Today I'm dedicating my post to my very good friend, S. It's her birthday.
I've known S since we were in kindergarten, and I'm going to age us both and say we've been friends for a quarter century. 25 years. Longer than some people are married.
S and I have had some really fun times together. No matter what has happened in our lives, we've always managed to stay in touch with each other.
She is also one of the most creative and caring mommies I know. She has three of the most beautiful girls ever, and they are so smart, well-adjusted and considerate people. I know they'll grow up to be brilliant, gorgeous women.
I admire S so very much in her mommy capability. Motherhood seemed to come very natural to her. She handles monsters under the bed with ease, can handle pukey stomachs with grace, and runs her household with military precision. If ever I'm concerned I'm not handling a situation with M in the right way, I think...WWSD?
From running around my backyard playing pretend, to babysitting younger siblings in runaway cars, to laughing on the phone about the craziest of things, I could not have prayed for a friend as amazing as S.
I can't wait to see what the next 25 brings. Love ya!
~CSM
January 23, 2012
January 19, 2012
INFJ
No, I didn't sneeze while typing my title.
It stands for "Introvert, Intuitive, Feeling, Judging." It's four categories of a Myers Briggs test, and it represents me.
I found a free test online after reading the status of a friend of mine on Facebook. The site I found also had several other links, including one that went into depth about the INFJ status, called "Portrait of an Idealist Counselor." If you want to read it, this is it:
http://keirsey.com/4temps/counselor.aspx
It was one of those things I read, and I thought, "wow! they really nailed it with me!"
I admit I'm going through a somewhat transitory period in my short life. Not a midlife crisis, I'm not THAT old (although I did have one of the interns at work tell me I looked to be in my 40s last fall...) but I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.
I love to write. Love it. In fact, I would blog every single day if I thought I wouldn't burn out on it. Or if I had enough time. Or if I thought people would want to read it.
I love talking to, and meeting new people, but I am absolutely horrible at making small talk. If I am just meeting you, chances are, my heart is pounding, my neck is blushing, and I have a big lump in the pit of my stomach.
I also love my alone time, especially when I can spend it lost in a great book.
I love to give people unsolicited advice. Which I'm sure is extremely annoying, but I can't help myself. Can't get that stain out of your shirt? I can help.
I like menial, tedious tasks that require an element of creativity. Within a structure. How's that for contradictory?
I like to be busy in my work, but I also like to play Zuma Blitz on Facebook for at least 10 minutes a day. (If you have not tried this game...do so. You will be hooked, if you're anything like me!)
I don't like supervising people. At all. Period. I don't like correcting the behavior of others, I don't like being in charge, I don't like bossing people around (stop laughing, I DON'T!), I don't like anything about supervising.
I absolutely ADORE the job I have now. I get to do some extremely cool things. Sure, there's some things I'd improve (like giving the supervising part to someone else!), but overall, it's a great job! I've seen things most people will never see. I've met some really cool people, and work with some really cool people every day.
I just don't quite feel like I'm in my niche. After all, I never really intended to have this job; I wanted something full-time after college, and it sounded like fun to answer 911 calls. I never dreamed I'd be running the division among various other random responsibilities!
I am so far off on a tangent, and I feel like I've failed all of you, loyal readers. This entry isn't nearly as funny as it should be, nor was the last one! I promise to do better next time...but this time, I needed some catharsis.
~CSM
It stands for "Introvert, Intuitive, Feeling, Judging." It's four categories of a Myers Briggs test, and it represents me.
I found a free test online after reading the status of a friend of mine on Facebook. The site I found also had several other links, including one that went into depth about the INFJ status, called "Portrait of an Idealist Counselor." If you want to read it, this is it:
http://keirsey.com/4temps/counselor.aspx
It was one of those things I read, and I thought, "wow! they really nailed it with me!"
I admit I'm going through a somewhat transitory period in my short life. Not a midlife crisis, I'm not THAT old (although I did have one of the interns at work tell me I looked to be in my 40s last fall...) but I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.
I love to write. Love it. In fact, I would blog every single day if I thought I wouldn't burn out on it. Or if I had enough time. Or if I thought people would want to read it.
I love talking to, and meeting new people, but I am absolutely horrible at making small talk. If I am just meeting you, chances are, my heart is pounding, my neck is blushing, and I have a big lump in the pit of my stomach.
I also love my alone time, especially when I can spend it lost in a great book.
I love to give people unsolicited advice. Which I'm sure is extremely annoying, but I can't help myself. Can't get that stain out of your shirt? I can help.
I like menial, tedious tasks that require an element of creativity. Within a structure. How's that for contradictory?
I like to be busy in my work, but I also like to play Zuma Blitz on Facebook for at least 10 minutes a day. (If you have not tried this game...do so. You will be hooked, if you're anything like me!)
I don't like supervising people. At all. Period. I don't like correcting the behavior of others, I don't like being in charge, I don't like bossing people around (stop laughing, I DON'T!), I don't like anything about supervising.
I absolutely ADORE the job I have now. I get to do some extremely cool things. Sure, there's some things I'd improve (like giving the supervising part to someone else!), but overall, it's a great job! I've seen things most people will never see. I've met some really cool people, and work with some really cool people every day.
I just don't quite feel like I'm in my niche. After all, I never really intended to have this job; I wanted something full-time after college, and it sounded like fun to answer 911 calls. I never dreamed I'd be running the division among various other random responsibilities!
I am so far off on a tangent, and I feel like I've failed all of you, loyal readers. This entry isn't nearly as funny as it should be, nor was the last one! I promise to do better next time...but this time, I needed some catharsis.
~CSM
January 17, 2012
Skinny Slim Women
A story was posted in the news today online locally that said that most fashion designers consider size 6 to be plus sized. There was, naturally, a string of comments below the story, well over a hundred. Most were a form of outrage at this classification of women's bodies, but a few were sarcastic "I guess I'm fat now" comments.
What I didn't see was anyone taking responsibility for their OWN daughters.
Maybe I missed it, to be fair. I often skim over comments on news stories online, because they often are "OMG" or "ppl are crzy" or "your so dumb, u dont kno what ur talkng abt." Those type of short-hand, improper grammar, ridiculousness makes me feel 20 IQ points dumber just briefly grazing the comment.
Where was I? Oh yeah, their own daughters.
People blame the fashion industry for creating this unachievable standard with their sizing, claiming they are a bad influence on the youth of today. Here's MY question: why are you letting your child base their self-image on what some anorexic model looks like? Why not encourage your child to live a healthy, active lifestyle, and lead by example?
WHO THINKS THIS IS PRETTY!?!? I seriously almost puked in my mouth.
I just don't see how anyone would WANT to look like that, when women like this are more the norm:
I did a Google image search of "full figured models." Any single one of those women that came up could be a woman I saw on the street on any given day.
If I looked half as good as the second picture, I would kiss my treadmill daily!
I tell my daughter every. day. that she is so smart. To me, intelligence is THE MOST important thing to nurture and develop in order to achieve a well-adjusted, successful adult.
However, I also tell her how pretty she is when we look in the mirror together. She will always know that her mother and father think she's beautiful, smart, funny, kind, and amazing.
She's setting a pretty high standard for kid #2...whenever that decides to come along. :)
~CSM
What I didn't see was anyone taking responsibility for their OWN daughters.
Maybe I missed it, to be fair. I often skim over comments on news stories online, because they often are "OMG" or "ppl are crzy" or "your so dumb, u dont kno what ur talkng abt." Those type of short-hand, improper grammar, ridiculousness makes me feel 20 IQ points dumber just briefly grazing the comment.
Where was I? Oh yeah, their own daughters.
People blame the fashion industry for creating this unachievable standard with their sizing, claiming they are a bad influence on the youth of today. Here's MY question: why are you letting your child base their self-image on what some anorexic model looks like? Why not encourage your child to live a healthy, active lifestyle, and lead by example?
WHO THINKS THIS IS PRETTY!?!? I seriously almost puked in my mouth.
I just don't see how anyone would WANT to look like that, when women like this are more the norm:
I did a Google image search of "full figured models." Any single one of those women that came up could be a woman I saw on the street on any given day.
If I looked half as good as the second picture, I would kiss my treadmill daily!
I tell my daughter every. day. that she is so smart. To me, intelligence is THE MOST important thing to nurture and develop in order to achieve a well-adjusted, successful adult.
However, I also tell her how pretty she is when we look in the mirror together. She will always know that her mother and father think she's beautiful, smart, funny, kind, and amazing.
She's setting a pretty high standard for kid #2...whenever that decides to come along. :)
~CSM
January 15, 2012
It snuck up on me
Old age. It snuck up on me, and smacked me right in the face.
It all started in the bathroom at work. I was washing my hands, looked in the mirror, and caught a glint of something shiny. Upon closer inspection, I discovered the dreaded "first gray."
Those of you that have them, know the feeling. One morning, you have a full head of glossy, colorful hair, the next, it becomes infiltrated with sproingy, lifeless, colorless wire-brush bristles that pop out in the most inconvenient areas.
So of course, I plucked it out of my head, went running down the hall to my friend/therapist, completely devestated that my youth had been shattered in one fell swoop. Mind you, my friend/therapist is approaching 50, but looks 20 years younger. (It's true, WL)
Today, upon close inspection in the mirror, I've discovered that my face has, despite my very best efforts, grown some creases and divots here and there. Little crinkles sprouting out from my eyes, crevices around my mouth that are tell-tale signs the humor that fills my life. Which meant I had to immediately go to Target and get wrinkle cream.
This. Stuff. Stinks. It smells weird. It makes my face tingly, and not in an "I've been laughing for an hour" sort of way. And expensive!! I bought the Target brand of Olay Regenerist and it was $19 for 1 ounce.
They say you get wiser with age? How dumb was I to buy this crap?! This has just solidified my opinion that people are meant to grow old gracefully, and so that is just what I plan to do.
After this stuff is gone--it WAS $19 an ounce.
Unless I see results, then I'm buying this crap in bulk. ;)
~CSM
It all started in the bathroom at work. I was washing my hands, looked in the mirror, and caught a glint of something shiny. Upon closer inspection, I discovered the dreaded "first gray."
Those of you that have them, know the feeling. One morning, you have a full head of glossy, colorful hair, the next, it becomes infiltrated with sproingy, lifeless, colorless wire-brush bristles that pop out in the most inconvenient areas.
So of course, I plucked it out of my head, went running down the hall to my friend/therapist, completely devestated that my youth had been shattered in one fell swoop. Mind you, my friend/therapist is approaching 50, but looks 20 years younger. (It's true, WL)
Today, upon close inspection in the mirror, I've discovered that my face has, despite my very best efforts, grown some creases and divots here and there. Little crinkles sprouting out from my eyes, crevices around my mouth that are tell-tale signs the humor that fills my life. Which meant I had to immediately go to Target and get wrinkle cream.
This. Stuff. Stinks. It smells weird. It makes my face tingly, and not in an "I've been laughing for an hour" sort of way. And expensive!! I bought the Target brand of Olay Regenerist and it was $19 for 1 ounce.
They say you get wiser with age? How dumb was I to buy this crap?! This has just solidified my opinion that people are meant to grow old gracefully, and so that is just what I plan to do.
After this stuff is gone--it WAS $19 an ounce.
Unless I see results, then I'm buying this crap in bulk. ;)
~CSM
January 11, 2012
Solitude
Monday, as I scrambled fretfully to achieve a halfway decent-looking appearance and rush off to work, I was graced with the magic of 15 minutes of solitude.
ANYONE who is a parent, has a significant other, or just lives with anyone else likely understands just how precious this is. And it's more than being the only one awake, or the only one in the room. It's being the only one in the WHOLE HOUSE.
Generally, I'm charged with taking M to Yah Yah's, however, on this particular day, K volunteered to take her on his way to take his truck in for repairs. Which allowed me to slow down (slightly...I was still running late) and assess my appearance/clothing/makeup/mental attitude before flying out the door. AND, it allowed me to be in my house. Alone. For 15 whole minutes.
These minutes I can break down for you, minute by minute.
1: OH! It's so quiet! Is that a pimple?
2. Maybe I should brew coffee to take with me on the way in. Nah, it won't brew in time.
3. It might brew in time.
4. Nope, coffee will never make it. How did I miss that eyebrow hair when I plucked?
5. Is that a blonde hair in the sink? No one in THIS house has blonde hair that long! What the hell? Oh, wait, that's gray, and it's mine.
6. Man I need to dye my hair.
7. I think this sweater makes my lumps look lumpier. I need to change.
8. Doesn't match, doesn't match, doesn't match. (Sorting through shirts)
9. Ah! Voila! That will do.
10. A little perfume, shirt tucked in, looking good...crap, I have to pee.
11 through 14, bathroom break.
15. Crap, I should have left for work 15 minutes ago. Where's my keys? Did I remember to put on deodorant?
And typically, this is an every morning affair, plus the added bonus of getting M ready to go to Yah Yah's.
I have absolutely no idea how I function at all in the morning, and I can tell you one of my New Year's resolutions was to be more on time in the mornings; I have yet to meet that goal even once. I am blessed to have a job that does not require me to clock in, or even be there at a specific time. I usually get there anywhere between 8:30 and 9am. I would prefer to get there right at 8am, but for some reason, I can't drag my rear out of bed any earlier than 7:30. I'm open to suggestions, by the way, on how to make that happen.
As I sit now, I look forward to my next moments of solitude, where maybe, I can use them a little more productively. Like dying my gray hair.
~CSM
ANYONE who is a parent, has a significant other, or just lives with anyone else likely understands just how precious this is. And it's more than being the only one awake, or the only one in the room. It's being the only one in the WHOLE HOUSE.
Generally, I'm charged with taking M to Yah Yah's, however, on this particular day, K volunteered to take her on his way to take his truck in for repairs. Which allowed me to slow down (slightly...I was still running late) and assess my appearance/clothing/makeup/mental attitude before flying out the door. AND, it allowed me to be in my house. Alone. For 15 whole minutes.
These minutes I can break down for you, minute by minute.
1: OH! It's so quiet! Is that a pimple?
2. Maybe I should brew coffee to take with me on the way in. Nah, it won't brew in time.
3. It might brew in time.
4. Nope, coffee will never make it. How did I miss that eyebrow hair when I plucked?
5. Is that a blonde hair in the sink? No one in THIS house has blonde hair that long! What the hell? Oh, wait, that's gray, and it's mine.
6. Man I need to dye my hair.
7. I think this sweater makes my lumps look lumpier. I need to change.
8. Doesn't match, doesn't match, doesn't match. (Sorting through shirts)
9. Ah! Voila! That will do.
10. A little perfume, shirt tucked in, looking good...crap, I have to pee.
11 through 14, bathroom break.
15. Crap, I should have left for work 15 minutes ago. Where's my keys? Did I remember to put on deodorant?
And typically, this is an every morning affair, plus the added bonus of getting M ready to go to Yah Yah's.
I have absolutely no idea how I function at all in the morning, and I can tell you one of my New Year's resolutions was to be more on time in the mornings; I have yet to meet that goal even once. I am blessed to have a job that does not require me to clock in, or even be there at a specific time. I usually get there anywhere between 8:30 and 9am. I would prefer to get there right at 8am, but for some reason, I can't drag my rear out of bed any earlier than 7:30. I'm open to suggestions, by the way, on how to make that happen.
As I sit now, I look forward to my next moments of solitude, where maybe, I can use them a little more productively. Like dying my gray hair.
~CSM
January 8, 2012
Farmer's Wife Mutilates Tails of Mice...Story at 10
Have you ever noticed how violent these nursery rhymes are?
Yah Yah, M's babysitter, let us borrow a DVD this weekend with babies that sing. Shockingly, it's called "Singing Babies." They have superimposed adult mouths onto baby faces and they sing these nursery rhymes. Apart from being creepy as all get out to me, M is completely infatuated with it.
Because of that, I've seen it about 100 times this weekend. I know what you're thinking..."her kid does NOTHING but watch TV!" but actually, the video is very short. Thankfully so.
Okay, so the backstory is there. I had never thought about it, or really noticed it, until I heard London Bridge. Talks about locking a girl up and major structure collapse. That does not make me want to skip about with joy....hmmm...maybe I should listen to these.
The Wheels on the Bus...no big deal. Other than being repetitive enough to make me throw someone under the wheels of the bus.
This Old Man. Wow. This guy plays knick knack on EVERYTHING. This old man, he played five, he played knick knack on my eye? I'm sorry, no one pokes me in the eye. This old man, he played nine, he played knick knack on my spine?? Who is this guy and why is he beating the crap out of me???
Itsy Bitsy Spider...sucks to be that guy. Every time he starts to climb he is drowned by a sudden downpour.
Three Blind Mice. If it isn't bad enough they're blind, the farmer's wife hacks off all three of their tails! Isn't animal torture a prelude to serial killing? The farmer better sleep with one eye open at night.
Rock-a-bye baby. WHO PUTS A BABY IN A TREE?
Ah, but this is only part of the songs of death, dismemberment, and destruction that are sung about on this DVD. But M loves it, and loves to try to sing along. "E-I-E-I-E-I-E-I-OOOOOOOOOOOOO" (which sounds more like "yahye yahye yoooo")
Speaking of singing and babies...
I heard Beyonce had her baby girl and named it BLUE IVY?! <insert sigh here> It's a good thing that kid has rich parents. Now she'll have more than her name as an excuse to be eccentric.
I might have failed to mention in my first blog that I frequently dive off into tangents in my own thoughts. Bear with me. ;o)
Happy Sunday, everyone!
Yah Yah, M's babysitter, let us borrow a DVD this weekend with babies that sing. Shockingly, it's called "Singing Babies." They have superimposed adult mouths onto baby faces and they sing these nursery rhymes. Apart from being creepy as all get out to me, M is completely infatuated with it.
Because of that, I've seen it about 100 times this weekend. I know what you're thinking..."her kid does NOTHING but watch TV!" but actually, the video is very short. Thankfully so.
Okay, so the backstory is there. I had never thought about it, or really noticed it, until I heard London Bridge. Talks about locking a girl up and major structure collapse. That does not make me want to skip about with joy....hmmm...maybe I should listen to these.
The Wheels on the Bus...no big deal. Other than being repetitive enough to make me throw someone under the wheels of the bus.
This Old Man. Wow. This guy plays knick knack on EVERYTHING. This old man, he played five, he played knick knack on my eye? I'm sorry, no one pokes me in the eye. This old man, he played nine, he played knick knack on my spine?? Who is this guy and why is he beating the crap out of me???
Itsy Bitsy Spider...sucks to be that guy. Every time he starts to climb he is drowned by a sudden downpour.
Three Blind Mice. If it isn't bad enough they're blind, the farmer's wife hacks off all three of their tails! Isn't animal torture a prelude to serial killing? The farmer better sleep with one eye open at night.
Rock-a-bye baby. WHO PUTS A BABY IN A TREE?
Ah, but this is only part of the songs of death, dismemberment, and destruction that are sung about on this DVD. But M loves it, and loves to try to sing along. "E-I-E-I-E-I-E-I-OOOOOOOOOOOOO" (which sounds more like "yahye yahye yoooo")
Speaking of singing and babies...
I heard Beyonce had her baby girl and named it BLUE IVY?! <insert sigh here> It's a good thing that kid has rich parents. Now she'll have more than her name as an excuse to be eccentric.
I might have failed to mention in my first blog that I frequently dive off into tangents in my own thoughts. Bear with me. ;o)
Happy Sunday, everyone!
January 5, 2012
And now to introduce the main event...
I am a 31 year old train wreck. Well, not really. Are you really a train wreck if you know you're nuts?
I am a white, suburban, gainfully employed mother of an 18 month old baby girl. I've been married for almost 7 years.
This blog is stories from my life. It may be incredibly vain to think that anyone else would ever read this, BUT, I'm not writing for anyone but me. If someone else happens to follow along, well, that's their poor judgment. ;)
I will likely talk a lot about my daughter, M. I will steadfastly avoid topics that drag me into Complainerville, because, well, who wants to read that?
I don't share this stuff with you because I feel like it's life changing, world altering, or even all that smart. I share it because it's fun. Who doesn't need a hobby? (Thanks, WL, for the suggestion!)
So tonight's post? Let's start with one of my favorite topics...my daughter, M.
One of her most favorite things to do is watch Yo Gabba Gabba. If you've not seen this little gem on Nick Jr., then you obviously do not have small children, nor spend any time in the vicinity of small children. Legions of parents will tell you, it's like Baby Crack. Are 18 month olds supposed to have a 30 minute attention span? They do when there's 5 character rejects from miscellaneous failed childrens shows dancing and singing about not biting your friends.
Don't get me wrong--this show is a miracle for me. It's how I'm able to clean my house, wash my dishes, fold my laundry, and pay my bills.
But the characters.
The only one that's even a definitive THING is the yellow robot. Even the dude in orange is iffy. (By the way, I could sit here and name all of their names, spelled correctly, identified from left to right. Yet, I can't tell you the names of more than 3 sitting Supreme Court Justices, and I used to be able to name them all.)
My daughter is constantly saying, "Yo, yo, yo, yo" from the time she wakes up in the morning, until the time she goes to bed. She has all 5 characters in Beanie Baby form (Thank you, Cracker Barrel). She drags around a blanket with their faces on it like Linus from Peanuts.
Is this healthy? Normal? Who cares, I get to poop by myself again!
I am a white, suburban, gainfully employed mother of an 18 month old baby girl. I've been married for almost 7 years.
This blog is stories from my life. It may be incredibly vain to think that anyone else would ever read this, BUT, I'm not writing for anyone but me. If someone else happens to follow along, well, that's their poor judgment. ;)
I will likely talk a lot about my daughter, M. I will steadfastly avoid topics that drag me into Complainerville, because, well, who wants to read that?
I don't share this stuff with you because I feel like it's life changing, world altering, or even all that smart. I share it because it's fun. Who doesn't need a hobby? (Thanks, WL, for the suggestion!)
So tonight's post? Let's start with one of my favorite topics...my daughter, M.
One of her most favorite things to do is watch Yo Gabba Gabba. If you've not seen this little gem on Nick Jr., then you obviously do not have small children, nor spend any time in the vicinity of small children. Legions of parents will tell you, it's like Baby Crack. Are 18 month olds supposed to have a 30 minute attention span? They do when there's 5 character rejects from miscellaneous failed childrens shows dancing and singing about not biting your friends.
Don't get me wrong--this show is a miracle for me. It's how I'm able to clean my house, wash my dishes, fold my laundry, and pay my bills.
The only one that's even a definitive THING is the yellow robot. Even the dude in orange is iffy. (By the way, I could sit here and name all of their names, spelled correctly, identified from left to right. Yet, I can't tell you the names of more than 3 sitting Supreme Court Justices, and I used to be able to name them all.)
My daughter is constantly saying, "Yo, yo, yo, yo" from the time she wakes up in the morning, until the time she goes to bed. She has all 5 characters in Beanie Baby form (Thank you, Cracker Barrel). She drags around a blanket with their faces on it like Linus from Peanuts.
Is this healthy? Normal? Who cares, I get to poop by myself again!
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