Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Look Alike Edition

Photos on the left are of me, photos on the right are my son.

Before I became a mother, I didn't realize how tiresome it is to have everyone in the known universe weigh in on who your child looks like. (I still do it to others, but I'm trying to break the habit. This is a "do as I say, not as I do" kind of situation.)

My son look almost exactly like I did as a baby, but if you're looking at Chuk and I as adults, the baby looks  slightly more like Chuk because they have the same block heads and make similar expressions. (Although the baby really does have my features rather than Chuk's.) Anyway, the reason it's tiresome to hear peoples' opinions on who the baby looks like is mainly because I hear it so often and because it's difficult to respond to. If someone says, "Your baby looks exactly like your husband" it's not like I'm going to say "Thank you". It's not a compliment; it's just their random observation. And I know they don't want to hear my whole spiel about, "Well they have the same head shape and eyebrows, but if you look closely, you'll notice he has my eyes, nose, mouth and ears." I'm socially awkward, but not that awkward.

So while I think that's sort of boring, twice recently I've gotten comments on this subject that have me in a tizzy. In the first instance, our little family was out for a walk and someone walking by in the opposite direction said to us, "Well we know who his daddy is. No mistaking that." Like we were in some drive-by episode of the Jerry Springer show.

On the second occasion, we three were in line at the grocery store and Chuk stepped away for a minute to grab something else and the person behind me in line whispered to me, "You don't have to worry about who that baby's father is. It's definitely him." Um, thanks for sharing the results of your visual paternity test, but next time keep it to yourself. No matter who he resembles, I know who my baby's father is. I'm not a skank, but I appreciate your assumption that I am.

Oh random strangers, you never cease to amaze me with your rudeness.

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Stamps

Photo Credit

Today, yet again, I tried to get stamps for our holiday cards, and once again, I failed. As soon as the baby woke up from his nap, I changed his diaper, put him in the carrier and walked straight down to the post office. The postal worker closed the door in my face and locked it. (It was the grumpy guy that I hate anyway, so I'm not too surprised by his behavior.)

At this point, I was still determined to get the stamps. I just turned right around and headed back home. I didn't even go into my apartment, I just loaded us into the car and drove to the main post office. The parking lot was packed, but I got the last space left. Score!

I went in and the line was all the way to the door. No problem, I thought, I planned on using the automated postal machine anyway since I only needed stamps. There was only one lady in front of me. She was printing labels for packages, many, many packages. Whatever, I thought, it's still faster than the line for actual humans.

Fifteen minutes later, when my arm was about to fall off from holding my giant baby I'm staring daggers into the back of this lady's skull. Dude, don't you know I only need to buy stamps? Why is this taking you so long? A line has formed behind me and I'm long past regretting not bringing the baby carrier in with me.

Photo Credit

Finally, after a kabillion more years, she finishes printing all her shipping labels. Her tag is sticking out of her shirt and I think this is her karma for not being efficient with the machine. I step up and select the buy stamps option and hit the continue button. It gives me an option to buy one little printout sticker label for a first class letter. I think I must have selected the wrong option and go back. I want normal books of stamps, not weird bar code thingies. But no, somehow there is no option for a book of stamps. Really?! Really?!

Between the two post offices, I've been trying to buy stamps for almost an hour. With a heavy heart, I step away from the machine and get in line, which is now out the door, for a cashier. Another customer swings the door hard and it almost hits my baby in the head. I stopped it with my foot at the very last second. Merry Christmas to you too, A------.

The line isn't moving. My arms are burning as I futilely pass my child from the left to the right back to the left again, trying to get him in a more comfortable hold. We wait and wait and wait. I keep whispering in his ear, "You're doing such a great job, Buddy. Thanks for being my patient helper. We're going to be done soon." He doesn't understand what I'm saying, but I feel like we both need the encouragement.

He takes a long look all around the post office, then looks up at me with his big blue eyes and silently barfs all over both of us. Message received. We'll go home now.

And today is the day I'll remember as the time my seven month old had more sense than any of us adults. He knew we were all going to die waiting in that post office like we were in some existential French play. At the time I felt relieved to give up and go home, but now, typing this, I realize I still have a stack of cards and no stamps and I'm going to have to face the post office all over again. Ho, ho, ho, humbug.

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Keep Your Big Trap Shut Edition

When did people stop following the whole "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all" rule? Today, the baby and I went to Target to get some more infant acetaminophen (side note: teething is kicking our butts and the amber necklace is not living up to the hype) and the checker kept talking to my baby and calling him "Butterball". She must have said it at least half a dozen times in the few minutes it takes to check out. At one point, she even reached out and pinched his thigh and said, "Look at those fat thighs!"

Dude, my baby's not fat! He's in the 97th percentile for height and only the 67th percentile for weight. Proportionally, he's a little slimmer than most babies. Do people just not realize that babies are supposed to be chubbier than adults? When did it become OK to comment on other's weight? How hard is it to just say, "What a cutie" so we can both continue along with our days without me imagining throwing discount boxes of generic Tylenol at your head while screeching like a banshee, "My baby's perfect THANKYOUVERYMUCH. Don't you dare touch him!"?

Really people, really. Let's all just keep our opinions to ourselves, shall we?

Are You Freaking Me: Forever Lazy

My favorite part are the "zippered hatches" described at 1:14, though I also really enjoy the comment that "it'll be the talk of your next tailgate." You're darned right it'll be the talk of my next tailgate. If you wore that to my tailgate party we'd be talking about "What the hell are you wearing" and "Have you lost your mind?"

What do you think? Horrible or the Snuggi's new and improved relative?

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Already Edition

Yesterday, August 24, Costco had a whole aisle of Christmas items out. Already! Tree ornaments, ribbon, wrapping paper, lawn ornaments...EVERYTHING. I hate this type of thing. I am one of those curmudgeons who firmly believe Christmas season starts the day after Thanksgiving and not a moment sooner.

Costco, you know I love you, but this madness has to stop.

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Two Years Edition

I started this blog two years ago today. I was a fresh out of grad school newlywed living, not with my husband, but living with my maternal grandparents. My grandmother was dying from frontotemporal dementia (or FTD) and I was taking care of her.

It was a difficult time in my life. Marriage was initially was not an easy adjustment for me. I was unemployed. My father had died less than a year earlier and that pain was still raw. Now, here I was living with two octogenarians in Louisiana, in the hot humid summer, surrounded by quarrelling family, providing the most challenging and intimate kind of care to someone I loved dearly, but who was no longer herself. She was stubborn and suffered from paranoid delusions. I was emotionally and physically exhausted all the time.

But there were sweet times too. Blow drying her hair after I had bathed her. Massaging her feet before she went to sleep. When she would ask me for perfume, which she always called Bulgari. Making her root beer floats.

The last thing my grandma ever told me to do was to be a writer. When I lived in China, I had had written her long emails about what I saw, did, and experienced and she, a world traveller herself, had loved it. She wanted me to keep writing. So, I started this blog. I write about what I would write to her about: my life, my opinions, my ideas, and my likes and dislikes.

It's not the most popular blog. It's not the prettiest blog. It's not the most well written blog, but it's mine. My secret little record of my thoughts and ideas and memories. Only my husband even knows I have a blog and I've never even told him the name of it. Keeping it secret and keeping it anonymous allows me to share my feelings without embarrassment. I write it for myself and for my grandma and I'm perpetually amazed that anyone else bothers to read it. But I'm glad you're here. You're all so nice and without ever having met you, you have become my dear friends. Thanks for sticking around. I owe you an ice cream cone.

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Old Lady Edition

Wednesday is my favorite day to go to Costco because Wednesday is the best free sample day. Apparently, word has gotten out about the samples because it was super crowded this afternoon.

I was waiting patiently in the checkout line for what felt like three hours when an old lady, pictured above in the bathrobe, sun hat, and tights, sauntered right up and stood in front of the next person in line right next to the conveyor belt. Clearly, we were all standing in line, but she didn't care. She just started putting her items on the belt. The gentleman in front of me was much nicer than I am and said "You can go ahead of me" even though she had already decided to go ahead of him.

Thus, my wait got a little longer. I rolled my eyes and thought, "Are you freaking kidding me, lady?! You're too old to be a cutter."

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Internet Edition

I've been having some major internet connectivity issues for the last week. Four calls to Comcast and a home visit later, I think we've narrowed the problem down to needing a new modem. In the meantime, I'm still without internet acccess the vast majority of the time. I'm using my neighbors' wifi connection now; with their permission, of course. Hopefully we'll be able to get our tech issues resolved soon and I'll be back to more regular posting soon.

Anyone else have a love/hate relationship with technology?

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Personal Edition

Dear Period,

WTF?! The next time you decide to be six days late (and counting!) there better be a reason.

Sincerely,

Meghan

P.S. You owe me $13. Pregnancy tests are expensive.

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Babies

Our other friends had a baby this week too! Say hello to little Diana. She brings the total to four couple friends who have had babies in the last five months...and we have another one pregnant too. Plus, we spent the long weekend with my precious niece.

It's all making my uterus hurt. Why do babies have to be so freaking cute?

Edited to add: I just found out I have yet another friend who is pregnant. I'm officially jealous, but don't tell anyone.

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Cheese Edition

Last night, after I had gone to bed, my husband ate 2/3 of a wheel of brie. I don't even know how to respond to it.

"Dude, do you know how much brie costs?"

"Do you realize how much saturated fat is in cheese? It was nice knowing you."

"Were you actually hungry, or just bored?"

I'll probably just let it slide though. Living with other people never gets less weird.

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Library Edition

To access my local public library online, even just to browse the library's collection, I need to enter my fourteen digit library card number and a four digit PIN. That means if my wallet got stolen, it would be as hard for the thief to get into my library account as my bank account.

This level of security seems unnecessary. Who do they think is going to break into my library account? As if anyone besides me cares how many people are in front of me to get The Girl Who Played With Fire.

The library doesn't even let me pick my PIN. That means I have to remember a total of 18 numbers just to see if my branch has a copy of Never Let Me Go. Ridiculous.

Have you read any good books lately?

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Target

Yesterday, I went to Target and the shelves were bare. Apparently, they're trying to give the Soviet Safeway a run for its money. Awesome.

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Help

Yesterday, I wasn't feeling well. I had a sore throat and a cough and felt generally kind of achy and gross. When Chuk got home from work he offered to make dinner because clearly I had no intention of doing it, and well, also because he is nice.

This is what the kitchen looked like when he was done. Are you freaking kidding me?! What the h-e-double hockey sticks was he doing in there? I still feel like crap and now I have to clean up this mess. I'm never taking another sick day again.

The road to (my own personal) hell is paved with (my husband's) good intentions.

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Hand Towel Edition

Have you seen the new disposable hand towels for home use yet? How germophobic can we get as a country? I like clean hands as much as the next person, but this seems excessive. In my opinion, it's a manufactured fear.

According to the manufacturer's website, "People in the U.S. dry their hands on cloth bathroom towels approximately 200 billion times a year." So instead we should just add 200 billion pieces of paper to landfills? Are you freaking kidding me?

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Leak Edition

Y'all (I've been in the mood to say "y'all" recently. Is that weird? I think it's the hot weather.) remember what my bathroom looks like, right? If not, look over here to see a big, strong man cleaning it for me.

Right above where that towel bar is on the left now looks like this. We've been complaining to the property management for three weeks now.

So the plumber did this to my ceiling yesterday. [I'm rolling my eyes.] There were two pin hole leaks in a pipe.

I also think there's a leak under the hall. Today someone else is coming out to cut out all the damaged drywall in the bathroom and look under the carpet in the hall to see if there are more leaks. Then Friday, supposedly, all the drywall in the bathroom is going to be replaced.

Argh! Major drama.

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Me Edition

I have driven to my little temp job twice now. Guess how many parking tickets I've gotten since I've been at this temp job.

If you guessed two, you're right!

Admittedly, both times were totally my fault; I just wasn't paying attention, but Dude, it still totally sucks.

For the record, these two little beauties represent 2/3 of ALL the parking tickets I've ever gotten in my life.

Also for the record, I'm not telling Chuk about either one of them!

Hobbling Isn’t Sexy

On a good day, I measure in at a whopping 5’4”, so let me say I understand the appeal of high heels. I even own a few pairs of (low-ish) heels. What I don’t understand is the trend of so-called “elevated high heels”.

First of all, let’s all just agree to call them platform shoes. Second of all, let’s agree they’re ugly. They look like the contraption you would use for practice if you were learning how to walk on stilts.

Part of what makes high heels attractive is that they raise your calf muscle and extend your leg line. When I wear heels, I can take longer strides, which allows me to strut my stuff. (I don’t have a lot of stuff to strut, but I like to pretend.) Platform shoes shorten one’s stride when walking and causes most people to teeter even when standing still.

I have yet to see one woman in these types of shoes who wasn’t hobbling and that includes professional models. Ladies, hobbling isn’t sexy unless you’re from 17th century China. This is one trend to which I ask: Are you freaking kidding me?!

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Laundry Edition

If you are easily afraid, you should look away now. What I am about to show you is sure to terrify; however, if you stay, I will perform an amazing magic trick: I will read your mind.

Are you thinking, "Dear God! That's a lot of laundry!"?

I told you it was an amazing magic trick.

Now I will attempt to justify the mountain of filth. Tragically, we don't have a washing machine in our apartment. There is a coin operated machine in the basement, but they raised the rates from a reasonable $0.75 per load to a whopping $1.75 a load to wash and $1.50 to dry. It's highway robbery.

Because I'm frugal, we go to the laundromat instead. Because the laundromat sucks, we go as little as possible. The above photo represents nearly every piece of fabric we own, not just clothes, but also towels, sheets, rugs, duvets, etc.

It took more than three hours to get everything washed and dried, and no, I haven't folded yet. Why am I telling you all this? It's simple; I want you to feel sorry for me because I am feeling sorry for myself.

How do you do your laundry? A little at a time or do you have a set laundry day? What are your thoughts on laundromats? Wouldn't you agree that they rank right up there next to "Long-Distance Bus Stations at Night" in the list of "Depressing Places Full of Weirdos"?

Are You Freaking Kidding Me: Keep Your Shirt On Edition

I was getting in the elevator after work and there was a middle aged man already in the elevator and he had undone his tie, untucked his shirt, and unbuttoned it half way down his abdomen.

What the heck?! I don't want to be riding alone in an elevator looking at some stranger's pot belly. Um, hello. You're not at home yet. You need to keep your clothes on.

I don't think I've ever stared so hard at the numbers before.