First Impressions, Shmirst Impressions

In an effort to do something kinda cool involving my baby (that isn't Toddlers and Tiaras because Nate refuses to let me spend $1450 on Jackson's Outfit of Choice) and because I really like new stuff, I tossed my name into the mix of blogs requested by a baby product company I follow via Facebook to "give feedback and test new products". Also, Jackson was asleep on me and I was afraid to move and wake him up.


Since I've never attempted anything like that before, I sent them the following email:

Dear Baby Product Company-

I would not in any way consider myself a typical Mommy Blogger. Largely because I curse a lot and admit that I really have no clue what I'm doing (my son is 7 weeks old and he is WAY harder to take care of than a plant). I'm pretty much a hysterical-mess-turned-terrified-mom who's attempting to like Diet Coke With Splenda because I read something about regular (delicious) Diet Coke being terrible for breast-fed babies.

I tell you this only so that you aren't horribly offended upon reviewing my blog (although, heads up, you still might be), and also so that you're aware that I think I'd be a decent addition to your feedback giver/product reviewer team. I'm brutally honest (in my writing- not in real life, because that would be silly) and mildly funny (if you consider faux kitten fires funny), and quite frankly, pretty dog-gone relatable.

So, anyway, I guess just let me know your thoughts (unless they're negative- then just ignore me).

http://thewaterkatescandal.blogspot.com/

Respectfully,

Kate

What Happens When Pants Have Sex Outside Their Own Race

I have composed a list of reasons for me to spend $39.95 (plus S&H) on Pajama Jeans. I've done so largely so that Nate won't give me shit about purchasing them. Not that I have to ask him before I buy stuff or anything- mostly because I'd rather use his credit card to make this purchase just in case Pajama Jeans, Inc. has some sort of fine print that I have no intention of reading giving them full permission to send me new pants (and free grey crew neck t-shirt!) at full price every other month or something. And I do NOT need that throwing off my budgeting (as defined by me occasionally using my phone's calculator at red lights to balance my bank account based on what I vaguely recall spending at Target three days ago).

So, without further ado, I give you...

KATE'S DOUBLE-PLUS-GOOD LIST OF REASONS TO BUY PAJAMA JEANS

1. Well, there's the obvious: I like pajamas. And I like jeans. I mean really.
2. In addition to gaining 40 pounds (before I stopped looking when they weigh me) because of the BEAUTIFUL PROCESS OF PREGNANCY, I have been relegated to a huge sports-like (but not SPORTY) beige nursing bra that occasionally bursts open, and massive panties that hit my belly button because all the underoos I currently own irritate my c-section incision. So I'm certainly not making any attempts at stuffing my dumpy post-pregnant body into actual denim. That would be stupid.
3. I tend to fall asleep anytime, anywhere, regardless of what I happen to be wearing. If my kid is asleep, I'm trying to find the closest flat surface. Therefore, I've obviously developed a need to be in complete and utter comfort at all times. Have you ever slept in jeans? Sober? Effing terrible, man. (Oh my god, I just re-read this and thought I'd accidentally typed "closet flat surface" and briefly panicked. I guess there'd really be no reason to panic over that, except I didn't want to have to scroll back up to fix it, so I momentarily considered just leaving it- the closet part, if it had, in fact, been typo-ed in such a way- and hoping you were just dumb enough not to catch it or too lazy to care, but then I reconsidered because I think you're all better than that and YOU'RE WELCOME ALREADY.)
4. I caught the commercial while watching the Casey Anthony trial. And since the media has done its job in making me hate her despite knowing an embarrassingly small amount about her actual trial, I was emotionally vulnerable and felt compelled to purchase the first thing I saw when it cut to commercial. (And that could've been much worse because "the first thing I saw" could've been something like NOW That's What I Call Music Vol. 57 or that stupid shower flip flop that cleans your lazy-ass feet for you-just bend over already--that's what she said).
5. I've been drinking a lot of water because I'm somehow a bad parent if I breastfeed after drinking two Diet Monsters and blahblahblah so now I have to pee constantly and WHO HAS TIME FOR BUTTONS AND ZIPPERS, I ASK YOU!?

I had like, sixteen really damn decent reasons for buying my new favorite pants, but now I don't feel like I need to justify anything to you people and also I'm sorta tired and got a bit distracted by stupid Ocean's 11 on HBO. So I'll let you know when my pants arrive AND I'll even do a review of them and will probably be contacted by the Pajama Jeans folks to be their internet spokesperson or something even though I didn't even ask for that kind of recognition and simply wanted to share my thoughts on their product free of charge (if they're great) or without threat of lawsuit (if they suck).

I'll obviously keep you posted.

The Mother of All Annoyances

I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that it would be wildly inappropriate of me to allofasudden switch gears completely and start rambling about my two-week-old. I mean, scroll on down and you'll see that this time last year, I was drunkenly blogging about lighting my kittens on fire. It'd stand to reason that someone who openly and publically puts her thoughts regarding flaming cats and patio bush fairies into the universe should never be allowed to have a child.

...AND YET.

So, I've decided to really shake things up and lament on various topics while under the influence of two different pain-controlling narcotics for the residual c-section stabby-feelings and severe sleep deprivation- the latter, of course, being compounded by choosing to blog away my nap time. Because you're supposed to sleep when the baby sleeps. Did anyone mention that to you? No, really. People are really effing serious about that little tidbit of advice. Just make sure you put that one under your hat prior to deciding to have children (or prior to having seven vodka sodas. Depending upon who you are.).

Essentially, this is your official warning that I had a kid and THEN the hospital let me take him home with me and now he's pretty much the only thing I talk about. So de-follow (is that even right?) homegirl now if you're not into that sort of thing. Because even when I'm not talking about him? I'm totally talking about him and tricking people into paying attention. Suckers.

Let Me Count the Ways

Did I ever tell you about the time that Nate turned to me and said, "You know, there will come a time when you'll hope to die in my arms."

Initially, my first instinct always being to argue, I countered that I'd rather die peacefully on the couch.

Now that I replay that conversation, I realize that

a.) We are the creepiest couple ever

and

b.) following that exchange, I rolled over and fell blissfully asleep next to the man who, if I died an untimely death, would (statistically), be the one most likely responsible and who had just insisted that I will one day hope-hope-to be cuddled by him when I draw my last breath.

Now that, that, my friends is some serious effing trust.

Up yours, "Love Is..."

Musings On 8th Grade Pregnancy

The thing about being pregnant is that you essentially become a fourteen year old boy. And, since your average fourteen year old boy doesn't get easily knocked up, if you are expecting, chances are you have no clue how to deal with your transformation. What with being female and all. (Was that too much? The female vs male clarification thing? I guess if it was, or if you feel your intelligence was insulted, I'd have to invite you to get the hell over it. Only because your intelligence is already in question based solely on the fact that you're reading this.)

Right, so the fourteen year old boy thing. For one, I have no effing clue what my body's doing half the time. And the other half, I'm honestly wishing for my old body back. Yeah, it's that bad. I'm a freaking mess. I'm like one of the bad kids from Willy Wonka. Parts of me will randomly expand or relocate and I'll run into the door frame because I don't know my own dimensions anymore. I can only assume this is what puberty feels like (which is not to say that I've never gone through puberty, but as I understand it, males grow in short bursts and I recall no short bursts when I was going through my special time. Because I was so drunk. During puberty. Booze. Shut up).

Moving right along to the acne, which, instead of being a moderate mid-twenties annoyance that's easy enough to conceal, suddenly it's in insanely obvious places, such as my jawline. Which is only really noticeable when I, like, eat. Or laugh. Or talk. I'm talking for two now, so consider, if you will, how often I'm talking these days. And if you don't talk to me often, use the final length of this post as your answer to the "how wordy is she?" question. I'm a total grease ball here, kids. It's disgusting.

Also, I've completely ceased to be fun to be around. I keep attempting to hang out with the Cool Kids, and getting tired around 9:13 at night does not bode well. And the harder I try to be exciting and entertaining and fun and essentially not sucky, the more tired I get. And then I may or may not cry in the car on my (early) way home because I'm so damn boring and no one wants to be around me and everyone else is having so much fun and I'm the slow boat to Crap Town and only Nate really wants to spend a lot of time with me and that's only because he's Baby Daddy and he has to. Fourteen year olds and constantly trying to look cooler than they actually are. That's my point.

Oh! And another thing! This stupid sex obsession! And I don't mean in any sort of enjoyable way. More in a 'should I, could I, how do I do it if I both should and could?', etc. I feel all stupid and awkward and ugly and ridiculous. (If you didn't feel bad for Nate before, now's your chance). Oh, I'm sorry. Was that really personal? Is it weird, me talking about sex? Yeah, I completely understand how this is all really shocking to you, what with me getting pregnant and all. Google it, dumby.

Maybe it's not like puberty. Maybe it's more just completely weird and it's freaky not knowing what I'm doing. Barf. How lucky are you to come along for this particular ride?

Although, I would like to point out that I keep staring at hot women wanting their bodies and there's a big tube of Palmer's Cocoa Butter on my nightstand. Pssh. Completely like a fourteen year old boy.

Why I'd Never Order A Strawberry Banana Latte From Starbucks

I usually have very few complaints about Starbucks. Which is why I'm willing to give the little barista from this morning the benefit of the doubt and assume that she's new. My reason? When I ordered my overpriced coffee-based beverage (<---not to be interpreted as a complaint; remember, I said very few) and requested it be made with skim milk, she asked, "do you still want the whipped cream?". Now, I was more than willing to overlook her choice of words, simply because I was in a good mood, but I would at least like to note that asking someone if they'd "still like the whipped cream" implies that it wouldn't be a good idea for them to answer "yes". I know, I know, it's a small, used-to-wait-tables (though not well) gripe, much like how you're trained never to ask a person requesting a table if it's "just one?" lest they feel like you're judging them for being a lone wolf at the Black-Eyed Pea on a Saturday night (which, of course, you were, but that's just bad customer service and not the way BEP does business, jerk), so like I said, more than willing to overlook that teeny blunder.

(That's right- there's more than one paragraph about my coffee ordering experience.) I answered no to the whipped cream question, got my magically delicious Pumpkin Spice Latte and was on my way. Upon my first real look at the cup (I refuse to inspect food-type-things in front of the person who just prepared them because I think that's rude and implies a lack of trust in their abilities to preform their chosen craft well and has cost me my requested ketchup more than once), it was pretty clear that either the two girls working the counter either didn't communicate my sans-whipped-cream desire or chose to ignore it, but either way, my latte rapidly became less "skinny" and more "whippy" than I'd hoped for. I don't order whipped cream with coffee for a couple of reasons, the foremost being that it leaves less room in the cup for the actual coffee, but second to that is the fact that that's a helluvalotta sugar to stuff into a drink. And I guess my real problem with this whole thing was that they'd gotten the skim milk part right. I would like for someone to explain to me why the hell I'd ask for that, but hang on the whipped cream, too, because, as I mentioned before, the barista subtlely pointed out that that's NOT A GOOD IDEA. The point is that one of the two of those girls seriously assumed that I was under the impression that since the milk was fat-free, I could freely go ahead with 400 calories (no shit- google it) worth of heavy cream and sugar without guilt. I'm fat, ladies, not stupid.

That rant up there? Not even meant to be funny. So if you didn't crack a smile, don't assume that I'm not even trying anymore and give up on me completely. Or do. I guess that's your choice.

So here's the deal- I'm hyped up, not only on a venti amount of caffeine, but also on like, a cup of pure sugar (bitches). And that's not conducive to a lazy Sunday morning. And since you're wondering why the hell I went ahead and drank the whole thing, or why I didn't at least come home and spoon all that creamy fat out of the cup, I'd like to say A.) that's none of your damn business and I'll thank you to stay out of my affairs (which is clearly why I put my affairs in an Internet forum) and B.) because the coffee/caffeine addiction is because I am my mother's daughter.

Lots of folks, especially female folks, call their moms to check in or to feel comfort or to be reassured. And that's not to say that those aren't all reasons why I do call my mom because they are. But generally, I call her because I know that my mom will let me babble on for hours without stopping me and will laugh appropriately and murmur "mmm-hmm" and "uh-huh" to indicate that she is still listening even though I haven't taken a breath in six minutes (that's right- my mom thinks I'm funny, so I don't really care if you stopped reading after I complained about Starbucks for an extensive period of time and are now clicking through Some eCards).

But don't for a second think that it's just me wearing her out:

Mom: I haven't been feeling well lately. I really need to start taking better care of myself again.

Me: Well, good for you. Are you still taking your vitamins? (see? I'm a good daughter)

Mom: ...

Me: Hello?

Mom: ::indistinguishable muttering::

Me: Mom? What are you saying?

Mom: No, okay? No. I am not still taking my vitamins.

Me: Uh...why not?

Mom: I hate taking them. I just hate it.

Me: Yeah, I don't understand. Why do you hate taking vitamins? That's like, the easiest way to claim you're taking care of yourself. Aside from, say, not lifting up your arm to insert poison into your mouth or something. It's just swallowing a pill. How hard is that? How can you hate that?

Mom: I don't hate taking all of them. Mostly the Vitamin C.

Me: Because it tastes funny?

Mom: No, because the tablets are so big. I can't swallow them.

Me: ::assuming there must be more to this because otherwise, my mom is a 5 year old:: They're too big? Why don't you just cut them in half?

Mom: Because then they have sharp corners and cut my throat. You know, like how a corn chip gets lodged in your windpipe? Like that. But with vitamins.

Me: Well, I mean, I understand that's unpleasant, but maybe if you just--

Mom: And then I throw up.

Me: You throw up.

Mom: Yep. If my throat is scratched, I throw up. Then all the other vitamins I took before the Vitamin C were pointless, so I just stopped taking them all.

Me: Um. Wow. That's...intense. Why not try the--

Mom: If you're going to say the liquid version of Vitamin C, don't. Because I already tried that. And it tastes terrible.

Me: Do you throw up from that?

Mom: No.

Me: So it's just a taste thing?

Mom: Yes.

Me: That's retarded.

Mom: It is NOT. And you refuse to take cough syrup, Kate. So back off.

Me: Alright. Fine. You're ridiculous. Let's talk about something else.

Mom: Good. Let's.

Me: Good.

Mom: Good.

Me: You know, you could just attempt to get more nutrient-rich food or something to make up for the lack of vitamin supplements.

Mom: Yeah, I know. But I don't know if I'll be listening to your advice on what's considered "good food".

Me: Why not!?

Mom: Because I read your Facebook post about red velvet yogurt, so I went to the store and bought a whole bunch of red velvet yogurt, and I honestly don't know how you eat that. It's awful. Seriously awful.

Me: Yeah, that post was about the frozen yogurt that I'm addicted to. Not grocery store yogurt. Though the grocery store yogurt isn't bad.

Mom: I didn't say all grocery store yogurt is bad. I said the red velvet is. It has a weird aftertaste.

Me: Oh. Well, try the Boston cream pie flavor. That's pretty good.

Mom: No, I don't like that one, either. Anything that's meant to be sweet shouldn't be made into fat-free yogurt. It has a bitter aftertaste.

Me: Alright, fine. I like strawberry banana, though.

Mom: Oh, ew. Really? How can you eat that?

Me: Seriously? How can you not eat that?

Mom: I don't like the flavor of strawberries and bananas together.

Me: Why the hell not??

Mom: I just don't, okay? I don't understand this "strawberry banana" craze everyone's going through.

Me: Now it's a "craze"??

Mom: Well, yes. It's in yogurt and smoothies.

Me: So that flavor combination being in two different foods constitutes a craze. That's what you're saying.

Mom: Yes. It is. It's in everything. And it's gross.

Me: Do you like fruit salad?

Mom: I love fruit salad.

Me: Does it have to be without bananas and strawberries for you to eat it?

Mom: No.

Me: So which part is your problem? The strawberry or the banana? Because I've seen you eat both of those things.

Mom: I like both of those things. Just not together.

Me: You're being serious. Oh my god.

Mom: So what?

Me: "So what"?? "So what?", mom? Because that's insane. What if someone were to put a bowl of strawberries and bananas in front of you?

Mom: I would not eat it.

Me: Liar! Of course you would!

Mom: I would not!

Me: Alright, fine, what about a bowl of like, blueberries and bananas?

Mom: I wouldn't eat that, either.

Me: Why the hell not!? That doesn't make any sense!

Mom: Because bananas are a pure fruit. They shouldn't be mixed with anything else. It destroys their purity.



But it's absolutely okay when I ask what she's had for dinner and she says she's mixed half a can of black-eyed peas with half a can of lima beans. Because that's completely normal and not at all homeless of her.

(Did you notice I managed to reference black-eyed peas twice just then? That is because I am a master of words.)

NFfaiL

If you know me at all (and I have to assume you do, what with that one other entry I posted), you'll know that few things drive me more bat-shit crazy than having attention diverted from me.

Lots of chicks say that kind of crap as a way to come off princess-y and high-maintenance, because that's what's considered "confident" as of late. I think it may have something to do with a deadly combination of Sex and the City, Danica Patrick and L'Oreal (because I'm muthafuckin' worth it). Possibly partially due to that really irritating pissed off bunny that you see on everything from t-shirts to iPod cases to cocktail napkins, inviting you to lick its "rabbit hole" or whatever.

That thing I said, though? About the "attention diverting"? I seriously meant it. In a sad, almost (but not quite enough not to post on the Internet) embarrassing way. Like a three year old mixed with a maimed puppy mixed with Kanye West. Kinda in a "if you won't acknowledge me being funny/cute/cuddly/sexy/loud/screamy/weepy/hitty, then maybe you'll pay attention to me if I freaking kick one of the kittens into your recliner and light them both on fire" way. (I'd never, never light a kitten on fire, nor should you now be under the impression that I am in any way condoning kitten torching just because I threatened to torch a kitten. I would, however, absolutely torch a certain hunter green recliner and if one of the kittens happens to refuse to get up after I've told him repeatedly that hot burns babies, then I'll consider him collateral damage. No, really, don't set cats on fire).

So, to really bring my point home, I need quite a bit of tending to and it's one of the unfortunate ramifications of knowing me and I really am sorry. And I mean that without one trace of stupid angry bunny. You are all sugar-coated snowflakes for putting up with me and I pray for both you and one of your loved ones nightly.

This unsightly character trait is really, really inconvenient starting around the first part of August and ending what feels like eighty three weeks later. Or maybe February. Whatever.

I refer, of course, to none other than freaking football season.

I.

Hate.

It.

I hate that the large cups at Wendy's feature holographic defensive linemen. I hate the sound of pads and helmets crashing together. I hate feeling like doing laundry every time I watch any team wears white tights on a natural-turf field (that's what they're called, right? "Tights"? Because I initially typed "footies" but I'm almost positive that's not right and I'd bet you fifty cents that they're not called "pants". Are they "leggings"? What the hell, uniform people? Shouldn't it be easier to identify an article of freaking clothing?). (Wait, are they "long johns"? "Pantaloons"? "Hose"? This is really making me mad).

But I most especially, especially, super-especially hate being ignored. And I'm sure you're now expecting some tangent about Nate and his stupid Dallas Cowboys room (think I'm kidding? I'm looking at a commemorative bag of Cowboys' Fan Tostitos Corn Chips from 1996 at this very moment) and his aversion to grocery shopping on game days or freaking compromising and flipping between pointless pre-game shit and "Say Yes to the Dress", but I am not going to do that because I am gentle and accepting that way.

Because it's not just Nate who ignores me. It's friends, family, commercials on TV (what, am I suddenly not a consumer just because it's freaking October and nothing screams fall harvest like Miller Lite and Fatheads?). I can't even fake like I care because at about minute seven of the first quarter of any given game I've either dozed off, opened a book, decided I was hungry, or started harassing the dog, who, PS, seems to really enjoy football, too, because he's a goddamn JUDAS. Guys? The dog ignores me.

Everything is centered around "the game". There's not one damn plan to be made, at least not in Dallas, that doesn't hinge on "the game". Before, after, "as long as they're showing the game with sound", etc. And it makes me want to shatter my own knuckles.

The sport itself really doesn't bug me. I even kinda get the gist of what's happening (ever since my dad explained that the yellow line bisecting the field didn't "keep moving" as I accused it of doing, but was merely a visual aid that only the viewers at home could see to assist in determining the location of the line of scrimmage-suck it, I know what that is). I just don't like that no one will talk to me during anytime but commercials and half-time, and even then, they don't really want to talk about anything I'd like to discuss, like dog toys or what it would be like to have one noticeably larger boob.

The whole thing makes me feel like a little kid in the backseat during a road trip. Like, sure, you're along for the ride and all, and maybe sometimes you sing along to The Beach Boys or participate in a rousing game of I Spy. But mostly, you're just a wimpy little half-person who your parents had to bring along to Yellowstone because they chose to have sex at one time, trying not to get car sick by counting rows of whatever crop thrives near Yellowstone, and playing a fucking badass game of Mad Libs that no one gives a shit about because they're talking about where the next pee break should be and whether or not they actually got a solid "yes" out of the neighbor's kid to watch the cat.

And speaking of I Spy and Mad Libs? No joke, I would seriously watch either or both on Sunday nights in lieu of Tony Romo and his fluttery sleeves.