Trial By Fire

In my last blog (aka my Lazarus like rise from the dead) I revealed some major things that have happened since you last heard from me. Namely, I had a kid.

Seriously, what was the man upstairs thinking when he decided I would make a suitable parent? I’m pretty sure if nothing else this blog has served as a forum of overwhelming proof that I am by no means the most understanding, patient, or forgiving person on the planet. C’mon we all remember my previous posts about binge drinking, neglecting to pay my bills and picking unwarranted fights with the Boo. Granted I have grown up a wee bit since then (ahem) but still. Anyone who has previously conducted their life in such a manner and does so with such overwhelming sarcasm and complete disregard for the way in which it affects others should by no means be responsible for raising another human being.

My point being…I hope I don’t screw this kid up.

When we first found out I was pregnant it was a complete shock to the Boo and I. It was definitely a surprise but a good one at that. (And no, there is no cute story about how I lovingly revealed my positive pee stick in a wrapped up jewelry box with a bow on top. True to form, I simply ran into the living room in my Hanes night shirt, disheveled hair and morning breath and announced “Holy Shit! I’m pregnant!” Classy, eh?)

But after the initial excitement and Facebook proclamations had worn off, the anxiety set in. How in the hell was I going to pull this off? Was I honestly capable of carrying, birthing and raising a precious baby girl without scarring her for life? I mean, let’s face it, she’s already got the short end of the stick to begin with since she is carrying my DNA and all it’s proclivity to facial hair, thick thighs and the inability to think before speaking. But more so, was there anyway I could not mentally scar this child with my complete and utter lack of knowledge and sarcastic, sometimes caustic, demeanor?

And then I saw her.



Quinn Isabella was born on October 30, 2011 and the instant they laid her on my chest I knew I would figure it out. Yes, it may be trial by fire. Yes, I may suck a big one at first. And yes, there may be times when I make my 12 week old baby do inappropriate booty shaking dances from BET music videos but that’s neither here nor there.

The point is she’s mine. She has my eyes, my blood and, God bless her, my DNA. Without even trying she’s already taken over my entire heart and filled it up with slobbery kisses and toothless grins. Without even trying I know I will raise her as best as I know how and hopefully she will grow into the beautiful young woman I know she’s destined to be.

The other night I laid on the bed just staring at her as she played. She was exploring the world around her and when I bent down and kissed her I didn’t get a grin. She rolled her eyes at me.

She is so my daughter.

"It's a Love Story. Baby Just Say Yes!"

Saturday was a day I’ll never forget.

As the start of the weekend and my only real day off with the Boo I cherish my Saturdays regardless but this Saturday…this Saturday was even more memorable.

We started off the morning lazy and loving. Wrapped in each other’s arms we awoke to a day full of possibilities and promises. 24 blissfully uninterrupted hours with my sucker. I woke up with a smile on my face.

We set off to Starbucks to use that gift card my Dad had sent as part of my birthday gift. Two iced venti Caramel Macchiatos and 2 blueberry crumb cakes later we took our goods and headed home to relax.

We had said all week we would save money for the month. With a trip to Ohio coming up in September and the holidays closer than you would think we had agreed to start staying in and saving up. I had a few movies I thought we could lounge around and watch but the Boo...he had other plans.

Coaxing and persuading he finally smooth talked me into getting ready and presentable and we set off for a gorgeous part of town under the pretense of just a quick lunch.

He took me to an adorable wine bar and café. We sat on lime green and chocolate brown couches with low chic glass tables on the balcony overlooking an amazing water fountain. We ordered an incredible bottle of pinot noir, a cheese plate of Fleurvert, Bleu, and Cotswald cheeses and marinated Mussels.

We talked about our grandparents fighting in WW2 together. We laughed about the happenings of the week. We lamented our worries and stresses. We reveled in each other’s company.

I jokingly asked him “Can we talk about the wedding?” “No” was his quick and determinate answer. Laughingly I assured him I was more than kidding. I was fine with waiting.

Conversation progressed and lulled as only comfortable companions can procure. And there in one of those quiet moments. In one of the infinitesimal silences that only come with complete safety and trust he looked at me. A mixture of love, anticipation and adrenaline.

I blinked and he was on one knee.

He pulled out a small black box.

His lips moved and said words that neither of us will ever recall. So consumed in the moment and shocked by it’s sudden manifestation I was enraptured.

Somewhere in there he said “I love you. Will you marry me?”

And somewhere in there I said “Yes.”

He slipped the ring on my finger as a tear slid down my check.

A kiss (plus many more), a happy cry (that ruined my makeup) and a champagne toast (or two) later, the deal was sealed.

For better or for worse. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part.

We’re officially engaged!

And he said “Now we can talk about the wedding.”

On Some Recent Developments

· I sent the Boo out Monday night to get a new chew toy for the crazed mongrels as they are being true to form and literally driving me up a effing wall. (The new house is so much bigger than the old that they’re running around like maniacs ready to piss themselves in ecstasy every 10 seconds.) Suffice it to say they needed a new distraction. Anyways, the Boo comes back 45 minutes later and what does he have? Not just the chew toy but a fish. (Ya know, one of those ones that lives for like 2 weeks and then gets unceremoniously flushed down the toilet before their new name even sticks. Can you tell I’m jaded? I’ve had and killed way too many Betas in my day.) The Boo let me name him and of course I picked Totes Magotes. Duh. We’ll see how long he can make it in this crazy, dysfunctional home.

· I’ve started working out again and boy does it severely suck. But I have to do it. I feel like a behemoth in my baggy $2 Hanes old man under shirt and stretchy yoga pants at the gym soooo something’s gotta change. (And by something I mean my exponentially expanding thighs…and ass…and waist. Let’s just say we’ve got some work to do.)

· My little sis is flying in from Chicago on Sunday to spend 5 days with the Boo and I. I’m so excited because I don’t get to see her often and I miss her like crazy. We’re less than 2 years apart so we’re cut from the same cloth. (As kids we used to call ourselves “bosom buddies”…not sure if that was supposed to be a joke or if we were serious but it happened…and it wasn’t pretty). Anyways, when the two of us get together there is no doubt lots of alcohol consumed, lots of sarcastic and cutting remarks exchanged, and one hell of a good time. I’m so excited but the only thing is the timing kind of sucks because….

· ….I GOT A JOB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (In case you’re all jumping around and squealing obnoxiously like me I’ll give you a moment to compose yourselves.) It’s the highest paying one that I really wanted which is frickin awesome! I’m super excited and so relieved and willing myself not to shout from the rooftops. However, their looking at starting me the day after my sister gets here so that would kind of suck…not being able to see her. But there is still a possibility the start date could be pushed back a few more days so cross your fingers that it is and I can hang with little sis.

Ok so that’s all that’s new with me. My life is kind of starting to kick ass right now. How’s yours?

The Ebb and Flow of My Constant State of Annoyance (Or Why I Should Probably Seek Therapy)

As you all may know by now, I am rarely ever not annoyed.

The dogs and their curious slobbery ways annoy me. The sound of my dishwasher blaring loudly over the TV volume that’s already set to 45 out of 60 annoys me. The fitted mattress that NEVER seems to stay down on my side…EVER but somehow miraculously clings to the Boo’s side all snuggly like night after night. The fact that I live around a bunch of morons who think it’s acceptable to puke chunky Checker’s fries and Goose and Cranberry all over the breezeway and not clean it up for THREE DAYS!!!! (Ok, that’s just disgusting. And yes, for the record, I’ve remained hibernated in doors while it’s been out there. And no, I’m not making this up. I really wish I was. Can you see now why we’re so ready to move already?)

But that brings me to my next and most current annoyance, boxes. Remember how I waxed poetic on loving boxes and tape and the tangibility of finally being able to see our move approaching? How it made me happy and joyous and gleeful for the blessed day?

Well, now…not so much.

I feel like I live in a hobo fort and it is not fun.

You can’t walk anywhere without stubbing your toe on the end of a box or a garbage bag of trash, hangers or clothes to be donated. You can’t see the TV from the couch unless you’re perched at just the right angle craning your neck like a Pepping Tom.

I am literally boxed in.

Pun intended. (Or not. I really hate puns.)

The Boo’s cleverly pushed up his departure time for school ever so slightly to escape this cardboard prison we’ve constructed, meanwhile I’m left knee deep in shitty moving tape that never stays on the little metal thing like you want it to so you end up peeling away 1/3 of the role just to restart it again.

That and Always ultra protection maxi pad boxes. Because nothing says class like boxes that scream “We’re too cheap to buy moving boxes so we stole some feminine hygiene ones from our local Publix. “

“Oh and by the way, we’re your new neighbors!!”

Soul Mate Synchronization

First and foremost I have to take a minute to thank everyone from the bottom of my heart for the immense outpouring of advice, words of kindness and honest compassion and graciousness from each of you in response to my last post. I could never in a million years have imagined the reception I would get from people I seemingly don’t know in real life when discussing something so personal and it means the world to me. So thank you all for that.

Now back to our regularly scheduled cynical debauchery.

Ya’ll remember how I told you that I fell in front of hordes of degenerates and mongrels at my local Publix a few days ago right? I’m sure you remember cause it’s the one where I explained in graphic detail the crumpled, mortifying mess that became me that dark, foreboding evening. I epitomized every chubby girl’s worst nightmare. Sprawled on the ground, fists desperately grasping for that ½ gallon of ice cream that you and everyone around knows you don’t need, close to tears and wallowing in the pool of unidentifiable fluid that caused your plummet in the first place. Yea, that was me.

And if you’ll recall I came home and wailed like a little bitch about it.

Well, it seems as if the Boo and I are once again demonstrating our closeness and soul mate eligibility by being so fuckin in sync it’s scary. (Is it sad that my first instinct was to write *NSYNC in that sentence? And yes, with the appropriately placed asterisk preceding it? JT’s moves in “I Want You Back” were the stuff wet dreams were made of and “It’s Gonna Be Me” may have very well likely been my personal anthem to any given crush that week. But that’s neither here nor there.)

Now where was I?

Oh right, the Boo and I’s perfect relationship and how we’re so disgustingly adorable and connected that we might make you want to gouge out your own eyeballs with an oyster fork and then spit roast them over a raging fire out of the soul-wrenching agony and recognition that your relationship will never compare with ours. (Too much? Mmmkay. Just provin’ a point.)

I’ll just cut to the chase. Because we’re so on the same wave length the Boo telepathically channeled my luck and busted ass yesterday. In the shower. And seeing as he’s basically Yao Ming status height wise it wasn’t a pretty sight. (I mean it was kind of hilarious to come in to the bathroom after hearing what sounded like a herd of buffalo thundering through the nether regions of our house and find my 6’7” man friend huddled amidst a sea of magenta and gold shower curtains, soaking wet and trying desperately to stand upright and cover the whale and scrots all at the same time. So yea, I laughed. But only briefly. And only after I was sure he wasn’t badly injured.)

Turns out I’m a raging bitch and he was/is badly injured.

After 3 hours at the doctor’s office and another hour or so filling prescriptions and buying a ghastly looking sling, we’ve learned that he’s actually fractured his labrum (which is not to be confused with “labia” which I got another good laugh out of. God, I’m mature.) In laymen’s terms, he’s cracked the part of his shoulder where the ball goes into the socket (that’s what she said) and symptomatically, every time he moves even the slightest it basically feels like he’s being repeatedly stabbed with a two-edged rusty hepatitis smothered shank. (Or so I’ve been told.)

He may need surgery but we’ll have to wait a few days to see the specialist and possibly get a CAT scan to see more of the damage but bottom line is it’s a good thing he’s as tall as he is. Because if he was my height he would have come down on his neck and not his shoulder and very likely snapped his spinal cord in half. Needless to say we both feel a little like we’ve had some sort of near-death experience. The Boo almost dying or at the very least becoming paralyzed and me losing my best friend. So if nothing else we can at least be happy that it wasn’t any worse and we are still together and in one piece.

Then again, it’s easy to see the bright side of things when you’re not the one sporting the shiteous sling.

(Sorry babe. Thanks for letting me make fun of your wound. Get well soon. Kiss kiss. Love you mean it bye.)