. It was mildly traumatic.

And friends, this is where my tale ends. Sorry it's not a better story. And sorry for being overly proud of my poop cleaning abilities.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Miss Sadie: Supervisor Extraordiniare

*EDIT* I gave the meds. No one died. Success!!
Also, I found a pile of bones under our Christmas tree this morning. But that, my friends, is a story for another day.

Last night I started training to supervise at work. While I am excited to be able to help out and fill in when a Supervisor is needed, I am also a little scared by this prospect.

The supervisors are in charge of giving medications. I would venture to say that around 80% of our kids come in with a long list of meds, so this can be a big job for the supervisor, especially when we have 30 kids at the shelter. After Karen explained the med log to me, I said "Ok Karen, I understand all that, but what happens when I mess up, which I inevitably will? I mean, what do I do when I give someone the wrong medicine, or the wrong dosage, or forget to give it out at all? What I mean is, what do I do when I act like myself??" And she said, "Well, you call the on-call worker and if needed, you will call the pharmacy or poison control center. You would obviously also document it in the med log." "Ok, so in the med log I would write something like 'Gave poison instead of medicine.' Got it."

It is safe to say, the meds freak me out. Tonight I am taking an extra trip up to the shelter to help take care of the babies, and to hand out meds under the watchful eye of Miss Karen.

Another scary thing about supervising, as I explained to Karen last night, is that generally I pawn all of my crap onto the supervisors. If a kid won't take a bath, call the supervisor. If a kid won't do their homework? Call the supervisor. If a kid refuses to go to bed? Call the supervisor. If a kid is running up and down the halls, wearing nothing but thier underwear, screaming "I WANT BIRTHDAY CAKE!" and throwing stuffed animals? Call the supervisor?

So this means, on that inevitable night when there is that one kid who will not take a bath, not do her homework, not go to bed, and is running up and down the halls in her underwear screaming "I WANT BIRTHDAY CAKE!" and throwing stuffed animals, the staff will call Miss Sadie. And I will not know what to do, so I will most likely try to distract the girl away from throwing her fit which means I'll probably do something like dance and sing a silly song while all the other kids (and staff) look on and think to themselves, "Well, this is certainly going to be an interesting night."

There is a certain power that exudes from the supervisors. The kids may be slightly afraid of some of the staff, but they instinctively know there's not alot we can do in the way of discipline. We can sit them in time out...and that's about it. But for some reason, the supervisors are scarier. Now in general, the kids are even less scared of me than they are of other staff. I don't know why this is, I can be just as stern as the next staff member. I worry that the power of the supervisor will not effectively transfer to me, so when I am called to deal with the cussing, kicking, spitting, ornery kid, I'll walk in and he will say to himself, "Pssshhhaw, it's just Miss Sadie. She's not scary. She's just weird." I'm afraid I will sense thier lack of fear, and my presumed power will be chopped from beneath me quicker than you can say flapjack. Then I will be reduced to dancing and singing again.

This extra helping of responsibility? Is overwhelming.

Monday, December 17, 2007

A Very Griswold Christmas

It all began with the house lights.
I wanted Rusty to put lights on our house because there was not an ounce of holiday cheer on the outside which made me seem very much like a Scrooge. I am not a Scrooge and I didn't want my neighbors to think I am a Scrooge. Not even the Crazy Dog Lady.
So, I asked Rusty to plese put some lights on the house, and he told me he'd have to get some light hooks first. Which meant spending money. Which meant, probably no. I asked him the simple questions, "Well, does your dad have a staple gun?"
He looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and humor in his eyes, trying to figure out if I was kidding. I looked at him with sad eyes, because I really wanted lights on the house.
"A staple gun? A staple gun? Who puts lights on a house with a staple gun?"
"Umm, my dad. And Chevy Chase, in Christmas Vacation. Remember, he staples himself to his house and then when his shirt rips he falls off the roof?"
Rusty continued to look at me with a mixture of disbelief and humor, still trying to figure if I was kidding. I continued to look at him with sad eyes. Then he told me the merits of hooks, and had to show them to me at Lowe's since I had never seen them before. We do not have lights on the outside of our house.
Now that I think about it, I'm really not sure that my dad puts lights on the house with a staple gun. I might have just absorbed the memory of Chevy Chase doing it, and assumed that it was my dad.

On Friday night at eight we decided it was time to get a Christmas tree, so we dragged Rusty's parents to Lowe's so we could use their car. After wandering around for a while we picked one out, a lovely Scotch Pine, six feet tall with only three gaping holes. As an added bonus, we got it for $10. Procrastination pays off. Rusty and his dad strapped it to the Blazer while Carol and I waited inside. It was raining, you see. Once we got it to the house and stuck it in the tree stand, we realized it was leaning pretty far to one side. Not ones to worry uneccessarily, we put the lights on and went to bed. The next morning, Rusty woke up and the tree was lying on it's side. The cats were acting more strange than usual so we assume they climbed inside it and knocked it over. Our tree is now tied with a red rope to two hooks in the wall. It has worked well as the cats have been in and out of the tree and it hasn't fallen again.

I'm just waiting for my crazy cousin Eddie to show up on the doorstep with his tin can RV.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Brain Is Dead and Devoid of All Creativity. Call Back Later.

I just finished my last final. One more semester down, 3000 more to go. I hope to graduate by the time I am 47. We'll see how that works out for me.

I just wrote half of a post about the baby, looking bloated and spaghetti squash, but honestly, it was terrible and I don't want to publish it. I would rather wait and not post about the baby than post a few crappy paragraphs that lack any zest or humor or good writing skills. So I'll wait on that.

However, I didn't want anyone to think I had died or accidentally eaten my computer in a fit of manic hunger. Not dead. Computer still here. I just want to relish in the beginning of Christmas Break for a while. Should anyone need me they will be able to find me either on the couch playing Age of Empires or in bed reading a book that has nothing to do with school.

The end.

Ok, maybe not the end. I have a few more things to say.
1. I love this post by Dooce.
2. I also love these ugly little monster dolls. I hope to get one for the baby. See the website here.
3. Today I thought to myself: Maybe being as unstylish as I am, actually makes me stylish. Or maybe I'm just Sweatpants Phil.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Reasons #9623 and #9624 Why It Is Sometimes Embarassing To Be Me

Perhaps I should explain why I found the muffin cat so funny.

Once I wrote a post about why I make my neighbors cookies. Several weeks ago we got another set of new neighbors and I made some cookies for them too. But before I was able to wrap them up and take them across the street, I accidentally ate all of them.

And speaking of winter time (even though, as Dawn pointed out no one was speaking of winter time) as the weather gets colder I find myself dressing more and more like a hobo. I layer on clothes, much more concerned with being warm than looking fashionable. With each layer of clothes I look more ridiculous and become less mobile until I resemble a clown and my arms stick out at right angles from my body. Driving becomes considerably harder. My unfortunate layering was bad enough when I wasn't pregnant, but now that I am and my wardrobe is more limited, I not only look ridiculous, but look ridiculous wearing the same clothes week after week.

My mom and Bill came to visit us on Saturday, and we went to Motherhood Maternity again. I still didn't try on a fake belly. I got another pair of sweatpants (Yay! Sweatpants!) two shirts, and an incredible wool coat that I love and plan on having altered when I am not pregnant so I can still wear it. I am very sad that my camera is broken because I want to take a picture of Madeline in the Electrc Blue Mafia because that's exactly what my coat looks like.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

The Pants! The Pants!

I had to find pregnancy jeans that fit me.

Previously I had one pair of maternity jeans that I wore about 38 times a week. They were comfortable enough, but really were too big for me and earned me the pleasant nickname "Saggy Butt". In order to keep them up I had pull the back of them up until they were crossing the middle of my back, which was pretty ridiculous. They only stayed that way if I was perfectly still, so as soon as I started to walk, or say, breathe too hard, they would slide down taking my underwear with them. I was spending entirely too much time with my hand down the back of my pants, yanking my undies back into place. I did a study and found that the number of times I put my hands in my pants to pull my underwear back up was directly related to the number of people who consciously avoid me on campus.

It was high time I found some suitable pants. I ventured into Motherhood Maternity one afternoon, on a quest to return some items my mom bought for me that did not fit and to find the elusive pair of jeans that I knew would fit perfectly. Somewhere, there had to be a pair that fit my belly but did not leave me three feet of extra fabric for my thighs and butt, three feet of extra fabric that I did not need.

Shopping at Motherhood Maternity was...interesting. First, I was the only one in the store. Just me and the clerk. Just me....and the clerk...and one else. There was no one else for the clerk to talk to, or watch. She talked to me, and watched me. And I am a very private shopper, a very annoying private shopper who has to look at every single thing in the store before deciding what to try on. Then I pick out what to try on and take it to the dressing room. Then begins the fight of wills "Do I want it? Does it look good? Will I ever wear it? Is it comfortable? I don't want it. Wait, yes I do. No I don't. Wow, thats alot of money. I can't afford it. Dang it, now its the only thing in the whole world that I could ever want. Ok, I'll buy it." Next, I have to cruise around one more time just to make sure I didn't miss that one thing, the one article of clothing that will change my life. I always kind of hope I won't find it, because then I'll have to go through the whole ordeal of deciding what I will put back in order to purchase that one article of clothing that will change my life. Shopping for me is sort of stressful.

Anyway, since I was the only one in the store, my shopping eccentricities were totally visible to the clerk, who was not shy about staring at me. Once I finally got into the dressing room, I was intrigued by these strange contraptions hanging on the walls. They were like pillows with two straps around them that velcroed together. I'm assuming they were fake pregnant bellies, which is awfully strange. Do women who are newly pregnant put them on to buy clothes that will fit them later in pregnancy? Or are they for pregnant hopefuls? I was fascinated by the fake pregnant bellies and really wanted to try one on, but I knew the velcro sound would echo in the music-less store and the clerk would be completely aware of my fake belly trying on. And that was weird to me.

In the end, I found an excellent pair of jeans that don't fall off and take my undies with them. I also found two shirts that look very nice on me. Both are sparkly. Pregnancy has turned me into a sparkly crazy person.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Not Born, But Still So Sassy

I feel slightly better. Sort of. Not really. I have to go to work in a few hours so I must feel a little better. Sister Sherri got me a McFlurry last night. I thought that was very nice of her, and even though it was probably the last thing my stomach needed, it was delicious. Delicious and the only thing I wanted. Praise the Lord for sisters. I have six sisters, I am bless-ed.

Now, about this baby. I am 21 weeks pregnant. I was confused about my weeks and thought I was only 20 weeks pregnant. Then when I got to the doctor they told me I was at 21 weeks. The halfway mark came and went and I didn't even know it! Incredible.

Last week the baby was as big as a banana from head to foot (previously we were measuring from head to booty). Here is a picture of a banana for your viewing pleasure:

(Oh dear sweet goodness. PLEASE do not look up "banana" on Google images. Trust me on that one.)
Now the baby is as big as a carrot!
This baby is growing in leaps and bounds!

According to the skilled and very tall Dr Crownover, everything looks good in the uterus. The baby and all his/her organs are in good shape. So far we have:
a head
a brain
a heart
two arms (that punched me while we were watching)
two legs
a spine
I can't remember what else we saw

And no, we still do not know the sex of the carrot baby. We don't want to know. We did not cave. In fact, the baby's legs were crossed when we looked at the legs which I found hilarious. If I was into projecting a personality onto my unborn child I would be amused at how obnoxious and smarty-pants this baby is. And if I was into posting sonogram pictures I would post the picture of Smarty-Pants' crossed legs. What are we getting ourselves into?

Saturday, December 1, 2007


I'm sick. My intestines are throwing a big old freaking fit about something and I am completely at the mercy of them and their totally unpredictable cramps. Eew, that's gross. I know, trust me I know.
I have lots of stories to tell you about the very strange day I had while searching for maternity pants that fit me correctly, the fact that I only have one week of school left, the big 20 week doctor's visit that revealed lots of things about the wee one, and Baby Registry Extravaganza 2007, but I have a 10 page paper to write. Also, I'm sick and really don't feel like telling any stories right now.
Please send comforting thoughts to my intestines.