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I, as a perpetual and professional student, am no stranger to volunteering as a guinea pig for various and sundry educational experiments. I’ve been poked, prodded, scraped, impressioned, dyed (as in, dyed GREEN), and cut. None of it scares me. But today (for the first time) I got to pee in a cup for the benefit of some soon-to-be medical assistants.
You owe us, they claimed.
You can have anything, I said. Just not my blood. I’m not a fan of vampires who don’t sparkle in the sunlight.
What? Someone asked.
Nevermind, I said.
Okay! Anyways, go ahead and pee in a cup so we can run three tests!
That sounds like… fun. I said.
Two other girls in my class volunteered to go after me. They decided to be my cheerleaders while I was in the bathroom.
You’re sexy and you know it! They chanted. In Spanish. Because saying something like that in a romance language makes trying to, um, aim and catch that into a tiny cup sooooooo much easier.
Are you done yet? Hurrrrrrrrrryyyyyyy!
Honestly, I wanted to choke the bitches out after that. Or at least pour my oh-so-carefully-obtained specimen over their skinny-ass heads. I love them, but shit like this takes serious concentration.
I mean. REALLY. No one ever tells you how much you need to, um, provide for an adequate sample. Is a few millimeters enough? Or should I give them something that looks like a mug of cold frosty beer? IT’S SO GODDAMN UNCLEAR.
Finally, I presented a strangely warm cup of my own bodily fluid to a barely post-pubescent girl for analysis.
This better be enough, because the fountain is dry, I said.
This is definitely plenty, she replied, swirling the contents of my bladder around in the cup. We need, like, ten or twelve drops max for the tests we’ll be running today.
Good to know, I quipped.
She used a tiny dropper I’d previously seen used to feed Sea Monkeys to place a tiny quantity of fluid on two test strips and one apparatus that looked suspiciously like a pregnancy test. She could have been testing my pee for illicit drugs or the presence of moon rocks. Whatever, I didn’t know. I was just along for the ride. But after about 30 seconds she pronounced me free of diabetes, urinary tract infection, and new guests in my womb.
Oh. I said. That’s good, I guess.
Did you think you may have been pregnant? she asked me.
No. But it’s good to know just for my peace of mind.
My teacher patted me on the shoulder and asked if I wanted to be pregnant. A No! came quickly to my lips, but later as I thought of it, I wasn’t so sure.
It’s not like we’re trying. Far, far from it. In fact, I’ve for this handy-dandy little device implanted straight in my uterus that is supposed to prevent pregnancy 99.8% of the time. (TMI alert) Since this little device has stopped my cycle entirely, I stockpile tests from the Dollar Store and take them religiously every three months. Just to be sure.
This was the first time I’d ever taken a pregnancy test just for fun, if that’s even a thing. Prior to peeing in the cup, my boobs had been a tiny bit sore and I (imagined) I had been a little more irritable. For me, those are both tell-tale signs of being properly knocked up. So in my heart of hearts, I definitely harbored a what-if? scenario.
So what if?
We’re not ready for a second baby. We still don’t own our own home. I’m not employed, though that’s soon to change. We’re not in the right financial or practical position. Affordable infant care and school costs are more than we can really bear right now.
Babies take time. And truth be told, sometimes my pre-schooler is more than I can handle. I love him more than life itself, and he’s even asked for a little sister (soon followed by his request for a puppy), but there have been points in his existence when I’ve questioned if his terrible twos would ever end.
Still. I hunger for the feel of a newborn in my arms. I’m the crazy lady in Walmart who picks up packages of newborn size Pampers to smell them, in front of God and everyone, just to relive the very first months with Boo. Those were among the happiest moments of my life, however sleep deprived they were.
Obviously, I want more children. One day. But not now. Red and I need to be on the same page, baby-wise, because at this point, I’m pretty sure my desire for a being who wears ruffle butt bloomers and frilly skirt exceeds his.
So I guess all I’m saying is that I’m finally ready for that point in my life when having another child wouldn’t be a burden, but rather a joy.
Y’all, I need that joy. Soon.
(DISCLAIMER: This post is in no way my secretive way of telling you guys I’m pregnant. Nope. I’m not that subtle. So don’t e-mail me about it.)
Y’all, I have the best friends. Some of them even think that my sarcasm and gift for using creative four-letter words when I talk about my child deserves to be rewarded.
My very best-good friend Michelle from The Barenaked Critic bestowed the Kreativ Blogger Award upon Three Ring Mom, and I couldn’t be more honored. You guys need to visit her site and thank her profusely (monetary compensation is welcomed) (or some naked-y pictures if you’re an attractive, single, successful male of the heterosexual persuasion) for giving me my very first award
for excellence in blogging.
In the real world of blogging (the one where you’re supposed to write daily to keep your readers entertained and shit) the Kreativ Blogger Award comes with the caveat that I list ten true-ish things about myself and then pass the award on to 6 more deserving internet-y people.
I only read five blogs regularly. And I don’t use any kind of internet sorcery to get to them (ahem, Google Reader) because that both frightens and intimidates me. Besides The Barenaked Critic, I read Amalah, The Bloggess, The Barefoot Foodie, and Overflowing Brain on a daily basis. I
stalk follow each of them on Twitter, and all of them are internet superstars in their own niches. Basically, these are the people you would stare at from afar at conferences like BlogHer because you’re too damn intimidated to actually talk to them face to face. In fact, I’m pretty sure I would drop dead right here and now if any one of them acknowledged the fact that I passed on this award to their sites.
That being said, I’m going to name Katie from Overflowing Brain as the recipient of my Kreativ Blogger Award because a) she bakes stuff on a regular basis that makes me want to lick my computer screen and b) I’m more excited for the impending birth of her child than I am for meeting the spawn of some of my real life friends. Also, she is awesome enough to reply to her tweets and blog comments, so I’ve had the pleasure of corresponding with her online.
So now I guess I’m supposed to tell you so “facts” about myself. If I’m being honest, this is kind of tough. I know no one really wants to know this shit. But I’m obligated, so here goes:
1) I’m more in love with my cat that any sane and semi-rational person should be. I’ve started, but never finished, many opuses (opusii?) to his gloriousness for this blog, but none of them have seen the light of day. Instead, I bombard Twitter with grainy cell phone pictures of him instead.
2) I’ve recently changed professions. After nearly 10 years of undergraduate study (shaddup) I’ve abandoned the notion that teaching is the right fit for me. Long story short, I’m too damned scared of the direction the education field is taking in the wake of No Child Left Behind to be even remotely happy as a teacher. I won’t tell you which field I’ve switched to (the need for my family’s privacy and all that jazz) but I will tell you that now, your teeth are the first thing I notice when I meet you. Just FYI.
3) I’ve never seen the first three (last three?) Star Wars movies start to finish. I’m sure this is inconceivable since I practically worship at the altar of books like the Song of Ice and Fire series by George R.R. Martin, but… yeah. I’ve seen bits and pieces of all three films, but I’ve never been able to force myself to sit through an entire showing of any of them. Sorry.
4) I have a nasty case of road rage. That’s not to say that I carry a concealed weapon to deal with the myriad of idiots that I encounter every day, but I do like to honk. A lot. I totally don’t feel sorry for that time I abused my horn to scold a certain clerical collar-wearing, Jesus-loving driver for cutting me off in a school zone. Think of the children, Father!
5) I’m fascinated by tacky lawn ornaments. If I was brave enough (and if Red would let me) (and if I didn’t think my landlord would evict me) I would totally have a flock of plastic pink flamingos planted in front of my house. Or zombie gnomes. Whichever.
6) I openly wept during the last twenty minutes of the final Harry Potter movie. And also during the scene in LOTR: Return of the King when Aragorn was all, “My friends, you bow to no one.” People shhhhhhhsed me and I didn’t give a damn. Fuck them.
7) I will not, for any reason, eat a hamburger or sandwich with raw, sliced tomatoes. And it’s totally genetic. Three out of five of my immediate family cannot stand tomatoes when they’re served raw like that. It’s just good science.
8) I have a well thought-out zombie apocalypse plan. Anyone who reads this blog regularly should not surprised. (PS: there are classes you can take in my hometown to teach you how to survive in the even that the undead arise. I’m not even kidding.)
9) I can count on one hand the number of times I have gone out into public without my toenails unpainted since I was 11 years old. Fact: Proper Southern ladies always have a good pedicure, even if no one will see her toes.
10) I have a double set of papercuts on my right index finger right now that makes typing really effing painful. I didn’t discover them until I was smearing acid-y condiments all over the childling’s hamburger tonight. Let me tell you how fun that was.
11) Tilda Swinton scares the shit out of me. I would not enjoy meeting that lady in a dark alley, despite the fact that I could totally pick her up and snap her in half like a toothpick if I needed to. She’s just… intimidating. Like what the I imagine the Queen of England would be like if she smoked a bad batch of weed and went all paranoid about the Ruskies or something.
So there you have it.
10 11 pieces of truthiness about someone you never wanted to know about. Now it’s your turn. Leave me a couple bits of trivia about YOU in the comments. This could be fun, y’all.
Clicky (And fast forward to 3:12, por favor)
So, I got bored today and then this happened:
For those of you who live under a rock, this is breading, and it’s the hottest new internet meme. For crazy cat ladies, any way. Gawker says:
Forget planking. All the cool kids are putting their cats in bread and taking pictures of them looking like little yeasty lions. “Breading” is a throw-back to the old Japanese “putting-food-on-rabbits”meme of the early viral web, but with a modern twist.
The wacky meme of breading cats has exploded in recent months, propelled by the internet. There’s an official Facebook page with more than 9,000 likes, and a popular post on the hip blogging platform Tumblr. So, it is now an official meme according to Internet Law.
So basically, it’s just another thing you can do to make your pet look stupid. Because dressing them up in clothes isn’t bad enough. But you can’t just go around breading your feline companion willy nilly. There are rules:
1) Take a piece of bread (If this is your first time, use a soft white bread. Experienced breaders will use rye or even multigrain.)
2) Cut a hole approximately 1 inch larger than your cat’s head. This trips some people up. Remember: the bread has to fit around the not just the cat’s head, but it’s ears, too.
3) Gently place the bread around your cat’s head.
4) Take a picture. Post it to the official in-bread cat Facebook page.
My cat is laid back. He has to be to survive in this family, what with all the pokey little pre-schooler fingers constantly being shoved in the general direction of his eye-holes. He puts up with Boo’s not-so-gentle ministrations until he gets fed up with it, at which point he whacks Boo on the head and runs away. Wash, rinse, repeat, at least four times a day.
So I figured Kitty wouldn’t mind too much if I shoved a piece of 7 Grain Honey Oat bread on his head.
In the interest of science, I decided to see if he was pissed off simply because he disliked my choice of bread. I had some old tortillas in the fridge, so I cut a hole in one and shoved it over his humongo cranium.
I took approximately eleventy-million pictures, and they all turned out the same. He looks completely pissed off in every single one. So much barely contained rage. You can practically see him plotting his revenge, like he wants to warn me that I need to lock up my prized possessions tonight.
Finally, he’d had enough.
And that was the end of that. I tried it later with a whole wheat pita, but no dice. He had wised up to my antics and spent the rest of the evening hiding under the kitchen table. I plan to apologize later by getting him super, blazing high with some primo catnip. That shit fixes everything. I hope.
Now it’s your turn! Stuff your pet’s head into the carbohydrate of your choice and then send them to me! I’ll share the best ones later so we can all delight in your animal’s shame.
ETA: I *just* realized that the title of this post kind of sounds like I rolled my cat in delicious panko bread crumbs so I could fry him up and serve him family style with a side of honey mustard. But rest assured–he’s definitely alive and still pissed off. No cats were harmed in the production of this post.
ETA 2: It also bears mentioning that I completed this post while watching the episode of My Strange Addiction about the lady who ate cat treats and cat food every day. I’m positive this is the point people will later point out as the start to my dark and twisty descent into madness. Probably.
It’s something you never think will happen to you. Your entire life has been spent in a cocoon of privilege, in a land of minivans and green soccer fields and semi-suburban tranquility. You’ve never known honest to God, piss your pants fear.
And then something shatters that. In an instant, your whole life changes.
Saturday, 15 January 2012, 6:00 PM
It is dark outside already. Red is at work. Both Boo and I have been napping. Something wakes me. All the lights in the house are off, but the streetlight in the backyard shines in through the cracks in the blinds. I can see the outline of a person on my back porch. Someone starts pounding on my door.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG.
The glass in the doorframe rattles under the blows. The shape retreats and reappears near my bedroom window. I assume the neighbor’s kids are playing the backyard again. I grab a jacket and start walking toward the front door, thinking they’re here to try and sell me another newspaper subscription. I get as far as the kitchen table.
The door frame shatters.
I start screaming. Deep, guttural, terrified noises erupt from my throat. Once. Twice. Then one unending, ululating wail. I run to Boo’s room, scoop him out of bed, and sprint to the front door. I find myself in my driveway. I am barefoot, not wearing glasses, and have nowhere to go. It’s close to freezing outside. I’m still screaming. For help, please God, SOMEONE HELP ME! HELP ME!
I see a shadowy figure across the street, a man, I think. He screams at me. I can’t hear him because I’m still shouting. My ears are ringing. He yells at me again. WHAT IS WRONG?
My house! Someone just tried to break into my house! Help me!
He runs across the street and grabs my arm. He leads me into his house and tells a woman to call 911. I’m trembling so hard that I stammer when I try to talk. Boo is still clutched against my chest. I realize I’m holding him so tightly that it might be hurting him. I relax my grip on him as the woman helps me sit down on the couch. She asks me my name as she’s dialing the phone.
The man grabs a flashlight and leaves to see if there’s anyone outside my house. I ask him to check on my cat, because oddly, now that I know that Boo and I are out of danger, that’s the only thing I’m worried about. I know he’ll be scared. I’m afraid he’ll try to go outside and come find me.
Fifteen minutes later, we see a single police car spotlighting the houses down the block. I grab Boo up again and meet the officer on the street. Five minutes later, the house is clear and I can hear my cat yowling from somewhere inside. I knock on my own front door and ask if I can please come in because my feet are cold. The officer tells me I can. I find the cat. He’s huddled in a tight little ball in a corner under the kitchen table.
I give my statement to the police. Call my landlord, my parents, and finally Red. He left his phone at home that afternoon before work, so I use the commercial number that connects straight to an agent in his office. I know I’m not making any sense while I’m explaining why I need to speak to Red, but I finally get it out and then Red is talking to me. I tell him to come home. Come home now. Come home, someone tried to break into our house. Come home now. We need you.
The police officer who took my statement comes through the shattered backdoor and tells me he’s going to pull his car around front. I tell him my dad is on his way. I also tell him that my dad is bringing a pistol. The officer gives me a funny look and nods. He goes back outside.
Fifteen minutes later, Red gets home. My landlord arrives. My parents arrive. I fall into my mothers arms and start weeping. Up until this point, I have not cried. She holds me. My dad holds me. Red holds me. Suddenly I know I am safe again. I am still shaking.
The whole thing is one big run-on sentence that has been playing non-stop on a loop through my head for the last two days. I’m mostly okay when it’s light outside. When darkness comes, so does the worrying. The fear prickles up the back of my neck and clenches my gut. I am literally physically sick with worry. Every noise makes me jump.
Everyone says I’m safe now, that no one would pull something like this again after they’ve almost been caught. But I’m afraid they–whoever they are–will come back for me. Maybe they think I saw something and they need to shut me up. I can’t help but thing that way. That’s the way my mind works. It goes to the darkest place possible and wrestles with whatever ugly demon it finds there.
We were lucky, though. My screaming scared the intruder off. He wasn’t even able to get the door all the way open because my cat’s litter box is wedged there, between the door and our stationary bike.
Nothing was taken. No one was hurt. I am safe. My son is safe. Red will keep us safe when he’s home and the alarm system will keep us safe when he is not. We have weapons in the house–always have–and I’m confident I can use them to defend myself and my own if need be. I always have my cell phone in my pocket now, next to my keys and my panic button.
Like I said, nothing was taken. Nothing but my peace of mind.
Edited to add: The unit next door was broken into, too, but it’s vacant right now so there wasn’t anything to take. Since I’m pretty sure there was only one person, the police think this was a snatch and grab type of incident, where the perp looks for easy to carry items like laptops and jewelry that they can easily resell. That doesn’t matter to me, though. I hope they catch the motherfuckers. I hope they are punished to the fullest extent of the law. And I hope their cellmate is fond of petty thieves, if you know what I mean.
***UPDATE, 19 January 2012*** Two plainclothes detectives came to our door tonight to talk to me about what happened last Saturday. After asking to see some identification (because I’m super paranoid now), I showed them around the house and recapped what had happened. After I gave my statement, they told me that I could probably sleep a little more soundly because they believed they had the person responsible in custody.
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition, y’all.
That’s some damn fine police work. I couldn’t be more grateful to the men and women who have worked to put this son of a bitch behind bars. Given that I was unable to provide a physical description of the subject, I’m pretty sure this incident was connected to some other home invasions that have taken place around town. Honestly, I don’t care how they did it. I’m just happy to have a little closure.
I’m a mom. I’m also a blogger. But I’m not really a mommy blogger.
A quick peek at my archives would lead a lot of people to think that I’m full of shit, just like the time your elementary math teacher tried to convince you that all squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares. (I’m still not convinced about that one, lady.)
Sure, I have a kid. I post pictures of him and write about him occasionally. Despite the fact that the post previous to this one features a naked, gore-covered baby picture, the childling is not the only thing that ends up here in internetland. There’s also vibrators and Zombie Jesus and neighbors who look like Lou Ferrigno.
Obviously there are a lot of misconceptions out there about moms who blog. Hell, a lot of them have been perpetuated by the moms themselves. So I’m going to clear those up for you, okay?
FALSE. It is true that we once mashed our genitals against those of a member of the opposite sex in a (drunken) union that resulted in a tiny, helpless being who will hog the next 18-30 years of our life, money, and energy. However, we do not think we’re better than you because of this. Mostly we think about getting a single night of uninterrupted sleep. And maybe some more of that drunken genital mashing.
2. Our children all have weird names that you can’t spell or pronounce phonetically.
False. I assure you, my kid has a totally normal name in real life. It’s a classic one that both his dad and I liked with a middle name that we borrowed from family members on both sides. (He does have a cutesy internet alias, but not because I envision myself as some sort of celebrity who must christen her offspring Fern Red or Ivy Blue or fricking Apple Green to mark him as unique and make him successful in life. It’s really just because I don’t think he’ll appreciate the general public having access to his name and a photo of him sitting on the singing devil potty fifteen years down the road.)
3. Our entire day consists of stalking formula companies on social networking sites, wiping butts, and drinking wine out of a box.
False. I do my fair share of butt wiping, but there’s definitely time left in my day to enjoy normal things. Like stalking celebrities on Twitter. And catching up on old episodes of the Vampire Diaries on Hulu. And you know, actually pursuing a career outside the home. (The wine drinking doesn’t take place till much later in the evening.)
4. If you meet us in person, you better be prepared to see some boobies, because those puppies are getting stuffed in someone’s face at some point. And that someone is not you.
False. It’s probably TMI, but I have gimpy boobs when it comes to breastfeeding. They didn’t exactly work as planned the first time around, so as much as I wanted to, I never got to whip them out in front of friends, family, or the cable guy. (Like, Surprise! Who wants creamer in their coffee? I ate some M&Ms last night, so it’s chocolate flavored today, betches!) However, I will show you my gnarly potato peeling scar if you ask nicely enough. I probably should have gotten, like, three stitches in that bad boy.
5. We’re all Conservative Christian homeschoolers who dress like extras on Little House on the Prarie.
False. I love my child, but God help me, his little ass is going to public school as soon as he’s old enough. I may have 7/8 of a BS in Biology with Secondary Teacher’s Licensure, but that doesn’t mean I have the patience (or critical thinking skills) to teach him elementary level mathematics. Also? I’m an unapologetic, tree-hugging liberal ex-Catholic, so there goes that whole she’s-a-crazy-Creationist-with-a-clown-car-for-a-vagina thing.
What do you think? Are there any misconceptions and/or stereotypes I missed?
Happy birthday! Around this time in 2009, my body was forcibly evicting your from the only home you had ever known, and you weren’t happy about it. (I don’t blame you, though. You had it good in there, what with cush digs and all that spicy Mexican food I had been nourishing you with for the last nine months.)
Although I don’t remember a whole lot about that day (thank you, narcotics), your dad swears up and down that I broke a couple of his fingers while you were making your grand entrance into the world. I think he’s just confusing that with the injuries I threatened to inflict should he look, ahem, down there. At 9:18 PM after 32 hours of labor, 2 hours of pushing, and one sadistic doctor who decided epidurals are for pussies, there you were, all squishy and red and royally pissed off.
This was you then:
This is you now:
You still look just like your dad. Seriously kid, if I hadn’t been there when you ripped my loins asunder, I’d swear I had no part in making you. As far as I can tell, my only genetic contribution was the fact that we have the same weird fingertips that point up at the end. (When you are in college, your friends will show them to random women in bars just to see what they say. I am so very sorry. )
I can’t believe three years have gone by so quickly. There are some parts I’d rather not remember (and can’t manage to repress), but the other 99.8% of your life has been pretty effing magical. I’m pretty sure that in another ten years or so, I’ll tell everyone that you pooped rainbows and solved complex differential equations before you were even potty trained. You’re that awesome.
So let’s work on this whole waking up at the ass crack of dawn thing (and that whole picky eater thing) (and that while we’re at it, that whole screaming for no apparent reason other than to give me a heart attack thing) and the next three years will be just as amazing. I promise I’ll try my best not to embarrass you. Too much.
I don’t know how mornings go in your house, but around here we have a little routine. When the childling wakes up at an ungodly hour that I dare not speak aloud, he bellows one of three things that are guaranteed to make me fly out of bed like someone’s lit the sheets on fire:
I hurt myself!
I broke something!
I think I pooped!
He’s usually lying, but I’ve learned my lesson about ignoring anything that involves the word ‘poop‘. So at this point, I stumble blindly across the hall into his bedroom where I almost always find my clever little liar hiding beneath the covers on his bed. (And by hiding, I mean that he covers part of his face and none of his body, but he’s invisible.) When he emerges from his blanket cocoon, he eyes me warily and asks me why I’m not wearing pants. I ask him why he chose to woke up so early. He asks me where my glasses are. I ask him where he learned to tell time. He asks me to turn on Dora. I turn on Dora and stumble back out of his room and back to bed in the blind hope that I can get an extra fifteen seconds of sleep. (It never happens.) Day in, day out.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
So imagine my surprise today when he threw a little curveball into our routine.
Mama! My buttoms are unbuttomed!
I’ll be there in minute, kiddo.
But, Mama! Hurry! I need your help! My buuuuuttttttttttoms!
I thought I knew what he was talking about. For the last couple of days, Boo has chosen to sleep in his red unionsuit he got for Christmas and that thing has approximately 900 buttons.
Something about ripping apart all those little snappy things must be extremely satisfying for him, because I’ve fastened every single one of those fuckers about five or six times a night every night he has worn them. (A smarter woman would just insist that her child pick out a pair of pajamas without so many goddamn buttons.) (But I’ve never been accused of possessing an abundance of common sense.)
I fully expected that he had stealthily unbuttoned a couple of the top ones during the night and gotten tangled up, one arm in one arm out, like he has before.
Nope. I was wrong. So, so wrong.
Boo! (blink, blink) WHY ARE YOU NAKED?
I unbuttomed myself!
I can see that.
Mama, it’s cold!
I swear to God, he looked like a tiny, furless Burt Reynolds laying there, all reclined against against his stuffed animals. Since it was 7:00 in the goddamn morning, I just couldn’t find the humor in the situation. So I just sat down on on the futon with my head in my hands and told him to bring me his clothes. Then I rebuttoned every single button and sent him to tell Red what he had done. Red thought it was hilarious.
Maybe he’ll be a nudist when he grows up.
That’s not funny. Or natural. Those people have issues.
Come on, baby. It’s totally natural. It’s au natural.
God help me. If this kid decides he wants to prance around in public without clothes on, it ain’t my fault.
Hitting publish on Part 1 of the other day’s post made me realize that if I’m going to stick to my resolution of writing more this year, I certainly want didn’t want to start 2012 by throwing up a cut and paste boilerplate post provided by someone else. So when I came across Overflowing Brain’s Year In Review post, my problem was solved. Bonus: I don’t have to change out of my pajamas or put on a bra to answer 27 questions about 2011.
1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?
I taught myself to crochet. Once upon a time (a long, child-free time ago in a world when I didn’t worry about peeing my pants when I had to sneeze) I took a crochet class at my hometown library. Twenty minutes in, I was tangled up in multicolored acrylic yarn and swore I’d never so much as pick up another crochet hook as long as I lived. This year I was able to make hats and scarves to sell and give as gifts. I’m proud of my new skill, because even though I look like a grandma while I’m doing it, it keeps my hands busy and out of the package of mint M&Ms. Those things really should be illegal.
2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I purposely did not make a resolution last year because I have a terrible, awful, no good very bad track record of keeping them. In year’s past I’ve vowed to follow my heart (which lead down a dark and twisty path of depression and self-loathing), to NOT follow my heart and listen instead to my conscience (who, by the way, is a terrible guide because she’s a lush who gets drunk waaaaaaay faster than I do), and to get less fat and self-loathing. I think I’ve promised myself that last one every year since I was old enough to know what a resolution was, and guess what? I’m still fat and even more self-loathing than before.
This year I just want to write more. Easy enough, I think. (Oh, that and keep my fat fucking mouth shut when someone talks about Jesus at the end of a copy/paste rant about politics. We’ll see about that.)
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
I had a few friends in real life and on the internet, but no family or close friends.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
Thank the lord above, no. We had a few health scares with various family members last year, but they all pulled through. I come from healthy stock.
5. What countries did you visit?
Um, this one? I’m poor. I’d rather spend my money on remote controlled cars that the childling can use to chase the cat all over hell and half of Georgia than drink overpriced, watered down drinks on some foreign shore.
6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?
A new last name. A home that belongs to me and the man who’s giving me the new last name (and the bank, presumably.) A job. Wherewithal and follow-through.
7. What dates from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
September 10. That was the day I lost my job at Charm. Although I miss it, I miss the friendship that went along with it a lot more.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I was featured on WordPress’s Freshly Pressed! I never thought that being honest with myself about the weird stuff that had been happening in our house would garner such a response. (PS, that damn poltergeist is still here. We’re on more amiable terms now that I’ve renamed him Peeves and decided there’s nothing he can do to hurt us.)
9. What was your biggest failure?
Being too wrapped up in my own brain. I have a terrible habit of being overly critical about myself and everything I do. Sometimes I get caught on this awful Mobius strip where my mind cycles endlessly through all my failures and shortcomings. You’re not good enough. You’re a terrible parent. You’re doing that wrong. You’re not trying your hardest. You’re bad, bad, bad. Etc, etc. It’s hard to pull myself out of that pit, but sometimes all I really need is a nap and hug. I’m a like a giant, emotional toddler. Now if you’d just pour some booze in my sippy cup, por favor?
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
I’ve been sick a few times, but nothing major. At one point in January, all three of us came down with the stomach flu in one week. It was miserable. My guest bathroom will never be the same again.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
I’m gonna go all Mommy-blogger-holier-than-thou for a second and say it was Christmas presents for Boo. Seeing him get so excited about his new toys was so freaking cool.
12. Where did most of your money go?
Where else? Bills.
13. What did you get really excited about?
Our family makes an annual pilgrimage to the Wild Wilderness Safari petting zoo every year and even though we put the childling on a leash to keep him contained, it’s really me those poor animals need to worry about.
14. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
My cousin’s wedding fell on on the same day as my 27th birthday (gah… it sounds so old). She had it at a Hilton resort in Dallas, so now I’m convinced that someone needs to get married on that day every year so I can celebrate with an open bar, live band, and cake. Lots of cake.
15. Compared to this time last year, are you:
– happier or sadder? This time last year I was still riding the high from Red’s surprise proposal, so I’m not as… exuberant as I was then. I’m still happy, though.
– thinner or fatter? Fatter, goddammit.
– richer or poorer? Neither. We’ve got more in savings this year than we did last year at this time, but we’re not rich my any stretch of the imagination.
16. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Writing. I had such momentum coming off my Month of Blogging and then I just let it slip away. It kinda seems like I’ve broken my funny bone since then. Which leads me to wonder if doctor’s prescribe narcotics for that kind of thing. I suspect not, but it’s worth checking into at least.
17. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Worrying. In the end, it’s never really worth it because my brain is beaten, bruised, and bloody by the time I stop worrying long enough to look around and realize that the crisis has passed.
18. How did you spend Christmas?
Our Christmas was spread out over three days and two states. Christmas Eve Eve was spent with my in-laws, Christmas Eve found us one state over at my parent’s house (and later that night at Red’s grandparents’ house), and then we celebrated Christmas day with Red’s other side of the family. It was exhausting. But the food was good.
19. What was your favorite TV program?
No matter how pissed off I get at the lopsided judging and blatant intervention on behalf of the producers (ahem, GRETCHEN and ANYA!), Project Runway will always be my favorite. Sometimes I have stress dreams about getting caught in Mood with a new challenge and absolutely no idea what kind of design I want to show on the runway or how I’ll make it. Which is funny, because I don’t know how to sew. At all.
20. What were your favorite books of the year?
I came late to the game (as in, I started the first book on the day after Christmas) but I fell in love with the Song of Ice and Fire series by George R.R. Martin. It
probably definitely has something to do with the amount of nudity in HBO’s Game of Thrones series, but what girl can resist that much knightly bare flesh?
21. What was your favorite music from this year?
Go ahead and put your Judgy McJudgerson pants on, but I really liked Adele this year. Something about her work is so haunting and beautiful. And that’s really saying something for a woman who listened to a lot of Avenged Sevenfold whilst in a delicate condition back in 2008.
22. What were your favorite films of the year?
Y’all, I literally bawled during the last half of the final Harry Potter movie. I was so sad to see the series come to and end. I’m pathetic. Honorable mentions to X-Men: First Class, Twilight Breaking Dawn Part 1 (shaddup), and Super 8.
23. What song will always remind you of 2011?
Do you remember that Adele mashup that the Troubletones did on Glee? Yeah, that one. It’s spectacular.
24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? Gainful employment. Sweet Sally in a sidecar, I’d really like to be employed.
25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?
HA. Hahahahahaha. HA. I rock a mean pair of yoga pants, if that’s what you’re wondering.
26. What kept you sane?
Red. Quite literally. He’s the only one who knows how to talk me down when I start to panic about something.
27. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011.
Baby, I was born this way. Loud. Sarcastic. Foot-in-mouth more often than not. Insecure. Weepy. Anxious. Creative. I’m probably not the best me I can be, but that can always change.
Happy New Year, everyone!
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys took a look back at Three Ring Mom in 2011 (which is kind of great, because now I don’t have to make my own year in review listicle thing) and this is what they came up with:
The concert hall at the Syndey Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 21,000 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 8 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.