Even though she had a baby with Scott, I still think she's the smartest person on that show, don't you?

I was having a bad day yesterday. A really bad day. Someone -- I'm not going to mention any names here -- forgot he needed to come home from work a half an hour early so I could get to an important meeting on time. By the time he got home, I was running VERY late and freaking out. THEN, I got stuck behind a line of 15-20 vehicles that were all stuck behind a huge construction vehicle, so for the last ten miles I was going 30 miles per hour in a 55 mile an hour zone. GUH!! Then, THEN, just when I thought I couldn't feel any more stabby, as I glanced in the mirror to make sure my rage hadn't ruined my make-up, I saw a HUGE WHITE HAIR, hanging right down in my face. 

That was the last straw. I was in full oh-woe-is-me mode.

Here's where things got zany. Out of nowhere, I heard Kourtney Kardashian's voice. (That doesn't ever happen to you? Strange.)

Yes, this Kourtney Kardashian.

In a recent episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians, Kim's fiancee threw her in the ocean in Bora Bora and one of her humongous diamond earrings fell to the bottom of the sea. While she cried about it, her sister Kourtney scolded, "People are starving, Kim."

Burn.

And she was so right. I know, I know, you assumed you couldn't learn anything from Reality TV, but you were wrong. My problems are nothing compared to those of others.

Although ... it's not like I'm necessarily in a position where losing a diamond earring is NBD because I have 50 bajillion dollars and can go buy diamond earrings for every person I've ever met without batting an eye. So, I mean ... I guess that "your problems are not as bad as other people's" argument really applies to her more. 

But wait, WAIT. I figured it out again. Here's why I have things to be grateful for even though I am poor and have never been to Bora Bora: I don't have an ugly fiancee who has the same name as my mother (Ick. Just ick.) who throws me into large bodies of water when I beg him not to, PLUS I didn't make a sex tape with an ugly man who pretends to be able to sing. 

Got you there, Kim! I'll just sit here, poor as we may be, with my handsome husband who has never thrown me into an ocean against my will and doesn't lose my jewelry. I may have a white hair and road rage, but people don't make fun of my butt on TV every day. Life is good.

That's not all Reality TV has taught me. Check it:

From Sixteen and Pregnant and Teen Mom, I learned to not let a teenage boy impregnate me (check and CHECK.)
From 19 Kids and Counting, I learned to avoid ... well, you know. Millions of kids.
From Sister Wives, I learned to not marry a man with a Sammy Hagar haircut.
From Rock of Love, I learned if you ever see Brett Michaels, RUN IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION. 
From Flavor of Love, I learned if you ever see Flavor Flav, get him to record the outgoing message on your cell phone. That shit will NEVER not be funny.

And that, my friends, is why Reality TV is the shiz.

What have you learned from Reality TV?

And Now, "REALLY??!?!!?" With Your Disgruntled Host, Veronica

I know, twice in one day, right?  Well, the tone of this post is slightly different.  I could not keep my disgruntledness (it's a word, even if my spellcheck says it's not) to myself.  


#1:  Jeremy was sick all last week.  Really sick.  NOW, I am sick.  REALLY sick.  I have not been this sick in two years, at least.  Here's the kicker.  Jeremy just turned to me a few minutes ago and said, "Ummm, my throat is starting to hurt again."  Really??  REALLY?!?!!?!?!?!  As soon as the little Bean starts coughing, I am calling for reinforcements.  Oh wait, my mom said she is "booked" all next week.  Sigh.


#2:  I'm sitting here, watching all the school closings for tomorrow, which of course, would screw my classes up schedule-wise, but I am SICK people, so a snow day would be awesome-balls.  So far, EVERY SINGLE school and day care in the county I teach is closed, except (yep, you guessed it) MY COLLEGE.  Really??  REALLY?!?!!?!?!?!


#3:  After having Jeremy off and helping me out today (the naps were MUCH appreciated, loving husband), I went upstairs and opened the diaper drawer, and there are only TWO diapers left!  Really??  REALLY?!?!!?!?!?!  Don't get me wrong, I LOVE, like L-O-V-E, using cloth diapers, but when I get lazy and wait until they are all dirty ... man oh man ... it is a nail-biter.  I have to run them through on cold, then on hot, and then they take a while to dry because I have to dry them on low heat, THEN I have to re-assemble them all.  Sigh.  Looks like I will be up for a few more hours.  (BUT, we got all of our cloth diapers as gifts, meaning we have not bought a SINGLE DIAPER since our babe entered the world.  Holy savings, Batman!)


Okay, I should probably think of a good "Really?"  Like, a "Really? :)"  Here's one:

It should be here in eight days.  Cha-ching!  Jeremy said I should photoshop dollar signs over his eyes in that picture!


And, of course, as I was typing this, I looked over and saw this:

This is MINE?  Really? 

And, she REALLY is.

Man, that was quite a twist at the end there, eh?

Funny Stuff My Husband Says, Vol. VII

My husband is like the funniest guy on the planet.  So, every once and a while, I salute him.  Like today.  To see all volumes of Funny Stuff My Husband Says, click here.


SCENE: WATCHING CONAN MAKE FUN OF THE NEW HARRY POTTER MOVIE
Jeremy:  Ah, yes.  [what sounds like] Elvoldemort.
Veronica:  Elvoldemort?
Jeremy:  L.
Veronica: ...
Jeremy:  Voldemort.
Veronica:  ...
Jeremy:  L. Voldemort.
Veronica:  ...
Jeremy:  Lord Voldemort. 
Veronica:  SIGH.
Jeremy:  Like, H. Potter versus L. Voldemort.

Veronica:  Enough with the H. Potter stuff.  You have been saying it non-stop for weeks, and I think you're doing it just because you know it makes me angry.

Jeremy:  Seriously though.  Do you prefer H. Potter or Harry P.?

Veronica:  Shut up.

Jeremy:  H. Potter it is.

SCENE:  IN BED.  I ACCIDENTALLY FLAIL AND SMACK MY HEAD INTO JEREMY'S, WAKING UP BOTH OF US.
Veronica:  [groggily] Oh, man ... I just hit you ... sorry.  [Falling back to sleep]
Jeremy:  Don't bash your egghead into my skull, egghead!
Veronica:  [Suddenly wide awake]  What the hell did you just say to me?? You better be dream-talking, because that was HARSH!
Jeremy:  Oh, come on.  Egghead?  That is a total compliment!  It means I think you're smart!
Veronica:  Ass.  [Rolls over]
Jeremy:  [whispering]  You're not going to remember this in the morning? ... Are you? 


SCENE: WATCHING The True Story of Thanksgiving ON THE HISTORY CHANNEL
Narrator:  ... so, the Yankees settled the Great Lakes region ...

Jeremy:  You see, Josephine, your family, or "The Yankees" came over many many generations ago and helped settled the Great Lakes region. ALL THIS [waves arms around him in sweeping motion to indicate Michigan] is because of your ancestors.

Josephine:  [stares]

Jeremy:  Well, half of your ancestors anyway.

Veronica:  Thank you for the accuracy.

Jeremy:  Your mother's side of the family was still in Crazyland.

Veronica:  Excuse me?

Jeremy:  You know, The Land of Emotion.

Veronica:  You can't be referring to Italy, can you?

Jeremy:  Yes, yes I can.

Veronica:  [Through clenched teeth] You are SO dead.

Jeremy:  See!  You're proving my point!!

I Am Starting to Understand Those Christian Scientists. Go Figure.

Okay, some of you know about this. Most of you don't. Here it is: the details of my baby girl's harrowing medical traumas and my ensuing HATRED for the medical community 


(Sorry readers who are members of the medical community. You probably don't suck, but 
some of your peers do. Seriously. Like, they suck A LOT.)


Reminder: We had a beautiful baby girl on 8/9/10 (And my dad was super-pissed that she was born at 2:33 and asked me to LIE on her birth certificate and say she was born at 2:34. I could not make this stuff up.). I was on the fence about the whole hospital/doctor vs. midwifery stuff, but in the end realized I could not give up on the idea of that magical-sounding super-drug: The epidural. I cannot complain much about the labor and delivery itself except having a blood pressure cuff on my arm during the entire labor that went off EVERY FIVE MINUTES and I still had bruises from two weeks later. But other than that, the docs were not up in my biz and they didn't cause me to threaten them with bodily harm. In fact, the labor and delivery was actually ENJOYABLE.


Then, a few hours after my little Josephine was born, they whisked her away and a pediatrician sat us down and said she could just have some amniotic fluid in her lungs or she could be DYING IMMEDIATELY and they would go ahead with 58,000 aggressive interventions in order to save the life of our little miracle.  


I SWORE I would not be that mother who was like, "OH!  A doctor said it? It is law! All else be damned!" and I would ask questions, do research, and not ignore my gut instincts. However, when presented with this situation, my husband and are were like, "DO WHATEVER YOU WANT!!" and didn't ask any questions. One hour later, the results of the test came back, and oh, what do you know? She just had a little amniotic fluid in her lungs after all! She will be fine in an hour or so. Too bad we already hooked her up to all those machines and started her on those antibiotics, because now she has to stay there for two days!


And so began the needless suffering of my daughter. She came home two days later with bruises, multiple pin pricks, and a red face from where they ripped tape off when she was finally off oxygen.  


Two weeks later, the diarrhea began. I went to the doctor and informed them that my daughter had about 20 diarrhea diapers a day and was not feeding well. For the next TWO WEEKS, I was in the doctor's office about three days a week because the all the doctors' best advice was to "keep an eye on her and bring her in a few times a week for weight checks to make sure she is still gaining weight." And I did.  And day after day I repeated her symptoms and told them she cried about 20 hours a day, didn't sleep, struggled to eat, and our house was slowly being overtaken by diarrhea.  


I finally saw a new doctor at the same practice, and she finally decided to check and see if there was blood in her stool. When there was, she sent us straight to the hospital and said we would be there for a minimum of two days.


There, we saw horrible things, like the baby cage ...

(I held her in my arms all night instead of locking her up in THAT)

... an "IV specialist" who spent and HOUR AND A HALF torturing our baby because she couldn't find a vein (even though the nurses at the hospital where she was born could do it while making small talk with us), and nurses who would have given my baby incorrect medication and food down her feeding tube had I not inquired as to their intentions.


When we finally left the hospital, the gastroenterologist had decided she probably had milk protein allergy induced colitis, and the only foods I could eat for the next 6 months were fruit and vegetables (minus tomatoes and citrus), meat (except red meat) and potatoes.


Two weeks later, this miracle diet had done NOTHING to help my child. When we went to see said gastroenterologist again, I said it seemed like it was not the milk protein allergy. He said, "You're right. It looks like it isn't" while he wrote down on her paperwork: "diagnosis: milk protein allergy."


So he gave up and said we should just get used to our daughter being in agony.


Then, my mother-in-law suggested I read about milk oversupply. Hmmm. Look at that. Josephine has EVERY SINGLE SYMPTOM listed. I called a lactation consultant, and she about lost her shit when I told her how many ounces I could pump in five minutes.  My breasts were what the La Leche League called "overly enthusiastic about their job." It turns out my little lady was only getting foremilk, which is all carbs and making her gassy, and without the fat from the hindmilk, she couldn't break down all the lactose, which built up in her intestines and led to a crummy tummy.


Two days later, with a little boob training, we were seeing results. After I gave the medical community a MONTH of our lives and I lost thousands of joyous moments with my new baby, blamed myself, and probably scared the crap out of my husband with all the times I sat and cried while I held our crying baby.


So now, what do I do? I have no trust, and a lot of anger. I need options here besides doctors.  Plus, my daughter developed her first cold and starting cutting her first tooth in the past few days.


Let's take the edge off of this rant-y post. Here are my three favorite options for replacing Western medicine:


1.  Magics. Come on, I've read the Harry Potter books enough to know that all I need are some Latin phrases and concentration. Plus, my dad has an authentic Harry Potter wand. He would totally lend it to me if he knew it were for the benefit of his granddaughter.


2.  The Interwebs. Everyone knows all problems can be solved with a short Google session. And you can totally tell who is credible based on the prettiness level of their web page. That's why I would take medical advice from The Bloggess before WebMD any day.


3.  Positive Vibrations. I'm not a pray-er. But I DO send out positive vibes for people. And I like to think that my super-powerful brain sends out extra-powerful vibes. I am likely responsible for many friends getting jobs, securing a second date, and getting good grades. I'm just THAT GOOD. So why not focus that energy on my baby? I'm pretty sure my genius brain could combat pertussis or pneumonia. What CAN'T it do, really?


Let the voting commence! Write-in candidates are also acceptable.

Choose Your Own Adventure. But Not Really. But Kind of ...

So, I was in the Burger King drive-thru (SHUT UP, healthy pregnant ladies!!!!) because it turns out the baby prefers fast food to anything healthy, and I had me a little "moment."


I was waiting patiently for my food and to scratch off the "Edward" to see if I won a prize, and I heard the guy behind shout his order at the top of his lungs (probably not necessary) in a mean, bark-y voice.  I very clearly heard him shout "I need three whoppers, two small fries, and two small cokes!!" and the drive-thru girl respond, "Okay, three whoppers, two small fries, and two small cokes?  Is this correct?"  What does this filthy hick shout back at her?  Not "Thanks for dealing with my rude, really fast order!" but, "Are you serious?!?!?  That is NOT what I said at all!!!  Can you give me what I actually ordered the first time, which is one whopper, one large fry, and two large cokes?!?!  Or is that too much to ask?  How hard is it to actually do your job??  JESUS!!"


Okay, it turns out I get the rage pretty easily, especially when it comes to rude strangers.  Whether they are cutting me off, being rude to people in the service industry, or getting in my way so I can't get to gettin', rude strangers really get my blood boiling.  So I did the only natural thing:  I shouted out my window, "Her job isn't that hard if you don't change your order and scream at her!!!!!!"


Then I threw open my car door, ran back to his car, karate chopped him in the neck to disable him, and grabbed his windpipe.  I forced him to apologize to the drive-thru girl and then apologize to me for existing, then got back in my car, got my chicken sandwich, and drove away.


Well, not really, but that was my one and only dream in that moment.


What really happened is after I screamed out the window and realized that I had shouted at two dirty, rude hillbillies and I was trapped behind another car and couldn't drive off and escape if they decided to kill me, I got a TAD nervous.  A dozen scenarios flashed through my mind involving them whipping out their Confederate flags and shotguns and running toward my car letting loose war whoops. 


But after a minute, I realized ... there was no reaction from them at all.  That means they either ignored me or didn't hear me.  And here comes the big dilemma:  Even though I had just realized how foolish it was for me to shout out the window and risk death or maiming, I REALLY thought I should yell AGAIN, because if they didn't hear me, then how would they ever learn?


Just then I was handed my delicious fast food, and my decision was made for me -- drive off into the sunset and just assume they didn't react because they were busy doing some soul-searching and realizing they should change their ways and apologize to every person they had ever wronged.  


Why did I share this story?  I have no idea.  But I have a  few possible morals you could glean from it, like a Choose Your Own Adventure book (how much did you love those?):


1.  If you are a horrible person who is rude to strangers and thinks of no one but yourself, there are people out there like ME, who want nothing more than to hold your head under water.  Keep that in mind.


2.  It is seriously not that hard to be polite to strangers, and especially people who have to deal with people all day, like servers and fast food workers.  Not hard at all.


3.  Maybe you shouldn't yell at people out of your car window when you are trapped and can't drive away.  Because I bet there are people who would hurt or kill you, even if you are eight months pregnant.


4.  Or maybe you should ALWAYS yell admonishments out your car window.  Especially at people who clearly don't know how to drive, because maybe they just never KNEW they were doing it all wrong, and in that case you are giving them an important life lesson, and they would probably thank you and send you a muffin basket if they had your address.  


Well, now I'm confused.  And maybe you are too.  But just take comfort in the knowledge that I DID get my food and devoured it and then felt fantastic at work because of the amazing magical power that crappy food provides me when I am oh-so-pregnant. 

Crazy Lady, Fire, and My New Role as Sole Zombie-Killer

I have a neighborhood report, and this time it is NOT EVEN a result of me spying from my front porch.  I mean, I did learn all of this information by looking out my bedroom window, but I think by the time you have reached the end of the story you will agree that it does NOT, in fact, constitute spying.


Anyway, hold on to your hats, biotches, because this story is ZANY and TOTALLY REAL AND FACTUAL.  No embellishments or additions.


I am sleeping, snug as a bug in a rug as is possible for a pregnant lady, when a fire engine rouses me.  And it is not far away, like usual, it is CLOSE, and I turn and look out the window, and it is ON MY STREET.  And then it is STOPPING DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE!! You can imagine the panic.  I shouted Jeremy's name (about an inch from his ear -- it was effective) and he immediately ran downstairs.  My first thought was "Is MY house on fire and I'm not aware of it yet?" but we quickly learned that the firemen were running toward the house across the street, not ours.  That house is home to Crazy Lady.


Crazy Lady.  How can I summarize her quickly and effectively?  She is 92, in perfect health, possesses all of her faculties, but ... is not so nice.  Apparently the other neighbors used to take turns visiting her and bringing her food and checking on her, which I find VERY KIND and unusual, especially in a city this large.  However, Crazy Lady only likes one of our neighbors, and hates all the others for various reasons, such as the colors of the clothing they wear and the cadence of their voices.  


At first she starting pretending that she had been struck deaf and mute when those neighbors knocked on her door.  BTW, I think this is super-clever, and I may utilize it myself one day.  Her acting was very realistic because she would take out her teeth and gape open-mouthed and wide-eyed at people.  If it had been me, I probably would have smiled, waved, left cookies and the porch and just run away.  My nice neighbors were persistent.  They waited, and she would finally give in and let them in the house.  Apparently she would then excuse herself and go to a back room and call 911.  When the cops arrived she would ask the neighbor with cookies to be removed from her house.  Then she would walk across the street and brag to the one neighbor she likes about how she got the "harlot with the red shirt" removed from her home.


So, apparently Crazy Lady's house is on fire, because now there are FOUR fire engines.  These are followed by two police cruisers, and finally an ambulance.  There seems to be some confusion and running back and forth from the house to the scanner to talk to dispatch.  I finally hear over dispatch (because it is louder than the firefighters' voices), "Well, if she is just standing there starting at you through the front door and won't let you in, threaten to use the ax."


This is when I realized that Crazy Lady was likely totally safe and this was not going to be a scary and sad night.  Lots of talking and head shaking later, I hear the story (like all of my other neighbors, who are of course standing in the street at four in the morning to be in the front row, and not peeking out of their bedroom window like me) -- Crazy Lady has awoken to discover that her power is out.  So she pushed the fire, ambulance, AND police buttons on her lifeline alert system.  When she finally let them in, she simply stated, "My power is out, and that is unacceptable."  


Sure, she alerted us to the power outage, which we would not have known about and would have slept in and been late for for.  Sure, she is a ballsy bitch and uses the term "unacceptable," much like yours truly.  But I was DISGUSTED to see my street full of emergency workers who came out to save a life, and could be needed elsewhere to REALLY save lives, all because Crazy Lady was mad that her power had been out for a few minutes (the power was back on in another 10, by the way).  I will save the rest of this rant, because I am sure you are all filling in your own version yourselves.  I don't care how old she is -- I hope she gets a big, fat bill from the city.


What I did not expect from this incident, however, was what I learned about my husband.  While I was lying there, adrenaline still rushing, heart still racing, and mind full of horrible thoughts, I turned over to find Jeremy DEAD ASLEEP.  Less than five minutes after four fire trucks pulled up in front of our house in the middle of the night.  Seriously?


I shook him awake to tell him, "This is startling evidence that you have no heart."


Jeremy:  Did you just wake me up to tell me I have no heart?  At four in the morning?


Veronica:  Yes.  I wanted you to sit with this realization, much like I have been forced to.


Jeremy:  How do you figure I have no heart?


Veronica:  If you had a functioning heart, it would be racing.  It would be pumping adrenaline throughout your body, and you would be unable to nod off moments after such a shock.  


Jeremy:  Well, it wasn't a real fire.


Veronica:  Your body should not know that yet.  You should still be in fight or flight, not REM.


Jeremy:  Can I go back to sleep now?


Veronica:  You know, I don't fear for you Jeremy.  I fear for me.  One day you will have to save me and the baby from a monster, and in the middle of defending us, you will just collapse and take a little cat nap!  


Jeremy:  *SNORE*


Crazy Lady might be crazy, and she wasted the taxpayers' money, and I will never bake her any cookies, but she did make me realize *I* will have to be the adult in charge of emergency plans in case of zombie invasion, bear attack, or shark bite.  Duly noted.

Dear Parking Lot Guy: I Will Remember Your Face for All of My Days. Watch Your Back.

Okay, so I have the super-duper-mad rants today. Like, there is so much madness in my blood right now that it is liable to jump around so hard that all of a sudden it will get sick of staying inside me and use its monster teeth to rip through my veins and then squirt out and get all over YOUR FACE. So WATCH OUT.

Just kidding. I love you all. I am really just mad at this little punk ass bitch who ruined my morning.  

Let me set the scene for you: It is pouring rain. I am five minutes late for work. There is not a parking space in sight across the HUGE campus parking lot. Then ... that looks like a spot! A spot! I race over, only to find ...

I kid you not. A truck taking up FOUR SPACES because the person who owns it is SO IMPORTANT that they must keep away from the rabble around them. At this point, I was already seething. Really? REALLY?!?! You think this is acceptable behavior, truck guy? You think it is okay to STEAL three parking spaces from people who need them just because you have some sort of compensation thing going on with you and your big red truck?

I was sitting there thinking about how much I wanted to punch this person and trying to remember if there were surveillance cameras that would catch me keying this assbutt's car when, all of a sudden, I realized that the guy was SITTING IN HIS CAR. Yeah. Just hanging out and enjoying the weather. Watching us lowly peasants look for spots that didn't exist because of HIM.

So I did what anyone with a rage problem would do. I motioned for him to move. Repeatedly.  Like, many many times. He stared me right in the eyes and otherwise ignored my pleas.  So I stared at him. Staring contest, bitch. I was ready to go. My hand starting creeping toward my cell phone where I had campus security on speed dial. My heart was racing. I was screaming on the inside.

Then, just when I thought about getting out and tapping sweetly on his window, my baby gave me a rousing kick in the belly to remind me that all of my angry-lady hormones were washing over its innocent brain. 

Damn. You win this time, selfish-rude-bastard-man. I am hurting my baby over you, and now that I have realized that, I must back down. Oh, how I wish I hadn't backed down.

And now the baby is kicking me again to remind me that reliving the moment is sending bad vibes down to the baby-storing area. Crap. I was a bad mom twice in one day and the little sucker isn't even born yet. Might as well stop off for some fast food on the way home while I'm at it.

So, is there a moral to this story? Probably not. But, I do have one wish for you, my dear readers: May your rage-filled moments never be interrupted by a fetus.  

THE END

A Guest Post By My Husband -- Buzz Aldrin: Astronaut to Astro-NOT

So, my husband read my Dancing with the Stars post and could not keep his emotions to himself.  I guess I am not the only one in the house who likes to rant!  And if you know him, you totally already know that he came up with the title too.  Since I can't keep my nose out of anything, my comments are in PINK.

Take it away, Jeremy:

***DISCLAIMER:  I do not know Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin, nor have I ever met the man, know his financial situation, or his degree of sluttyness for media attention.*** (Never put a disclaimer on your rants, Jeremy.  It makes you look WEAK.)

Some things about Buzz Aldrin.  #1 through the moon landing make him look like a GRADE-A BADASS.  However, the last few should have clued me into the fact that he would eventually make an ass of himself.

1)  He turned down a full ride to MIT to go to the military academy at West Point -- Bad Ass

2)  After graduating with a degree in Mechanical Engineering he flew 66 combat missions in the Korean War.  During the war he shot down TWO Russian MiG 15's in his F-86 Sabre -- Bad Ass  (Jeremy, you know I think war is mean.)  

3) After the war he got his doctorate in Aeronautics from MIT, then became a test pilot and was eventually selected to be an f-ing Astronaut -- Bad Ass

4)  He was the lunar module pilot on Apollo 11.  This means he actually flew the ship that landed on the moon down to the surface and piloted it back up to rejoin with the orbiting craft to go back to earth.  If this sounds like it would be hard to do, it was; in fact, it was extremely difficult even for the most highly trained pilots in the WORLD, and Buzz did it PERFECTLY.  (You're starting to talk like you were there ... I am feeling feelings of worry for your mental health.)

5)  Because of the position of the seats in the landing craft, Armstrong is first out and Aldrin follows.  He was SECOND on the moon -- TOTALLY BADASS  "2nd comes right after first,"  as Buzz would say in the Simpson's episode "Deep Space Homer"  (Or, "Second place is the first loser," as my No Fear shirts explained to people in junior high.)

I am sure being second has given him some kind of complex which probably resulted in the downward spiral to come.  There was a special on around the time of the 40th anniversary of the moon landing last summer that focused on the fact that NASA was leery of letting Aldrin be first on the moon because they thought he was a potential media slut and that Armstrong would handle the spotlight more gracefully and in a way that would add to the prestige and dignity of NASA -- they would prove to be right.

6) Since the History Channel came into existence, he has been on EVERY History Channel special about the moon landing or the space program as a whole.  This suggests to me that he is desperate for attention.  (And yet you have WATCHED every special.  Do you want to know what this suggests to me?  Do you?)  Apparently the title of "Second man on the Moon" does not pay that well and Buzzy has gosta make some bank.  (Good use of the word "gosta")

7)  In 2009 Buzz put out a song/video called "Rocket Experience" with Snoop Dogg, Quincy Jones, Talib Kweli, and Soulja Boy.  I could not make this up if I tried.

8) Today: Dancing with the Stars

So it turns out that NASA was right in not letting Aldrin be the first on the moon.  He turned out to be a media slut after all and handled the spotlight of being a celebrity in the worst possible ways:  Rap videos and reality show appearances.

It is just potentially frightening to me that Buzz Aldrin, THE SECOND MAN TO STEP ON THE F-ING MOON, could be remembered not as a pioneer for the ENTIRE human species, but as an old, crappy dancer.  It just seems below him, below the dignity of an astronaut, and below the dignity of the guy who did things 1-5 on the list above.

The equivalent of this would be like seeing Magellan accidentally spill a large bowl of chocolate pudding down his pants, then bend over to pick up the fallen bowl, have his pants split and the chocolate pudding drip out through the rip in his pants.  (Ummm ... ?)  Sure, this doesn't erase the fact that he was the first person to circumnavigate the globe (nerd alert!!), but every time you saw or read about Magellan after the pudding/pants incident (as this sequence of events would almost certainly become known) you would think about him making an ass of himself.  His legacy is not gone, just soiled.  So it goes for Buzz Aldrin.  He is still the second man on the moon, but now he will forever be known as that old man from Dancing with the Stars who was counting the whole time ...

Buzz, go out with quiet dignity, being remembered as a part of the first team of humans to ever explore another place other than earth.  Go out with people remembering your extraordinary accomplishments, go out being remembered as a representative of humanity, not for your bad dancing ... and rapping.  Apparently the phrase "quiet dignity" was trampled by Buzz's dancing shoes.

Granted, everybody's gotta eat, but is the money from Dancing with the Stars (ABC is really throwing around that word pretty loosely) worth trampling your legacy, Buzz?  Say it ain't so!  He went from Grade-A Badass to easy fodder for an old person joke.  Isn't being second man to ever walk on the moon a better life accomplishment than about 95% of everyone's accomplishments in the history of the world!?  (This is getting REALLY long.)  Could winning Dancing with the Stars really help him look back on his life and say "Shit, walking on the moon was alright, but being on Dancing with the Stars, now that was the highlight of my life."  This is probably why Merriweather Lewis killed himself: he could not do anything more bad ass than being the first Americans to see the Pacific.  (Yikes.  Downer.)  Not that I am advocating Buzz Aldrin kill himself, just live it out in quiet dignity.

Why do I care so much about this?  (EXCELLENT question.)

Now you see why I love my husband.  And fear for his blood pressure.

All joking aside, I totally agree with him.  And I, of all people, OF COURSE can relate to him getting fired up about things that others might not care about.  It's probably why we got married. 

General Ranting

Guess what?  This post is going to be both highly original AND unbelievably interesting.  Yes, it is actually a list of things making me mad this morning.  Hold on to your britches.


1.  It's Monday.


2.  My car decided last night that it was done with me and is now refusing to start.  So it might need a new starter or alternator.


3.  This means I had to drive my darling husband's car to work this morning.  While I love my husband, I curse his choice in cars.  His Camaro is slowly rumbling its way to the grave.  It shakes.  It chugs.  It makes horribly loud noises.  It scares the living crap out of me and I am sure that at any minute I will be careening to my death.  It also only has one setting for the driver's seat -- almost completely horizontal.  Do you know who drives around like that?  Hoodlums, that's who.


4.  I only work two days this week and then have two weeks off.  So, if my car could have waited a week, it would have been no big deal at all.


5.  There are oh-so-many things we need to buy and oh-so-many things I want to buy (like more maternity clothes so I have more than three outfits I can wear to work), but now we will spend money on my STUPID CAR just because it is mad at me for something.  It's probably mad that I left like three coffee cups in the backseat (my travel mugs all disappeared) and two of them smashed together and broke and I didn't clean it up yet.  It' the only reason I can think of.


6.  I had a blog post all ready to go about the latest episode of 16 and Pregnant and how the boyfriend was the worst human being in history, but at least at the end she came to her senses and cut him out of their life and had the baby's last name changed.  I was so proud of that little bitch, and then I watched the after-show online, and she was all, "Well, we're off and on.  He breaks up with me and then posts stuff on the Internet about me being a fat whore, but then we get back together a few days later ... tee hee."  And I was all, "TEE HEE?  What is wrong with you???"  It made me irrationally mad at how much faith I had in her moving on and being a strong parent.


7.  THIS is how big I am already, even though I am only 4 1/2 months pregnant.


8.  Plus, did I mention it's Monday?


But I love each and every one of you.  Can you maybe tell me you love me?  Just a little?  Please and thanks. 

Would YOU Pay to Live in a POW Camp? Because Apparently *I* Do. **UPDATED**

My precarious sanity is once again being tested.  Okay, you may or may not know that we are currently renting (lame city, let me tell you).  Our house is generally nice, and there aren't a ton of problems, even though it was built in the 1920s, so that is great.  But then ... there is the timer.


In our kitchen is an old school built-in stove.  It is pink and retro and adorable, and people who visit are always like "OH!  It is pink and retro and adorable!" and I'm like *nod*.

On said oven (that we don't use for fear of 70-year old funk creeping up into our food), there is a timer.  An adorable old fashioned timer.

Guess what?  The timer is fucking POSSESSED (or broken, who knows) and it CONSTANTLY makes a whirring/humming noise.  When we walked through the house, the noise was so low that we didn't even hear it.  But then when we were unpacking, all of a sudden the noise began rising.  Like, I thought maybe a motorcycle was driving down our street and slowly approaching.  THAT kind of noise.


Ever since then we have been entrenched in an epic battle with the damn timer.  We have tried everything to get that thing shut off for good.  Also?  Apparently there is NO WAY TO UNPLUG THE OVEN.  That's what landlord claims, and Jeremy concurs, having spent a few hours trying to find where the cord plugs in.  And the answer is, it leads NOWHERE and cannot be unplugged.


So Jeremy is able to get it down to a very low hum and then every few weeks it kicks back in like a motorcycle in the kitchen and after a few hours of battle he shuts it up again.  Well, he came home for lunch today, and just as he was leaving?  The m-f-er kicked into high gear, as if to say, "I know he doesn't have time to fix me before he leaves for work, bitch!  You will have to deal with me all day on your day off!!  Muaaahaaahaa!"


I begged.  I pleaded.  I reminded him that this was similar to torture techniques used in POW camps.  Did he stay and fix it?  NOOOOO, he went to WORK so he could keep his JOB and get a PAYCHECK.  Just wait until he gets home and I am all like a crazy feral animal and pulling my hair out and my teeth have been ground down to nubs.  Then he'll be sorry.

I am SOOOOO tempted ...

UPDATE:  Oh my god, you have no idea.  I hit "publish" and that goddamn timer kicked on LOUDER THAN I HAVE EVER HEARD IT BEFORE.  And the animals spazzed out.  Which they don't do with other loud noises.  So ... possessed?  I'll let YOU be the judge.

There May or May Not Be a Moral Involved in This Story. If There Is, I Missed It.

So I had this post all ready to go, and was going to publish it, but I got busy. It involved me talking about my job and my teaching style (for those of you who DON'T stalk me, I teach at a small private college in Michigan).  Now I am glad I hit save instead of publish on that bitch, because I have a distinct feeling I might have been dooce'd had I done this.  I mean, I am not exactly anonymous.  It wasn't bad or anything, but recent ... frustrations in my life have led me to realize that everything is incredibly tenuous.  The good and bad come and go very quickly, and the bad can really blindside you if you aren't prepared.


ANYWAY, the part of the post that still applies is this:  I have been having tremendously bad things pile up on me lately.  So much so that I have a constant pressure in my chest, and that horrible feeling in my throat like at any moment something might explode out of me, and I have no idea if it will be tears, curse words, vomit, or insane screaming.


Due to all of this anger and sadness and the oh-woe-is-me feelings, I have been walking around feeling the intense desire to punch every person I meet. Yup, I'm just walking around like a normal person, but I am mere inches from punching like a .... person who punches.  Like, if I saw a puppy, I would think about punching it.  But then I wouldn't punch it, because it's a PUPPY for Christ's sake.  I'm not HITLER (little known fact -- Hitler was a full-time puppy puncher).

Thinking about punching you.  But won't.

Anyway, I have been doing an extremely good job at holding in the rage (in my opinion, anyway). I haven't punched anyone yet.  But then this happened.


We decided to go to an early showing of Shutter Island today (side note: worth watching).  We had popcorn, sodey-pop, and a bag of candy.  We had excellent seats, and I was feeling the pressure on my chest lift.  Then a huge noisy group of seven young "men" and one young "lady" came spilling into the theater.  Guess where they decided to sit?  Yeah, right behind us.


I have VERY LITTLE tolerance for rude movie people.  Talking, kicking my seat, and cell phone usage?  Very quick way to ignite my movie theater rage.  Guess what they thought might be fun?  Yes.  These exact behaviors.  


Finally, about an hour into the movie, the discussion behind me had reached a fever pitch.  Like, non-stop discussion.  So, I turned and looked those little bastards straight in the eye and said, "Seriously.  Stop it.  NOW." and turned around.  


At first, all I could think about was my heart racing and the fight or flight hormones flowing through my body, and when my brain gave me those two options, I was thinking FIGHT!  Then I felt happy, because they were silent.


Then my heart slowed down, and I was able to see what I had stared at when I faced those monsters:  Teenagers.  18, 20 tops.  And they looked ... scared.  Like, maybe how you would be when you were a kid and a scary adult said something scary or mean.


Shit.  I am a mean scary old lady.  It really snuck up on me.  


But at least I didn't punch anyone.


image source

Devil Man Gets His Comeuppance

Let me tell you a tale.  A terrible tale in which I, a PREGNANT WOMAN, got shoved belly-first into a stone wall.

Did you have enough time for that to sink in?  No?  Okay, I'll repeat it.  A terrible, evil, rude fat man pushed my pregnant belly into a stone wall.

The day was Friday, and the place was the Smokey Bones restaurant in Lansing.  My dad had just gotten out of a meeting, and we got to the restaurant right in the middle of the 6 o'clock rush. The place was packed to the gills, and we were looking at a 45-minute wait.  I was feeling very claustrophobic in the waiting area, so my mom and I moved behind the hostess stand and stood up against the wall to be out of the way.

I have provided a 100% realistic rendering of this night so you can accurately imagine this scenario.

Also, please be assured that this is an ACCURATE representation of the restaurant and the placement of people within it.  I ran it by two hostesses, a waiter, and they original architect, and they all stated the dimensions were exact.  So, don't worry about that.

As you can see, there were tons of people, so I moved to a place where there were NOT a lot of people, and I was not in anyone's way.  You will see how much space is in between myself and the lovely fake fireplace.  A very large walkway, I would say.

However, a large, mean, stupid-looking gentlemen, who had just gotten done yelling at the hostess for not being seated quickly enough (because THAT always helps, right?) began walking past me on the way to the bar.  Instead of walking PAST me, at the last minute he SHOVED me.  Like, he used his hands as well as his large body.  Because I was looking at the dining area and talking to my mom about how full it was, I did not see him coming.  Also, because I was facing the wall, my stomach smashed into it.  

I was stunned.  I could not, seriously, could NOT believe what had just happened.  I spun around to get a look at the suspect, but by then, he was already getting his comeuppance.

The moment his ham-sized (and probably booger-covered) hands had smashed into me for NO REASON, the bartender LEAPED over the bar, ran up to him, and karate chopped him in the neck.  The jerk man immediately fell to the floor.  "Why?" the mean man whimpered in a baby voice.

"Did you just push that amazingly gorgeous pregnant woman?" the bartender shouted in his face with his foot on his chest, holding him to the ground.  "Yeah.  So what?" the asshat replied.  

BIG mistake.  Before the bartender even had time to respond, I shouted out the secret signal, and my legion of ninjas moved in with the speed of ... well, ninjas.  While they began beating the crap out of the lady pusher, my father and husband came running out of the bathroom.  

"What's going on??!?" my husband shouted.  "My spidey-sense told me that something was wrong.  That man on the ground.  He hurt you, didn't he?"  The rage quickly filled the eyes of my husband and father, but I held them back.  "Don't bother," I calmly replied.  "No need to get your hands dirty."  And, indeed, when they looked over, the ninjas had already taken care of the evil man.

The owner of the restaurant then came over and told the man that evil idiots were not welcome in his restaurant, and threw him out into the cold, where he lay, broken and bleeding, until the police came and took him away.

Sweet justice.

What really happened:

I gave the mean man a dirty look. 

Then, I made sure to keep an eye on him the rest of the 45-minute wait.  I gave him the evil eye any time he dared meet my eyeline.  I also made note of the fact that he yelled at the hostess three more times, and then WE got seated before him, despite the fact that he was there before us and we had the same size parties.  

So, even though my ninjas, the bartender, my father and my husband didn't dole out any vigilante justice, he got his.  Beware, jerks of the world:  Being rude will NOT get you ahead in life.

I'm Pretty Sure I'd Rather be Fighting Forest Fires. Or Battling Zombies. (Now with Updates)

So, today's kind of a big day.  I'm using the crockpot for the first time.  


The large, lovely crockpot we received for our wedding. The one only my darling husband has used to prepare meals.


And I feel like a little part of me died.


No offense to all those ladies who are actually GOOD at cooking and LIKE it, but I have never been a Becky Home-Ecky and have always known I never would be.  Why is it that being a good wife and mom requires terrible, awful things, like TOUCHING RAW MEAT and SMELLING IT COOK ALL DAY?  I seriously have a headache from the ... odor in my house.


I have always had an aversion to cooking.  Always.  I take no pleasure in it AT ALL.  And if it were any other task in the world, like, pole vaulting, and I was terrible at it and hated it, no one would care if I stopped doing it.  They would likely encourage me to quit.  But cooking?  Wives and mothers are supposed to care enough about their loved ones to put healthy delicious foods on their plates. So why don't I?


I got this horrible feeling the other day that I better start caring, what with this little baby baking away inside of me and taunting me with the reality that it will pop out in a few months and once it is sick of milk it will demand FOOD, and I realized that the "food lifestyle" Jeremy and I currently entertain is not conducive to children.  And I panicked.  Jeremy likes meat and I like vegetables. Some nights I come home from work at 7 and and make myself a bowl of asparagus and suggest he heat himself up a chicken pot pie.  I am pretty sure children will not benefit from this menu.


So I found a recipe for a crockpot pork roast and went and bought all the ingredients.  Then ... I had to actually USE the pork ... and look at it.  Have you ever really LOOKED at raw meat?  If you haven't, I suggest you do.  It isn't pretty.

Seriously?  People touch and cook and eat this every day??
{source}

I used to work as a cashier, and there was NOTHING worse than when people would just drop their barely-wrapped chunks of raw meat on my belt.  Like they really didn't notice that it was oozing blood and juices full of food-borne-illness-causing monsters all over the counter and their other groceries and my HANDS? My LOVELY hands??  Or, if they don't care about strangers, can't they at least imagine those little bloody particles traveling from their hands to their MOUTHS and EYES and CHILDREN'S FOOD AND FACES???  GAH!!!!!  


And now, here I am.  One of them.  And even though the damn pork loin has been in the damn crockpot for 4 hours already, it still looks terrifying.  

Does that look like a corpse that the flesh is rotting off of to anyone else?  

Because that's what it looks like to me. 

I know, there is an option of being a vegetarian.  That is all lovely in theory, but I am LAZY when it comes to food.  I hate cooking.  I think TOAST takes a long time to make.  And vegetarian cooking takes WAY more thought and planning and shopping and kitchen time.  I've tried it.  And then, of course, Jeremy would die of starvation and that would be on my conscience for the rest of my life, and that would be a dreadful burden.


So how the bloody heck am I supposed to start liking this crap?  Is there a secret?  And is it possible to re-program Jeremy's brain so he thinks he likes to cook and wants to take over the job?  Any ideas?


UPDATE:  Now I can smell the carrots cooking, so my headache is easing up. But I'm still mad at the crockpot.


UPDATE 2:  The meat-eater said it was "AWESOME!  Really, really good!"

I think it was the smell of the mustard that gave me a headache all day.  I was not a fan of the mustard "coating."  If I do it again, I will just rub the spices on without the mustard.


UPDATE 3:  Due to requests (probably because the first picture looked so weird), here is the recipe I used:

Crockpot Pork Roast Dinner

You can use any kind of mustard in this delicious, homey recipe. You can also thicken the juices if you wish after removing the roast and vegetables. Just pour the juice into a saucepan and add 2 Tbsp. cornstarch dissolved in 1/4 cup water, then bring to a boil.

Prep Time: 25 minutes

Cook Time: 8 hours, 0 minute

Ingredients:

1 lb. small red potatoes, cut in half

16 oz. pkg. baby cut carrots

1 onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

3 lb. boneless pork loin roast, trimmed of fat

1/4 cup Dijon mustard

1 tsp. dried tarragon leaves or 1 tablespoon fresh chopped tarragon

1 tsp. dried thyme leaves or 1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves

1/2 tsp. salt

1/4 tsp. pepper

1-1/2 cups beef broth

Preparation:

Place potatoes and baby carrots around bottom edge of 4-6 quart crockpot. Place onion and garlic in bottom of crockpot. In small bowl, combine mustard, tarragon, thyme, salt and pepper and spread over pork roast. Place roast in crockpot and pour beef broth over all. Cover crockpot and cook on low for 8-9 hours until pork is 150 degrees F and vegetables are tender.