tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27593821845829955352024-02-19T10:22:49.299-05:00Welcome to My LifeSome things could only happen to me...Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.comBlogger903125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-58675702592189045662014-02-26T11:09:00.001-05:002014-02-26T11:09:41.413-05:00Advice to my Overly-Pregnant FriendWays to get a baby man to leave his womb: <br />
<br />
1. Talk to your belly. Ask him to rub your feet. And then do a load of laundry. And bring you a coke. And... <br />
<br />
2. Tell him how happy you are and how you want him to stay with you forever and ever and never ever leave. <br />
<br />
3. Eat a salad. <br />
<br />
4. Start talking about your past menses. <br />
<br />
5. Wear only pink clothes. <br />
<br />
6. Fry chicken. Lay it on your lap. Tell him he can have some if he comes out. <br />
<br />
7. Listen to Alanis Morsette on repeat. "jagged little pill"!<br />
<br />
8. Tell him you'd like to "talk."<br />
<br />
9. Light a smelly, girly candle and dim the lights - any guy would run from that! <br />
<br />
10. And finally, if all else fails, ask him for money to buy craft supplies. <br />
<br />
<br />
:)~<br />
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-5850636184688684912014-02-11T09:41:00.001-05:002014-02-11T09:41:50.188-05:00Cartman Did itFor a week h4 couldn't eat much. He was having a GI bug attack and all I could do was offer him a hug for comfort and a clean shirt for post-puking clean ups. <br />
He lost so much weight in that week it scared me. <br />
<br />
And then he started feeling better. <br />
<br />
And, in two days, has managed to put back on all the lost weight plus some change. <br />
<br />
He yells for more food and I jump, Happy to help but realizing, in true Dr Phil style, that our relationship is teetering on becoming that of Cartman and his mom. <br />
<br />
<br />
"BUT MOOOOOOOM!" <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90cVMuy94FJmVRlsOfePoCGGkohZ4NdEZiFVCzxfrYeUvYYAIQ4Dvyv4kazq03eemSLeqB3miJg_m2iEsg3JBUvOkSp2YonqMcNbc0K5i2VEAx7Zhd6YyeR5Zx9HinwN5lXELv_RyZCw/s640/blogger-image--363688247.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90cVMuy94FJmVRlsOfePoCGGkohZ4NdEZiFVCzxfrYeUvYYAIQ4Dvyv4kazq03eemSLeqB3miJg_m2iEsg3JBUvOkSp2YonqMcNbc0K5i2VEAx7Zhd6YyeR5Zx9HinwN5lXELv_RyZCw/s640/blogger-image--363688247.jpg" /></a></div>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-21466829544235808502013-06-11T23:32:00.001-04:002013-06-11T23:32:57.605-04:00What's Up, Doc?A few years back I had to go to the ER because of a pain I was having in my rib cage. Fearing it was an appendicitis, or worse, I laid on the table and ---- in walked a gorgeous man in scrubs. <br />
"Does it hurt here?" He asked, palpating my lower abdomen. <br />
"N-n-no," I half giggled. <br />
"Here?" He moved his tanned hand higher and stared at me with big blue eyes. <br />
"No!" I squeaked. <br />
This was it. <br />
He was going to go all the way, this hot doc was gonna slide to second, he was going to---<br />
"There you are!" My husband popped his head in the door as the doctor moved his hand away from my jubblies. <br />
"I'll get you some medicine for the pain. I think it's a rib strain," the vision-in-scrubs said and walked out the door. <br />
"I walked in too soon, didn't I?" Harry grinned at me. <br />
"Bastard," I muttered and rolled away from him. <br />
Husbands! Can't live with em- can't get groped in a hospital with them either! :)Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-34235953231558592702013-03-21T23:03:00.002-04:002013-03-21T23:03:59.714-04:00HEAL, HEEL!I broke my heel.<br />
<br />
Okay - "broke" is a strong word. I have <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0004438/">Plantar Fasciitis</a> in my left foot and it hurts to the point where I'm now not-so-glad that my kid is a feather-less parrot. Every time I step down I let fly a string of curse words that would make even the heartiest of barkeeps faint and swoon. <br />
And the kid so kindly repeats them.<br />
I should be careful not to say them around him - but I can't stop them - they bubble, they erupt, and he's always in ear shot.<br />
Why?<br />
Uh - because sometimes I use his little blond head as a crutch. ahahaha! He's 39" tall - so he's the perfect height. He giggles. I scream. We make a cute, albeit crazy, couple. <br />
<br />
When I finally went to the doctor and he gave my my official diagnosis I had no choice but to sit back in my pleather easy chair thing (podiatrists have the swankiest "tables") and cry "THE DAMN INTERNET WAS RIGHT!" because I am an online google doc.<br />
I will google my symptoms and decide that I have cancer.<br />
Then I usually decide I'm too busy to have cancer since I have to raise a kid (and use him as an assistive walking device) and then settle on option number two.<br />
This time it's that the underside of my foot hurts like hell and they, like all the doc and lawyers before us, stuck some fancy latin words together to make it sound better than "Hell heel" or "Heelishisness."<br />
Maybe I should be the one naming stuff that ails us.<br />
<br />
I'm renaming the paper cut to "Smuckingfit!" because that just feels better to yell than "PAPER CUT!" which, to be honest, could be that someone cut a piece of paper wrong and does nothing to describe the sheer ickiness of that tiny slice of immense pain that we all know and loathe.<br />
<br />
I will also be renaming pregnancy to "Parasitic Procrastinator" or "Paracrastanation" - because that's what it is.<br />
A lot.<br />
<br />
What else shall I rename?<br />
:)<br />
<br />
<br />Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-26794532306831321502013-02-09T11:30:00.001-05:002013-02-09T11:30:17.775-05:00Name That Tune"I was totally gonna poke you," my husband said. <br />
"I know you were!" I said, letting the disbelief seep into my voice. "We had maybe ten minutes before the kid would've found us!"<br />
"Hmm," he said. "I could've done it in three..."<br />
"DUDE!?!?!"<br />
"What? Yeah. All I needed was three..." <br />
I found out it's really hard to safely beat someone up while driving down the road at 50mph. :) <br />
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-64037561326005441182013-02-05T22:11:00.002-05:002013-02-05T22:11:26.412-05:00Fear MeWhat is it about motherhood that makes women so completely fearless?<br />
I can remember a time when everything scared me. <br />
Even a trip to the grocery store would be enough to send me into a panic epic enough only to be calmed by the inhaling of an entire Hot-n-Ready pizza while watching back-to-back episodes of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" on FX.<br />
<br />
But, somehow, after one goes through the horrific experience of both pregnancy (and don't let the hippies fool you - it's not a "beautiful and natural thing" - it sucks. A lot) and the joy of a mandatory C-section (Oh SURE let's invite the students in to see both my vagina AND my fat rolls AAAAND my innards) to make things like the frozen food aisle seem a bit less daunting.<br />
<br />
I used to gag and wretch at the sight or sound of other's bodily functions but now, upon entering a rest room, I see only the germs that keep me from getting out alive, er, or without Influenza. And I can get in and out without touching a single solid surface. Which makes me think that the Olympics should sponsor some sort of Housewives version of their Chariots of Fire. We could score each other on Bathroom Dashes, Diaper Changes of Light, and Compromising for Champions. <br />
Okay - no one would have time to watch - but I think it would be rather cool. I could finally get a medal in a "sport," since I'm pretty sure that Couch Surfing has yet to become a world-wide phenomenon. <br />
<br />
Also - I'm pretty proud that I just spelled "phenomenon" without spell-check. Go me!<br />
<br />
So, yeah, since I have become a mom I no longer suffer from the same kind of phobias I did before. The monsters may not live under my bed anymore but I'm pretty sure they still exist so I have to don my armor, ready my Lysol and protect my 2 year old for whatever he decides lives in his closet. <br />
<br />
Being a mom sucks sometimes. But when you are their world, their deleter of baddies and dispensers of gogurt - you become - a god.<br />
A god in need of a dye job, a hair cut and with ragged cuticles and dirty bras - but still - a god, nonetheless. <br />
And gods fear nothing.<br />
Except E.Coli - that crap is SCARY!<br />
:)Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-4244194286485093472013-01-30T11:34:00.001-05:002013-01-30T11:34:29.470-05:00Hug it out...Aunt Sissy attempts to put h4 in his carseat... :) <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFz_P4UyCt6TEqpoZW431hxzMOU1x3fOOiHV4dGKGdNBStygLm7ztd7vwBmIuGmfT9zpsU4tKZ92C-tuV69V0EH5m-4nWB1898ENsAPPqKsQxyuKopZezmZy5S0kH3tF4kzZvJoJLIaY/s640/blogger-image-1483477512.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFz_P4UyCt6TEqpoZW431hxzMOU1x3fOOiHV4dGKGdNBStygLm7ztd7vwBmIuGmfT9zpsU4tKZ92C-tuV69V0EH5m-4nWB1898ENsAPPqKsQxyuKopZezmZy5S0kH3tF4kzZvJoJLIaY/s640/blogger-image-1483477512.jpg" /></a></div>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-13677314968030487992013-01-09T00:53:00.001-05:002013-01-09T00:53:25.803-05:00Train Hijacked...and then sometimes we hijack trains in the mall... :) <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5uVYpFplo-R02wyPu9_i_ZA3-vgdc_gfpmEAM-0SJ8vbNcyTFBHJbHtv0mzcUCLM8vQFk16NtV_R4vk-zhX-y9I9RZPgYYB-EzYTAjO14W5eMrf5r0Xu9aphfAT4LMGTj2xjBgpdUYk/s640/blogger-image-1674163030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5uVYpFplo-R02wyPu9_i_ZA3-vgdc_gfpmEAM-0SJ8vbNcyTFBHJbHtv0mzcUCLM8vQFk16NtV_R4vk-zhX-y9I9RZPgYYB-EzYTAjO14W5eMrf5r0Xu9aphfAT4LMGTj2xjBgpdUYk/s640/blogger-image-1674163030.jpg" /></a></div>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-54971237441958346452013-01-08T10:43:00.001-05:002013-01-08T10:43:21.141-05:00Emotional MeLately I have been an emotional wreck. And not just the kind of wreck that leaves one rubbernecking to get a better look, I'm more like the kind of wreck that makes the evening news. <div>
Locally - and nationally. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Some of my added stress, I'm sure, has to do with the fact that my bedroom is in my living room, my closet is in the hall and my bathroom is - gone - and I'm showering in my kid's bathroom whilst a plastic frog ogles my jubblies.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And, moreover, we are adding another member to our household. I would love it if I could swell with pride and tell you that it is going to be small, cute and bubbly --- a new cat! But no, I cannot. Instead, we are moving my hub's granny in to our Below Apartment (it's not really a basement) so that we can keep a better eye on her aging self. We're not sure how well this transition is going to go for her, or for us, hence the massive stress-thing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
AND the kid has hit the Terrible Twos like a Ton of Terrible Bricks. </div>
<div>
Lord help us all on that particular torture. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I'm a bit of an Emo-wreck. Smudged mascara and all. </div>
<div>
Which, of course, prompts everyone to ask "What is WRONG with you?"</div>
<div>
Which prompts ME to ask "What is WRONG with everyone else?"</div>
<div>
When did having emotions go out of style? When did it become passe to be upset about something that was upsetting? When did crying become such a horrible stigma?</div>
<div>
Why can't we just enjoy our moods?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I blame the golden age of Medication, Facebook, and Television. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Medicate yourself enough and you can stop crying - FOREVER. There are LOADS of stuff out right now that will help one forget their problems, their fears, their lackadaisy life, and, more than likely, their name. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Facebook has given us such instant gratification that we can post a status update and see how much our online buddies value our humor, insightfulness or clever deductions on solving the Nation's most pressing crisis. And our computer screens can't see us cry. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Television has glorified emotions to the point that we are now trained to only emit a response if someone has lost a lot of weight, or got caught with a hooker (or two), had their house remodeled, or is in denial of their hoarding ways. Nothing else is worth crying over. Or caring about. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All that being said, I love modern medicine, Social Networking, and Must-See TV. </div>
<div>
I just wish I was "allowed" to shed a few tears when I stub my toe, or can't find my shoes, or burn a pot-pie in the oven. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Until then, I shall line up with the rest of humanity and try, very hard, to shut off, shut down, and shut up. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Wait - scratch that last one. :)</div>
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-84050672427102599612013-01-02T23:56:00.004-05:002013-01-02T23:56:36.484-05:00Ring, Rang, Rung, New Year is DONE!I didn't go out and party for the arrival of 2013.<br />
I didn't buy a new dress, open a bottle of "bubbly," or even put on extra eyeliner or lashes for the occasion.<br />
Nope.<br />
I watched my two year old fall asleep on his daddy's lap, snore so loud he drowned out the droning of Carson Daly and then went to bed. <br />
There were fireworks outside my window, but I couldn't be bothered to go to the window, part the poor excuse for a curtain (a Transformer's Blanket - remodeling is FUN), and gaze upon the heavens. <br />
<br />
Why so glum?<br />
<br />
I think it has something to do with the damn ball drop.<br />
Every year I watch.<br />
And every year I am sorely disappointed when the freakin' thing does not crash to a million pieces at the stroke of midnight.<br />
I want it it to be a glass shattering, gravity defying mess as it plummets to the ground like a giant, angelic Pokemon ball full of shrapnel. <br />
And then, amazingly, no one gets hurt!<br />
Except maybe Jenny McCarthy - and even then - just in her forehead, just a teeny scar so that it won't look so vacant all the time. <br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
I want a ball to drop.<br />
Actually drop.<br />
During the Ball Drop.<br />
<br />
So here's my proposal:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>How to Ring in 2014</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>by HOLLY SHIVEL </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<ol>
<li><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Gather up as many dunk-tank Carnival booths as we can find this side of the USA. </span></b></li>
<li><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Stick 'em in Times Square. </span></b></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><b>Gather up all the singers, politicians, writers, anchors, reporters, actors, actresses and Big Wigs and convince them to "volunteer" their time. </b></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><b>Sell balls to the masses for $1 each. </b></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><b>The clock strikes midnight.</b></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><b>The masses kiss their lucky $1 balls that they might be the one to hit the target and dunk Christina Agu-a-layra (I can't spell her name and can't be bothered to learn), or Cheney, or Anderson Cooper, or Christian Bale (WET. HE'LL BE WET. AND COLD. I CAN'T STRESS THIS ENOUGH - BATMAN WILL BE WET!!!), or even Justin Bieber and Kathy Griffin (together in one tank - that'd be priceless). </b></span></li>
</ol>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div>
Following this new, and improved, method people will be able to actually have fun in Times Square on NYE, I will get to see Balls Drop (metaphorically and literally) and I will have solved the deficit. </div>
<div>
And maybe the Fiscal Cliff. </div>
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Whatever the "f" that is. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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You're welcome, Americans. </div>
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You're - welcome. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><b><i style="background-color: yellow;">HOLLY SHIVEL FOR PRESIDENT</i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><b><i style="background-color: yellow;"> IN 2014!!!!</i></b></span></div>
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-53767707359320061392012-12-01T20:51:00.005-05:002012-12-01T20:51:52.980-05:00Scream and Shout ( a lot)"And how are YOU?" the cashier said with a sympathetic smile.<br />
<br />
I liked him for not NOT liking me.<br />
<br />
Why? Because my sweet Angeldoodlehead, H4, had just thrown a fit worthy of an Academy Award in the middle of Old Navy. In fact, I could still the screams echoing off the concrete walls filled with images of non-terrified souls in brightly colored parkas. These were in sharp contrast to the people filling the aisles who were still not breathing after my pride and joy was heaved-hoed over my husband's shoulder and carried through the mall and out the door.<br />
<br />
"He's two. And he's milking it," I smiled and handed him a credit card.<br />
"Oh, it's not signed? I'll need to see your ID."<br />
"Okay!" I said brightly. I was happy. The kid was with the husband and I was thisclose to owning a mint green zip up sweater that was sooo cute and --<br />
"He'll have to come back in and sign for this."<br />
"What?" My good mood evaporated as I stared at the pre-pubescent, tattooed, Adam Lambert-wanna-be who just asked for the impossible. He may have asked that I simply walk into Mordor, that was the scale of this nitwit's request.<br />
<br />
I didn't like him.<br />
<br />
"He was just here? Just carried out the crazed kid? You saw him," I was trying to be reasonable and I shook my Disney card in front of his eye-linered face - just in case the Kohl was blocking his damn view.<br />
"Yeah, but he has to be the one to sign it," he said. "But I can hold it for you!"<br />
"No. No need. I won't be coming back," I said.<br />
I was proud of my maturity.<br />
Proud of the fact that I was SEETHING on the inside but managed to keep my gaping maw closed - for once.<br />
<br />
Happy Fucking Christmas, Glambert, I thought as I pushed my empty stroller toward the door. "And thanks for the GIANT FUCKING INCONVENIENCE!"<br />
<br />
Okay - maybe I didn't quite maintain my high level of maturity for too long. :)Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-11883390081917153742012-12-01T11:46:00.001-05:002012-12-01T11:46:41.221-05:00Ready or Not...<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Hey - can you be ready in ten minutes?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
These words are enough to put me in a bad mood for the entire weekend yet my husband, without fail, utters them to me every Saturday morning as I am emerging from the shower. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
This is from the same man who can take up to twenty minutes to decide on a pair of shoes. Or thirty to decide on the perfect undershirt-and-t-shirt combo. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
So as I sit here in full attire, wet hair and a face lacking any tidbit of cosmetic enhancement I plot my revenge... </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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Suggestions are welcomed. :)</div>
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-53164542338153103832012-11-29T09:59:00.001-05:002012-11-29T09:59:31.679-05:00I am Super (Sand) Man<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
If I were given a wish to have a super power that could be anything in the world - I would not hesitate to seal my fate. In my younger days I'd have wished for Teleportation power or Telepathic power, or even the power to be able to calculate a 20% tip in just seconds (this is my husband's power - one he flaunts every time we go out to eat). </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
But now that I'm a mom, and I'm old, and I am sleeping in storage (the renovation is nearing it's end! yay!) I wish for just one Super Power ---</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
To be able to fall asleep instantaneously. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I would love to be able to say "Hey! It's 10pm and the kid will be up at 6am! I need to go to sleep!" and then drift seamlessly off into Dreamland to meet up with Nathan Fillion and Jeremy Renner on a fluffy cloud pillow in the sky. Nakeys. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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But I digress. </div>
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A lot. Mmmm..... :)</div>
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Ahem. </div>
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Ever since my kid was born it's like I can't get enough of the good stuff - that REM sleep that turns people into true humans and separates the Perky from the Petulant. I'm pretty sure that, at one time, I considered myself "too bored to function" and would nap just for the hell of it. I used to spend hours just lounging in bed doing nothing but dozing until the clock would roll from single digits to double and back to singles again. That girl could sleep in a car, a bed, on a couch, and even, on the rare occasion, at her desk at work. :)</div>
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I hate that girl. </div>
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Now I go to bed by 12am, knowing that I will drift off into the Land of Total Exhaustion by 2am. If I go to bed earlier - I still don't clock out until 2am. </div>
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Get up earlier?</div>
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2am. </div>
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It's like my body is trying to rid itself of all possible energy before hitting the internal Snooze Button. </div>
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But why?</div>
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I have a kid to take care of!</div>
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A house to pretend to clean!</div>
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Laundry that must be sorted and never washed!</div>
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A bathtub and toilets that must be noted to clean "later"!</div>
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I think I'm just reverse aging. My body is slowing down but my mind is speeding up. Like some kind of cruel twist of fate, I am destined to be the smartest person I know (ahahah! ) but have the reflexes of a half-dead turtle. </div>
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Maybe someday I'll be granted those awesome Super Power of Sleep --- or a prescription for Ambien. </div>
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You know, whatever comes first! :)</div>
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-53003108117679136502012-11-27T00:21:00.000-05:002012-11-27T00:21:05.372-05:00Daddy Dearest"Remember the time that your sister in law and her doctor-to-be husband came over for the first time and Dad tripped over the baby gate at the end of the stairs, flipped, barrel rolled and then stood up and said, 'I'm okay.'?"<br />
<br />
"Hey - remember when he tried to move the metal chairs from the upper deck to the lower deck but didn't want to take the time to move the chairs into a recline so they kept smacking him on the head - but he just kept moving them?"<br />
<br />
"And then when he fell into the pool, slipped under the cover and kept popping up while I held on to one end? He kept yelling 'Drema, keep talking! I'll follow your voice!' but I was too busy laughing to say anything?"<br />
<br />
"He called me once when I was working at the law firm to tell me he fell out of bed. I had to sit there and try not to laugh so loud I would disturb the room full of lawyers next door as he told me how he fell out of bed, rolled into the closet where you had just put up new curtains and then couldn't get out because he was tangled in them!"<br />
<br />
"And then that time when Matt Elixon called me and said 'hey - I'm here at the gas station and your dad is hanging out of the window, trying to jump in. All I can see is his butt.' And I had to say, ' Yeah - he does that sometimes..."<br />
<br />
"Remember that time when he cut a GIANT hole in the ceiling so that he could screw a vent in it to cover up the tiny hole he accidentally put in it while mopping the floor? How the hell did he do that in the first place?"<br />
<br />
<br />
These stories are all about my dad.<br />
He is unintentionally hilarious, which, we all know, is the best kind of hilarious.Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-30203090580978868512012-10-29T23:16:00.003-04:002012-10-29T23:16:52.816-04:00Clean 'em and Weep"I'm going to need you to clean the mirror in the bathroom," my mother said to me, trying to look extra pathetic while quickly whipstiching a ribbon to the top of my son's "STAY PUFT" hat. "Oh, and the cabinet windows, the toilet, the lamps, the entry hall mirror and the sink."<br />
<br />
I stopped in mid-bite of my delicious and super sinful <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ClassicCamsHam?filter=3">Cam's Sandwich</a> and stared at her. <br />
<br />
"What? I laid the Windex out on the sink in there. Oh, and get the webber, too. The bug man said that the webs were key to keeping bugs out..." and with that she went back to her sewing.<br />
<br />
My mother truly is an amazing person. Rheumatoid has wracked her body, left her shortened, close to invalid and yet she still rules with an iron fist. At 30(Plus) years old I am still bereft to know if a decision I have slaved over is "correct" until she tells me, her Branchland, WV twang, barely concealed, what I "should've done." But she truly is amazing. The hill people to which she is kin have mastered the art of manipulation throughout the years. Think Devil Anse and Charles Manson but less icky and scary. So when she nodded her head to the left I knew that I had no choice. <br />
<br />
She was like the Borg.<br />
<br />
Resistance was futile.<br />
<br />
So I did as I was told and cleaned the surfaces that were deemed my duties but, seeing as how she can't really turn her head very well, I failed to mention the fact that my 2.5 year old Angel had spent the hours following my cleaning spree standing in front of the hall mirror carefully, and meticulously licking it and rubbing a glazed donut in a large two by two square. <br />
<br />
She may be an expert in manipulation but H4 is a master of Destruction.<br />
<br />
Game, set. Match. <br />
<br />
:) Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-56665168065834130532012-10-01T23:01:00.002-04:002012-10-01T23:01:32.230-04:00"TWINSIES!"Ever since my sister and I were young babes (as in the literal sense, not the centerfold sense, ewwww) people would ask my parents "are they TWINS?" even though I was almost two years younger and a shade or 50 darker than my near-albino-blonde-older sister. <br />
<br />
Now that we are swirling around our 30's, we've begun to look even MORE alike. For example, while shopping at the local Jump and Dump (AKA "Gabriel Brother's Discount Store) my lovely sister, Summer, went to go try on a few pairs of pants while I continued to circle the clearance rack for things that weren't too irregular or too holy or too --- much. <br />
<br />
"Hey, go sign up for a card - it's like a rewards thing. Like a Kroger. In the dressing room," Summer said to me as she placed her prized pair of six dollar cords in the buggy. I stared at her for a few seconds until my brain comprehended her rapid-fire-assault-like speech and then ran (ha! Just kidding! I haven't ran since --- wait - have I ever ran?) to sign up.<br />
<br />
"Hi!" I said to the plus-sized woman in Reeboks that stood guarding the rooms. "I was told I could sign up for some sort of rewards card here?"<br />
<br />
"Uh, yeah," she said and then gave me a look. A look like I had done gone and lost my mind. <br />
<br />
I knew that look well.<br />
<br />
"Well - can I sign up for one? What do you need from me?"<br />
<br />
"I just signed you up, right?"<br />
<br />
"No," I said, slower and more enunciated. "No, I am signing up now." The poor dear. Now I knew why she was assigned the dressing room duty roster for the day.<br />
<br />
"I just took your information. You were JUST back here!" She said, looking a bit spooked and a bit like she was going to head for the hills.<br />
<br />
"Oh, wait! Ha! No, that was my sister!"<br />
<br />
"Really? Are you twins? You look JUST ALIKE!" She said and then, finally, took my email address and handed me a lovely plastic card to add to my other stack of plastic cards.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9uxQrf3oCREsPhyn15SCezskgeW02zee3WMAgaBkh6FFhLwxLiIebWVJ5Z_IBGMCvaCfPCdY0-koOWfBjmXHYBFqJcO_WqLNCtOXGYuQWkK9GJIMeTwIpLxEvvkLEFrRFyrvdmI4lR2A/s1600/TWINSIES.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9uxQrf3oCREsPhyn15SCezskgeW02zee3WMAgaBkh6FFhLwxLiIebWVJ5Z_IBGMCvaCfPCdY0-koOWfBjmXHYBFqJcO_WqLNCtOXGYuQWkK9GJIMeTwIpLxEvvkLEFrRFyrvdmI4lR2A/s640/TWINSIES.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TERRORIZING THE WAL-MARTERS AND TRYING ON HAIR FEATHERS</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
If only we could use our TWIN POWERS for good instead of evil... :)<br /><br />
<br /></div>
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-59543650498476171182012-09-04T11:18:00.001-04:002012-09-04T11:18:57.362-04:00Listen Up!"You never listen to me!" The irony of my husband's complaint is not lost on me. In fact I can remember a day in the recent past when I painstakingly told him which crack to seal in the newly-raised sidewalk and, instead, he went out and shot his caulk (sniggggger) all over the place and then whined "But YOU SAAAAAID!" and I hadn't. Not at all. <br />
So as I sit here and painstakingly rub at the freckles and speckles of black paint that dot my arms and hands, I think about how maybe I should have waited for him to help me. Maybe I should've had him stir the paint and roll the rollers as I seem to have painted myself more than the wall. And seeing as how this paint is magnetic there is a good chance I'll be unable to leave the house due to the giant metal entry doors pulling me and my painted self back inside. <br />
My house will try to eat me. <br />
Which would make a great horror movie. <br />
Wait? Hasn't that been done - to death? <br />
Hahahha<br />
"You don't listen, do you? Holly?" Big Harry was on the other end of the phone, apparently talking to me. <br />
"Sure I do. Suuuuuure," I said and then tuned him out as he threatened to do something involving me, the car, hurting me and ----- buying me a pony. <br />
I think.<br />
<br />
<br />
Well - I wasn't really paying that much attention. :)<br />
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Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-10639275486449843652012-08-27T15:07:00.001-04:002012-08-27T15:07:56.754-04:00I Scream for Ice Cream"You know those Drumsticks you like? The all chocolate ice cream ones? Well they had one box left at the store. No, I didn't get them because you said you wanted to eat good this week and oh my GAWD I'm sorry! Don't cry! I was joking! There's a box in the freezer! I couldn't do that to you! Oh baby, I'm sorry! I got you your ice cream!" Me, trying to be funny but instead reducing my large hunk of a husband into a near-blubbery mess over ice cream treats. <br />
I'm a bad wife. :)Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-22642336793554386042012-08-26T22:54:00.001-04:002012-08-26T22:54:21.230-04:00For Whom the Bell TollsI'm trying to get my sister to make a Taco Bell run with me a la 2003. She would come in from Virginia around 11pm and then call me to come pick her up at Mom's house and driver her to Taco Bell. We were not seeking food. We were not seeking hot sauce. We just missed each other and our reason for "needing" to go out could easily be explained, as per the norm, with tacos. <br />
But now that she lives a mere two Minutes away from me pulling her crack from the cracks of her couch is not unlike trying to get the nut meat out of a stubborn walnut. <br />
She'll feign tiredness. <br />
A headache. <br />
A missed text. <br />
But sooner or later, she will succumb to me, my persistence for nostalgia and the thrilling thrall of The Bell. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-50408321413119056412012-08-17T18:12:00.001-04:002012-08-17T18:12:18.029-04:00Dirty ThirtyI found an old notebook today in which I penned a paragraph that predated my arrival into my "Dirty Thirties":<br />
<br />
At the age of sixteen we are given the ability to drive, to operate heavy machinery. Two years later, at eighteen, we can die for our country or vote or even be convicted of adult crimes like Murder and Tax Evasion. At twenty-one we can drink. <br />
A lot. <br />
But as thirty looms before me and I enter another age box on most surveys, I'm in a time of my life when my eggs are numbered, my career is settled and my love for all things Harry Potter is readily apparent I find that I am --- scared shitless. <br />
<br />
<br />
Note: a year later I was pregnant, jobless, and scared even MORE shitless. Hahahah! Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-27847066547028818502012-08-09T21:50:00.003-04:002012-08-09T22:08:21.568-04:00High School MusicalI watch "Glee."<div>A lot. </div><div>I can't help it. It's high school. </div><div>It's musical. </div><div>But it's NOT High School Musical. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I can't help but think that High School would have been so much better with a musical soundtrack. I know that I could've aced any math quiz with the theme from "Rocky" being sung behind me by a Santana of WV. I could've nailed the auditions for Drama club if I could've tossed in some notes by Queen. And how much better would any dance have been if someone would have choreographed a few routines in there?</div><div><br /></div><div>I really think that any situation, in life or on tv, can be made that much better with the addition of Jazz Hands. :)</div>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-31805345114934512852012-08-05T19:15:00.001-04:002012-08-05T19:15:01.624-04:00Boredom Washes Over..I'm watching my husband wash his car and, yes, that is as boring as it sounds. <br />
Oh- now he has out some weird squeegee thing going over it in quick, squeaky, motions. It's like slightly-buffered nails down a chalkboard. <br />
<br />
My child stands a few feet away slowly and meticulously dumping out all of the water in his Pirate Sea Table. A scoop goes on to the deck, one for his homies, one on his toes and the last on his forehead where he then sputters and looks around for the culprit who just attacked him from an unseen location<br />
<br />
Rinse. <br />
Repeat. <br />
<br />
Now the hubs has out a large cloth and is carefully rubbing the Caddy as if she is Slave Leia and he is Han Solo there to soothe the pains of the past/grit from the past's journeys. <br />
<br />
His buttcrack, on view for the entire neighborhood to see, cements his uncaring attitude about what others think of the forbidden love between him and his vehicle. Surely breaking a few covenants with his machismo so much on display he gyrates and shimmies to reach every nook and cranny. <br />
<br />
Some cars have all the luck. <br />
<br />
<br />
:)<br />
<br />
<br />
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-62099182713602087432012-07-06T00:55:00.001-04:002012-07-06T00:55:59.916-04:00Parenting for ParentsFor some reason I'm obsessed with getting my barely-talking-coherently toddler to talk like a pirate. <br />
He'll say: "fun!" and I'll yell "ARRRRRGH!" back at him. He'll giggle, run off, and then come back a few minutes later: "....fun?" and again I'll "ARGGGGGH!" at him.<br />
<br />
I even made him walk around tonight with one hand over his eye. <br />
"R?" he asked me. <br />
<br />
"ARGGGGH!" I responded, lovingly. <br />
<br />
Next Week: Scottish Brogue! :)~Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-22091867991959225222012-07-05T09:56:00.001-04:002012-07-05T09:56:24.609-04:00Shiny Happy People -Getting DeckedWhen will my husband learn that the best way to wake me up in the morning is NOT by sticking his big, goofy face an inch away from mine and grinning like a brainless monkey on banana-crack? <br />
He about lost an eye this morning. <br />
I'm thinking about getting revenge tomorrow. <br />
I'll perch upon his chest at about three AM and then, in all my morning-breath glory, I'll creepily whisper "Riiiiiiise and shiiiiiine" while "accidentally" giving him a wet willy. <br />
Game ON, Daddy-O. Game FREAKIN ON. <br />
<br />
:)<br />
<br />
<br />
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2759382184582995535.post-33272366937332294012012-06-26T13:38:00.001-04:002012-06-26T13:38:09.106-04:00Mommy Secret #7,345Sometimes I give the kid the iPad to play with so that I can catnap. Or clean. Or ---blog. :)Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02434459391992247245noreply@blogger.com0