I'm sorry for the absense. I've been writing, guys. Honestly, I have. I have started six different blogs in recent days, only to stop about halfway through and thinking to myself "this is crap." Then refusing to publish it. The most recent one was today....a blog that had so much promise and could have sparked such an interesting conversation...and halfway through I abandoned it b/c I was just disgusted with my own writing. Sometimes, my train of thought just left me at the station, with 3-4 paragraphs of tripe.
I have saved all of these, and hopefully I'll get my act together one day really soon, salvage one of them, and put it out there for your reading pleasure. In the meantime, though, I'm just sorry.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
entitled to a sense of entitlement
I think one of the things that irks me the most is when someone walks around with a sense of entitlement. Ugh, it just drives me batshit. I get nearly homicidal when I see those attorney commercials fishing for people looking to get rich quick. (That's one of my two biggest pet peeves about humanity, and I'll probably expound on it in a later posting.) I get upset when I hear people - rich or poor - walking around like the world owes them something. Life ain't fair, and that's a hard lesson for quite a few people to learn....hell, it's hard for anyone to learn. We all whine about it from time to time, but those who live thier lives trying to gain something for nothing frustrate me.
With that said, there are certain times in a life when a sense of entitlement is a completely appropriate thing, and if you DON'T flaunt it, you're just a turd that's trying to play martyr and ruin it for the rest of us.
As I mentioned yesterday, I am 8 months pregnant. Officially. (Hallelujah, holy shit. Where's the tylenol.) I've carried this fetus, this tiny cherubic parasite, for 8 months at this point. I have a month left to go. And at this point in my pregnancy, I've got a raging sense of entitlement. This is my third pregnancy, and the worst of the lot. I feel like I should be able to do what I want/feel like when I want/feel like it however I want/feel like it. If I want to eat a can of pears for supper, buzz off. If I feel like push-mowing the grass, get outta my way or lose a toe. If I feel crappy and only want to sit on my ever-spreading ass and eat popcicles, then, by God almighty, I should be able to sit on my ass and eat popcicles. And you should bring them to me. And then ask me if I want anything else. And offer to rub my aching back. And this applies to ALL pregnant women. We should be treated like the princesses of the universe that we are.
Now, I think I know what you're thinking. If you didn't put the baby there, why should you pander to a fat, hormonal, incubator that is having difficulties getting up and down, is suffering from endless digestion problems and craving absolutely weird stuff like frozen, uncooked pie crust?
Because if you don't and we catch you, we can sit on you and crush you. And when we're done with that, we'll crush your soul with our evil, hormonal wit. Life is hard enough without getting your ass kicked from the inside.
(Can you tell that I've had a not-feeling-so-hot kinda day?)
I do love y'all. And don't worry....my next mood swing is due in 5.3 seconds. I'll be my usual sunshine and roses at that point.
Y'all be good!
With that said, there are certain times in a life when a sense of entitlement is a completely appropriate thing, and if you DON'T flaunt it, you're just a turd that's trying to play martyr and ruin it for the rest of us.
As I mentioned yesterday, I am 8 months pregnant. Officially. (Hallelujah, holy shit. Where's the tylenol.) I've carried this fetus, this tiny cherubic parasite, for 8 months at this point. I have a month left to go. And at this point in my pregnancy, I've got a raging sense of entitlement. This is my third pregnancy, and the worst of the lot. I feel like I should be able to do what I want/feel like when I want/feel like it however I want/feel like it. If I want to eat a can of pears for supper, buzz off. If I feel like push-mowing the grass, get outta my way or lose a toe. If I feel crappy and only want to sit on my ever-spreading ass and eat popcicles, then, by God almighty, I should be able to sit on my ass and eat popcicles. And you should bring them to me. And then ask me if I want anything else. And offer to rub my aching back. And this applies to ALL pregnant women. We should be treated like the princesses of the universe that we are.
Now, I think I know what you're thinking. If you didn't put the baby there, why should you pander to a fat, hormonal, incubator that is having difficulties getting up and down, is suffering from endless digestion problems and craving absolutely weird stuff like frozen, uncooked pie crust?
Because if you don't and we catch you, we can sit on you and crush you. And when we're done with that, we'll crush your soul with our evil, hormonal wit. Life is hard enough without getting your ass kicked from the inside.
(Can you tell that I've had a not-feeling-so-hot kinda day?)
I do love y'all. And don't worry....my next mood swing is due in 5.3 seconds. I'll be my usual sunshine and roses at that point.
Y'all be good!
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Here goes nothing...
Well, ladies and gentlemen, here it is. My blog. I've threatened to do this for a while, and been encouraged to do this even longer...and now it's in action. I'm probably going to belly flop at this, but we're gonna give it the ol' college try. So here we go! Blogga blogga blogga.
I guess for my inaugural blog, I should probably discuss my plans for this little corner of cyberspace. In essence, it is going to be exactly what the title says....the anonymous confessions of a lunatic housewife. (That would be me.) I intend to hold back very, very little in this blog about myself and my absolutely, fabulously hilarious life. I tend to swear, but not to a horrible extent. It's the curse of being a musician's daughter, I suppose. My husband told me to only post things I would want my parents, grandparents and HIS parents reading. I'll try....but I'm still gonna be me. So, beware...this is my life, uncensored. With the occasional typo and spelling/grammatical error.
Who IS this woman, you may ask. Good question. I'm still trying to figure that one out. Here's what I've got so far.
I'm thirty-one years old. I'm still trying to figure out how in the world I got to be in my early thirties...seriously. I am married to a giant nordic looking-fellow, Chris, who will be making frequent appearances in this blog. I have two riotous little boys, Andy (5) and Charlie (19mos), who are the reason I do just about everything I do...good and bad. (That bald spot on the right side of my head? That's Charlie learning to climb everything in sight. The doc says it'll grow back one day.) I'm knocked up with baby #3, a little girl we're planning to name Katie. At least they tell me she's a little girl. I think she's a ninja spider monkey with extra appendages. Actually, as of today, 4/13, I am 8 months pregnant. (Kill me.) I am genuinely petrified at the idea of having a little girl. I mean, I can barely get my own hair to look decent, what the hell am I going to do with a little girl's hair? She'd better like trucks and dinosaurs, that's all I'm sayin'.
I live a little over an hour from my hometown in Virginia, and I'm in the suburb of a mid-sized city. I love it, but I desperately miss my family. DESPERATELY miss my family. It's getting better, although I'm sure in about two months when I'm locked in the house with a newborn, an almost-two-year-old and a kindergartener, I'm going to be full of piss and vinegar about wanting to go home. I like weird, old music and crime shows. I collect deviled egg plates, and I'm the crappiest housekeeper you'll ever meet - although that's getting better. I still go to outrageous lengths to avoid washing the dishes. I will use parenthesis too often in this blog, I'm sure of it. I'll touch on some deep thoughts and opinions I have, but I'll try to do it with humor and a hint of panache.
Topics I'm thinking about blogging in the next few weeks -
For now, though, I'm going to skedaddle. Primarily because my little fetus is using my bladder as a trampoline and Charlie is too quiet for my comfort level.
Y'all be good.
Haley
I guess for my inaugural blog, I should probably discuss my plans for this little corner of cyberspace. In essence, it is going to be exactly what the title says....the anonymous confessions of a lunatic housewife. (That would be me.) I intend to hold back very, very little in this blog about myself and my absolutely, fabulously hilarious life. I tend to swear, but not to a horrible extent. It's the curse of being a musician's daughter, I suppose. My husband told me to only post things I would want my parents, grandparents and HIS parents reading. I'll try....but I'm still gonna be me. So, beware...this is my life, uncensored. With the occasional typo and spelling/grammatical error.
Who IS this woman, you may ask. Good question. I'm still trying to figure that one out. Here's what I've got so far.
I'm thirty-one years old. I'm still trying to figure out how in the world I got to be in my early thirties...seriously. I am married to a giant nordic looking-fellow, Chris, who will be making frequent appearances in this blog. I have two riotous little boys, Andy (5) and Charlie (19mos), who are the reason I do just about everything I do...good and bad. (That bald spot on the right side of my head? That's Charlie learning to climb everything in sight. The doc says it'll grow back one day.) I'm knocked up with baby #3, a little girl we're planning to name Katie. At least they tell me she's a little girl. I think she's a ninja spider monkey with extra appendages. Actually, as of today, 4/13, I am 8 months pregnant. (Kill me.) I am genuinely petrified at the idea of having a little girl. I mean, I can barely get my own hair to look decent, what the hell am I going to do with a little girl's hair? She'd better like trucks and dinosaurs, that's all I'm sayin'.
I live a little over an hour from my hometown in Virginia, and I'm in the suburb of a mid-sized city. I love it, but I desperately miss my family. DESPERATELY miss my family. It's getting better, although I'm sure in about two months when I'm locked in the house with a newborn, an almost-two-year-old and a kindergartener, I'm going to be full of piss and vinegar about wanting to go home. I like weird, old music and crime shows. I collect deviled egg plates, and I'm the crappiest housekeeper you'll ever meet - although that's getting better. I still go to outrageous lengths to avoid washing the dishes. I will use parenthesis too often in this blog, I'm sure of it. I'll touch on some deep thoughts and opinions I have, but I'll try to do it with humor and a hint of panache.
Topics I'm thinking about blogging in the next few weeks -
- Pet Ownership from a severely-allergic-person's point of view.
- Get over yourselves, people, the sky is not falling.
- Haley - A day in the life.
- My addictions. (Don't worry, it's not crank or anything. Although you wouldn't know that from looking at my teeth)
- The joys of parenting - OR - top ten things noone ever told me at my baby showers.
- Celebrities whose fame I just don't get.
For now, though, I'm going to skedaddle. Primarily because my little fetus is using my bladder as a trampoline and Charlie is too quiet for my comfort level.
Y'all be good.
Haley
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