I don't know how to put the little button in the blog, so I'll just link it here.
CLICK ME!!
I'm number 25 on the Circle of Moms Top 25 mom's with blended families blogs. Voting ends tomorrow, so if you could, hook me up with a clicky click. Just click above, scroll down and hit the vote button for me? Please?
THANK YOU! YOU'RE THE GREATEST!
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Inheritance
I love that the dudes have inherited things from my persona, even though we are not blood related. Big Man inherited daddy's shyness, and Little Man inherited mommy's ability to attract friendship wherever she goes. They may have their father's beautiful eyes and their mother's gorgeous hair, but a lot of their sense of humor is all me. Big Man is downstairs running in circles and screaming, "I'm running around like a crazy person!!!" That's MY influence. *puffs chest proudly*
In about 28 weeks or so I will have a little one that WILL look like me, though. One that will call me "Mommy" instead of "Karen". Maybe. It's likely that the little one will be confused, as everyone in the house calls me "Karen," so that may stick with him or her, too. That would hurt, seeing as I pushed that watermelon outta a peach. I'll be like that Mindy cartoon on Animaniacs, where she just calls her mom "Lady" all of the time. I bet it's funnier when you're watching it on TV.
I got off topic. Shocking. Ok, HERE'S the 8-week picture of the bot.
He/She has little arms and legs :) That was four weeks ago. Of course, you can't tell if he's got my features or Eric's, yet. I stare at the picture and hope she gets Eric's perfect skin and lovely blue eyes and my little ears and pretty hair. I stare at the picture, and I hope he gets Eric's masculinity and brain power and my determination and grace.
I stare at this picture and ask myself if I've ruined her life by conceiving her with my maybe-broken-a-little-bit genes and adding my nobody-knows-if-they're-messed-up chromosomes and pumping her full of my science-can't-figure-out-if-this-causes-it blood. Is he doomed to a life of training, therapy, doctors and medications? Are we? Will my high-functioning Asperger's mutate into her low-functioning autism? Will his big brothers be defending him in school and at the park and in Kroger for the rest of their lives?
Will he or she live a full life anyway? I do know that answer. Absolutely. This bot is loved. Unconditionally.
In about 28 weeks or so I will have a little one that WILL look like me, though. One that will call me "Mommy" instead of "Karen". Maybe. It's likely that the little one will be confused, as everyone in the house calls me "Karen," so that may stick with him or her, too. That would hurt, seeing as I pushed that watermelon outta a peach. I'll be like that Mindy cartoon on Animaniacs, where she just calls her mom "Lady" all of the time. I bet it's funnier when you're watching it on TV.
I got off topic. Shocking. Ok, HERE'S the 8-week picture of the bot.
He/She has little arms and legs :) That was four weeks ago. Of course, you can't tell if he's got my features or Eric's, yet. I stare at the picture and hope she gets Eric's perfect skin and lovely blue eyes and my little ears and pretty hair. I stare at the picture, and I hope he gets Eric's masculinity and brain power and my determination and grace.
I stare at this picture and ask myself if I've ruined her life by conceiving her with my maybe-broken-a-little-bit genes and adding my nobody-knows-if-they're-messed-up chromosomes and pumping her full of my science-can't-figure-out-if-this-causes-it blood. Is he doomed to a life of training, therapy, doctors and medications? Are we? Will my high-functioning Asperger's mutate into her low-functioning autism? Will his big brothers be defending him in school and at the park and in Kroger for the rest of their lives?
Will he or she live a full life anyway? I do know that answer. Absolutely. This bot is loved. Unconditionally.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
I'm glad I don't have jowls
I'm going to make the first installment of LuLunacy a picture book, I think. Just to get the juices flowing.
The end.
The end.
Friday, March 16, 2012
It's official...
I've got the senior eff-its. I graduate in six weeks. SIX WEEKS!!! Totally excited to the max. Except I won't graduate at all if I don't finish these four papers that are due in that time as well. Er....the first one is due Tuesday. As in, four days from now. Is it done? I assure you it is not! How close to done is it, you ask? Still in the note-taking stage. But, Karen, shouldn't you be doing that NOW, on your last quiet day before the dudes are home all weekend being all noisy and Skywalkeresque? Why are you, instead, blogging and playing on Facebook and shopping for maternity swimwear? BECAUSE I'M ALL ABOUT "EFF IT!" I'M A SENIOR! That's why. I better get my tush moving, though, or you'll all be reading this blog next semester thinking to yourselves, "Geeeeeez, why is she STILL whining about being a senior?"
Ah, heck, I just broke a nail grabbing a book out of my backpack. See? SEE?!?!? This is what happens when I start to do the work. Broken nails. That's okay, though, because it's the stupid "buffed" nail of doom that is not supposed to be there. Some total Summer's Eve in the mall at one of those stupid kiosks that sells Dead Sea salts and other beauty products grabbed me and took my nail polish off of my thumb without my permission. WTF, T?!? I was walking by. He tried to hand me a free sample. I said, "No, thanks" and kept walking. I was on a mission! A mission to...er...well, not do this paper and hang out in the mall instead. Anyway, I kept walking, and he pointed to my chest and said, "Oooh, can I ask you a question?" I assumed he wanted to know if my tattoo hurt (the answer is always, yes. There were needles grinding into my flesh. It effing hurt.) So, I stopped and said, "What?" Big mistake. I didn't realize that when he pointed at my chest, it wasn't my tattoo he was pointing at. It was my fingernails, as I had reached up to scratch my boob. In public. While talking to a stranger. Klassy with a K. He took that, "What?" to mean "Go ahead and grab my hand and wipe my fingernail polish off of it in 0.243 seconds." I just stared at him and then down at my nails. I said, "Oh. Now I have one unpolished nail and 9 pink ones. Gee. I look awesome." He looked upset. "Why are you so upset? This technique is wonderful. From Israel. Invented because a woman had such a hard time keeping polish from chipping off of her fake nails."
One, my nails are real. A fact that he refused to believe. That's the question I didn't hear him asking when I thought he was asking about my tattoo. "Are your nails real?" The answer I gave to that wasn't "yes". It was "what?" Apparently, in Yiddish, that means "no." So I'm trying to pull my hand away, and he's buffing the stupid thing, telling me my nails are fake, and he can tell because there's a white tip on them, and natural nails don't get that. Great. I'm dealing with a brain surgeon, apparently. I finally yank my hand away, and he's like, "You are not happy, but it is beautiful!"
No. It isn't. It's shiny and DIFFERENT THAN MY OTHER NINE NAILS! Now, when I scratch my boob in public, it will be REALLY noticable.
WTF? I should work on this paper, for real. I have another one due next Thursday, so 13 days. Ten pages. What stage is that one in, you ask? It's in the "haven't even opened a Word document for it and put a name on it" stage. This is so unlike me. I generally have papers done at least a month in advance. =/
Ah, heck, I just broke a nail grabbing a book out of my backpack. See? SEE?!?!? This is what happens when I start to do the work. Broken nails. That's okay, though, because it's the stupid "buffed" nail of doom that is not supposed to be there. Some total Summer's Eve in the mall at one of those stupid kiosks that sells Dead Sea salts and other beauty products grabbed me and took my nail polish off of my thumb without my permission. WTF, T?!? I was walking by. He tried to hand me a free sample. I said, "No, thanks" and kept walking. I was on a mission! A mission to...er...well, not do this paper and hang out in the mall instead. Anyway, I kept walking, and he pointed to my chest and said, "Oooh, can I ask you a question?" I assumed he wanted to know if my tattoo hurt (the answer is always, yes. There were needles grinding into my flesh. It effing hurt.) So, I stopped and said, "What?" Big mistake. I didn't realize that when he pointed at my chest, it wasn't my tattoo he was pointing at. It was my fingernails, as I had reached up to scratch my boob. In public. While talking to a stranger. Klassy with a K. He took that, "What?" to mean "Go ahead and grab my hand and wipe my fingernail polish off of it in 0.243 seconds." I just stared at him and then down at my nails. I said, "Oh. Now I have one unpolished nail and 9 pink ones. Gee. I look awesome." He looked upset. "Why are you so upset? This technique is wonderful. From Israel. Invented because a woman had such a hard time keeping polish from chipping off of her fake nails."
One, my nails are real. A fact that he refused to believe. That's the question I didn't hear him asking when I thought he was asking about my tattoo. "Are your nails real?" The answer I gave to that wasn't "yes". It was "what?" Apparently, in Yiddish, that means "no." So I'm trying to pull my hand away, and he's buffing the stupid thing, telling me my nails are fake, and he can tell because there's a white tip on them, and natural nails don't get that. Great. I'm dealing with a brain surgeon, apparently. I finally yank my hand away, and he's like, "You are not happy, but it is beautiful!"
No. It isn't. It's shiny and DIFFERENT THAN MY OTHER NINE NAILS! Now, when I scratch my boob in public, it will be REALLY noticable.
WTF? I should work on this paper, for real. I have another one due next Thursday, so 13 days. Ten pages. What stage is that one in, you ask? It's in the "haven't even opened a Word document for it and put a name on it" stage. This is so unlike me. I generally have papers done at least a month in advance. =/
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Checkin the stats...oooh, yeah
I checked my site stats this morning. That's where I can see who searched what and how they landed on my page. You guys...there are some HILARIOUS search terms this week. Here they are. In top 3 order.
Number 3: "I hate my double chin".
I don't remember saying this, but HAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHHA I had to have said it at some point. I love that if you Google this, my page pops up. I do have a double chin. I hear if you chew gum, that makes it go away. I hate gum.
Number 2: "I've gotta bagel hey hey hey".
Someone else in the world sings "hey hey hey" after everything they've got. That's awesome. I know it's after EVERYTHING they've got because the original is not bagel. It's "a dollar". And then it's "two pickles" (I think). I haven't seen the Little Rascals in a long, long time. I don't even remember who said it. I could look it up, but no.
NUMBER ONE: "Stepmom in a chicken."
W.T.F.?
Honorable mention: "Jackie Chan House". I don't live in his actual house. Our house is just called Jackie Chan Estates and Szechuan Chicken Farms.
Also, I have gotten tons and tons of hits from some site called probloggers. I don't know what you are, but thanks. Well, I mean, it can't be that hard to figure out what probloggers is. I'm assuming it's not just a clever name, and it's a site where blogs go to be searched. Hopefully it's not a place where blogs go to die. Then it would be called deadbloggers.com.
I'm 8 weeks 5 days pregnant. My kid has elbows and fingers. That's pretty cool. I wish the bot liked food. Or drink. Or anything other than making me sleep and vomit, really. She even hates yoga. WTF? Who doesn't like yoga? Or yogurt. Mmmmm, yogurt.
Number 3: "I hate my double chin".
I don't remember saying this, but HAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHHA I had to have said it at some point. I love that if you Google this, my page pops up. I do have a double chin. I hear if you chew gum, that makes it go away. I hate gum.
Number 2: "I've gotta bagel hey hey hey".
Someone else in the world sings "hey hey hey" after everything they've got. That's awesome. I know it's after EVERYTHING they've got because the original is not bagel. It's "a dollar". And then it's "two pickles" (I think). I haven't seen the Little Rascals in a long, long time. I don't even remember who said it. I could look it up, but no.
NUMBER ONE: "Stepmom in a chicken."
W.T.F.?
Honorable mention: "Jackie Chan House". I don't live in his actual house. Our house is just called Jackie Chan Estates and Szechuan Chicken Farms.
Also, I have gotten tons and tons of hits from some site called probloggers. I don't know what you are, but thanks. Well, I mean, it can't be that hard to figure out what probloggers is. I'm assuming it's not just a clever name, and it's a site where blogs go to be searched. Hopefully it's not a place where blogs go to die. Then it would be called deadbloggers.com.
I'm 8 weeks 5 days pregnant. My kid has elbows and fingers. That's pretty cool. I wish the bot liked food. Or drink. Or anything other than making me sleep and vomit, really. She even hates yoga. WTF? Who doesn't like yoga? Or yogurt. Mmmmm, yogurt.
