You Are Welcome, New Dad

Last night, I ran into a guy who told me he enjoyed reading my blog because he was about to have a baby and he wanted to know what he was really in for.  He also said he liked hearing these things from a stranger rather than his sister, which I get.  So, I thought I would break it down in layman's terms for him and other soon-to-be dads with the essentials.  

New Dad Survival Guide

-Do not get sick.
-Sick or not, do not touch the baby without covering your body in hand sanitizer.
-Do not allow others to touch the baby without doing the same.  It will be your fault if it happens.
-Stock up on hand sanitizer.
-Never complain about being tired.  She will be more tired.  I promise.
-You will be living with an emotional basket case for several months.
-Do not argue with said basket case.  Just tell the basket case that she is pretty.
-Although her newly ginormous boobs will look amazing to you, they will not feel amazing to her. 
-So, always remember: no touchies.  (And, definitely no pokies!)
-Nursing bras are not sexy.  If you are a weirdo and think that they are, do not tell her.  She does not care what you think.
-Do not ask her what's for breakfast.
-Do not ask her what's for dinner.
-Tell her you have got meals covered, because you remembered that she stocked up with enough food to feed an army when she was nesting.
-The main phrase that should be coming out of your mouth: "What can I do for you, sweetie?"
-Be prepared for 1 of 2 responses: emotional meltdown because you cannot physically nurse the baby OR an actual list a mile a long.
-On that list will probably be to run to the store and buy her more obnoxiously large maxi pads.  (Yes, she will have to wear for these an abnormally long time.)  Be a sport and say "yes, honey!"
-Never ask her what that crunching noise is when she is walking.  It is the obnoxiously large maxi pad.
-Never ask her when the last time she went to the store was.
-Never ask her when the last time she showered was.  She is avoiding watching her precious breastmilk leaking from her boob and going down the drain.
-Only notify her that her boob is "leaking" in public if you can provide a solution.  (i.e. a jacket, a scarf, etc.)  Be prepared for her crying once she notices.
-Stock up on tissues.  (The good kind.)
-Never notify her that she is leaking at the house.  She does not care.
-You, her, your baby, and your house will be covered in breast milk and spit up.  Get used to it. 

No folks, that's not prespiration.
#burpclothplacementfail

-Stock up on paper towels and detergent.
-You will get weird looks at work, the grocery store, etc. for 2 reasons: you look like a zombie and you have spit up somewhere on your body.
-The round discs that look like mini maxi pads are nipple pads.  No matter how full they appear- do not throw them away without asking first.  Actually, just do not touch them at all.  And, never use them as a coaster.
-She will tell you how many ounces each breast makes, how often, how fatty... everything and then some.  Pretend to be very interested and tell her she's an amazing being.  
-Do not refer to her as a mammal.  It is a gross word and she will think you are calling her a whale.
-She will use every opportunity to think you are calling her fat, so avoid all words that are at all related.
-Never ask if she is wearing that again.  Because, yes.  She is.  She will have one outfit that fits her and she is not happy about it either.  
-This one outfit will probably be what she was wearing when she was 9 months pregnant.  Never bring up that you thought maternity clothes were only for when you were pregnant.
-She will still look pregnant for awhile.  Never ask when that is going to change.
-Your house will no longer be your house.  It will be overrun with baby and nursing stuff.
-You will no longer be able to find anything of yours in the bathroom.  It will look like a pharmacy and a hospital room.
-Your shaving cream will be replaced with nipple cream and hemorrhoid cream.
-Her first bowel movement will be similar to delivery.  Brew a pot of coffee and be prepared to hold the baby for a few hours.  Get her several magazines.  Do NOT hover by the door and ask for freaking progress reports.  Be prepared for more crying.
-Do not ask when she is going to the doctor again.  She knows that you just want her to get cleared for sex.  Trust me, she gets that you are excited about that day.  And, really trust me... she is not.

Disclaimer: This list is not an all-inclusive list and is not meant to be CliffsNotes for all of the daddy books piled on your nightstand.

Also, this will be my last post for a while relating to this subject matter because I know a lot of you do not give a rat's ass.  And, my husband thinks that all this baby talk means I am ready to have another baby.  Apparently, he is not actually reading my posts?

Best of luck- you're going to need it,
Katie

Dwellivery: Part II

So, in my previous post I mentioned that delivery for me (after the faaaabulous epidural, of course) was not that bad.  And, I do believe that compared to my postpartum happenings, it was not shit.  I feel though, that people usually fear the actual delivery the most.  I know I did.  Well now, from my experience, I think what you should fear- is the aftermath of delivery.

No one really warns you.  No one really prepares you.  They might try, but they just can't.  I was fortunate enough to have a great best friend who bluntly informed me of most of the terrifying things I was about to endure.  (At the time, I thought she must be mad at me; but, now I realize she just didn't want me to be completely blindsided.)  This knowledge, although incredibly scary, did help somewhat... but again- did not result in excellent preparation. 

I cannot say it was all bad either.  For instance, I LOVED my nurses.  (Well, all but one whom I will discuss later.)  One awesome nurse I had actually told me to sleep and she would come bring my baby in and plop him on my boob to nurse.  This might sound odd to some people, but I think I cried from joy and had to control myself from jumping up and hugging her.  I do not know if it is normal practice to offer such a service?  Probably is?  I did have a few other "circumstances" though that may have sent some extra pity points my way.

Don't fret- I will spare you the bloody details, because I would hate to be the cause of the end of the human race, and frankly I don't like remembering it.

1.  Conveniently Sick Husband

Russ was sick.  Yup.  Like, in his opinion, flu sick.  And, we all know that when a guy is sick- the whole world apparently needs to come to a halt and focus on this traumatic experience that is occurring in their lives.  Love him, but he was pretty worthless those first few days.  

At one point, a nurse walked in, asked how everyone was doing, and Russ pipes in from the sofa in the corner, "You know, I am still feeling pretty bad.  Fevery... my head hurts real bad..."

I kind of wish that I could have seen my face at this moment.  I can guarantee you- I was partially not even human.  I think I was literally envisioning daggers coming out of my eyes, aimed at his "clogged sinuses."  I was not at a good place.

The nurse, I am sure sensing my erratic thoughts, was polite with a "Umm... okay?... So, how are mom and baby?"

Oh- thanks!  Yeah!  I am here.  I was a little worried for a second that maybe I did not really exist and this was all a dream.  And, oh- besides just birthing a baby I am great!  Thanks.  (Insert side head flick and reload of daggers aimed at my husband.)  It is a good thing I love him so much.  And, that I could not move at the time.

2.  "Souprise"

As it turns out, I actually was kind of, shall we say, "brave" through part of my postpartumness.  I was very uncomfortable... down there.  (Which- I fully expected, so you can wipe that "no shit" expression off of your face.)  But, I am talking I never expected it to be anything like this kind of discomfort.  I tried to swallow the pill (ba dum bum) and wait it out a day.  Which led to: the longest day ever.  But, things appeared to be getting worse.  After maxing out on my allotted pain medicine (and ice packs) I had the one mean nurse tell me that I should not still need this much pain medicine (I had given birth less than 24 hours ago, mind you).  It was basically a "No soup for you" moment.

After shooting the remaining daggers out of my eyes, this time in the direction of the devil nurse; and saying things in my head I cannot even repeat on here-  I decided I needed to determine what should feel "normal" down there.  But, not with the devil nurse.  So, I waited a bit longer and finally took the nice nurse in the bathroom to check out the not-good goods.

I lift my gown.

Nurse: "Oh my!"

Me: "Ummm..."

Nurse: "No, no. No, honey that is not normal."

Me: "Oh, good?" Wait... is it good?

Nurse: "I think you are having an allergic reaction down there."

Me: "Oh.... nice.  Because, there needs to be more going on...  down there."

Yup.  Turns out I am randomly allergic to the Dermoplast spray that they give you to help with pain.  Very allergic.  I also had been diligent with the spray.  Very diligent.

The nurse helped me into the shower and said she would return with the doctor.  She sent in another nurse to assist me in the meantime.  Which leads to my next unfortunate circumstance...

3.  Hot Nurse

This nurse... was freaking beautiful.

Young... like mid 20s, oh you still have that thing called a metabolism, young.

Gorgeous long blonde hair... oh so you put your head down in cha cha's all day and you don't have those luscious locks pulled back?  Right....

Basically, she was "why the hell are you a nurse when you could be modeling in Milan?" beautiful.

You know what someone who has just given birth, and found out that she has had an allergic reaction "down there" does not want to see?  This exact nurse.  

I glare at her.  Which she is probably used to, being her, in her line of work.  But, then I realize she feels bad for me and has brought me drugs, so we become fast friends.  We walk out of the bathroom and I swear to you- my husband is sitting straight up, smiling, just looking the best he has this whole hospital stay.  What. A. Jackal.

4.  Icing on the Postpartum Meltdown Cake
No one working in the hospital had ever heard of a negative reaction to Dermoplast, so I soon became "that person".  You know the one- on Greys Anatomy where they bring in all of the interns or residents or whatever they are, to "teach them"/let them all gawk at and take notes on whatever weird thing is ailing you?  Well, I was that person.  And, you know where that "condition" was.

But, who can say no to science?  I sure did not want this happening to another poor soul.  So, I took one for the team.  I gracefully pulled up my gown and became a science experiment to my 12 new best friends, whom I hope to never see again in my life.

5.  Why Don't You Just Kick Me "Down There" Too
It was election day.  As in, the 2012 Presidential Election.  I had done my civic duty and mailed in my ballot (one benefit of being super pregnant).  I had apparently forgotten it was the big day until about 2:00 in the morning.  I noticed in my Benadryl/pain killer haze, that on the television that they were talking about the elections.  I ask the nurse who had just walked in, "Wait?  Do we have a new president yet?"

"Not new, honey.  Obama got reelected."

"What?  Why is this happening to me?"  (You get very emotional right after having a baby.)

"I am going to need all of the pain medicine you've got."*

Bottoms up,
Katie (aka: Dermoplast Allergic Reaction Subject #1)


*Chill out- I will not get into politics on my blog.  Mainly because the subject matter only depresses me and gives me reflux.

Dwellivery: Part I

I tried not to dwell on the subject of labor and delivery; but alas, a dweller I be- hence dwellivery.  And, let's face it- if you've experienced it- you know it impacts your life in a huge (both painful and glorious) way.  Everyone has their own special story and I personally love hearing them.  

What did you do when you had finally had enough and wanted that baby out of you?  
Eat certain foods?  Drink nasty concoctions?  Force your husband to have sex with you (Honey, I swear it is still down there somewhere!)?  Do a crazyass WOD at your CrossFit gym that no man should even be able to do, let alone a pregnant lady who is about to pop out a baby any second (...Emily)?  

Where were you when your water broke?  
At home rearranging your entire house for the 37th time?  In a restaurant, glaring at the little twerp screaming beside you (doesn't he know that this might be your last chance ever for a peaceful meal)?  Using the bathroom in a BBQ restaurant (you know who you are...)?  In the car, regretting having just gotten it cleaned?  In Costco?  What place was lucky enough to be graced with that bodily fluid of yours?  I would like to point out for those who have not had the pleasure of this yet- there is no gushing of water like a dam has broken open.  You basically think you are peeing yourself- which unless you were diligent with your Kegel exercises- you probably had done a number of times already.  So, half of the time you don't even realize what's happening.  You do however know- that you better get your ass in gear.  (This is where I would recommend if you are, let's say at Costco- maybe you just leave your shopping cart and make your way to the door.  Checking out is not necessary.  Checking out with frozen items is just plain crazy [...Emily].)

How was your trip to the hospital?
Did you peacefully stroll through the automatic doors because you had already been there 10 times in last 48 hours with false hopes of labor?  Did you almost run over 20 people with your car?  Did you yell at your significant other telling him that you hated him for doing this to you and punch him repeatedly?  Did you almost have your baby on the side of the interstate (...Emily)?  

If I haven't heard your story - I would love to hear it.  All the gory details.  Now, here is mine...

I was immensely over the pregnant thing the minute I found out I was pregnant.  (Not out of ungratefulness, but pure fear.)  Towards the end though- I had many debates about how miserable I was and how badly I wanted that baby out vs. dealing with the repercussions... i.e. actually having the baby.  Because, as bad as the end (or all) of pregnancy can be- you know that the only way out of it is for that watermelon to come out of you- one way or another.  So, you kind of start weighing the pros and cons of your situation.  Well, you start weighing the cons and worser cons.

My body apparently wanted to expel my child before I was mentally ready to start trying the induction tricks.  Four days before my due date, I decided to go and get a pedicure; because, I happen to like my doctor and if she's going to have her head down there for who knows how long- I can at least give her some clean, callous-free feet with freshly painted toes to look at.  And, I physically could not even pretend to reach my own feet, so hired help was a must.  As I sat there and got knocked side to side by the rhythm of the massage chair, I recalled my last pedi where one of the workers came and turned off my chair!  She shook her finger at me, saying that I could not do that chair because it might make me go into labor.  At that point I was not that far along, so she freaked me out enough to listen.  But, this time around I looked at my girl with a "hmmm... do I care?"  expression.  We exchanged looks with one another and as if she knew, she said nothing.

That night, my husband and I decided to go out to dinner.  Yes, we tried to cram in as many last minute outings that we could, as we had been told multiple times, by everyone with a child, to do.  The myth is that pregnant people love to eat- that is why they all get fat, right?  Wrong.  I did not enjoying eating.  I was constantly nauseous.  Nothing except for Wendy's fries ever sounded good to me.  Not to mention that at the end of your pregnancy- you literally run out of room to keep anything else in your stomach except for a few bites.  And, you are only allowed one measly glass of wine (doctor approved).  It was all just really disappointing.  

So, we tried a restaurant that I loved prior to getting knocked up... then got sick at while I was prego.  (I will never look at chicken and waffles the same again.)  I decided to suck it up and go back because Russ really wanted to go and nothing else, aside from Wendy's, sounded at all appealing anyways.  I finally found something on the menu that had no meat (because that was hit or miss with me those days).  Well, it just so happened to be eggplant parmesan.  I really had not thought about it until after I placed my order- but soon remembered that it is a dish that supposedly induces labor.  I was still in my I don't give a shit right now phase of the game and ate my 4 bites of dinner when it arrived.  After I finished my one glass of wine, we boxed up the rest/basically all of my plate and headed home.

I did what had become my normal routine of rolling out of the car, waddling through the front door, kicking my flip flops off, and falling directly into bed where I would proceed to lay uncomfortably on my side for the next several hours.

This particular night, I started to get stomach cramps, which led to a lot of time in the bathroom, and me wanting to punch someone.  Eventually, I realized that these cramps were coming every 2-3 minutes and that these cramps were actually contractions.  (If you do not know this already- you become a total freaking moron when you are pregnant.  I guess the baby is literally taking your brain cells along with everything else.  Babies are basically just parasites.)

I call my doctor and she tells me to get my butt to the hospital.  So, Russ takes me, my big butt, and my obnoxiously big bag to the hospital.  At that time, we lived approximately 5 minutes from the hospital.  So, I was not too worried about not making it in time.  But, wouldn't you know that there was road construction at the one intersection between my house and the hospital.  That poor construction worker will probably never forget the evil eyes of an extremely pregnant woman glaring at him from between her death grips on the 'oh shit handle'.  

We finally arrived at the hospital and since it was so late at night, we lucked out and were the only ones in the waiting room- thus we did not have to wait long.  And, thank goodness because as soon as we walked into the delivery room, I ran to the bathroom and puked my brains out.  On the 3rd puking session I thought I had pissed myself- but the nurse informed me that it was actually my water breaking.  

I had always planned on making it as long as I could before accepting an epidural.  Why, I have no idea.  It must again be because my IQ dropped once I became with child.  To those of you who did not get an epidural/my new favorite drug on the planet- I do not understand you and I will never understand you.  And, do not waste your time trying to make me understand you.  At this point, I was dry heaving with every contraction and that needle could not get in my spine fast enough.  (Consequently, I did vomit while the needle was in my spine- which was apparently a bad thing.)  But, I did not care- because soon I could feel nothing below my waist and it was faaaaaabulous!  (Insert jazz hands here.)  I also got a catheter at this point, which became my new best friend.  After months of having to get up every 30 minutes and pee, it was a dream come true being able to lay in that bed and piss away.  I cried when they took it out, and not from the pain...

After the epidural and catheter made their way into my life/body, I was a whole new, half-functioning, person.  And, I must admit that the rest of the delivery was not so bad.  After a few hours, our little screaming bundle of joy, with huge swollen balls made his debut.  (We had been warned about the swollen balls, but there was really no preparation for the first glimpse of them.  I mean... wowza.)  They also cannot prepare you enough for the fact that your baby will look like an alien after he squirms his way out of the good ole' birth canal.  Poor kid.  Poor canal.

I will save the rest of this story for another day because remembering all of this is starting to give me anxiety.  I should probably have a glass of wine.  Or, a bottle.  Because, I can do that now.

Until next dwellivery,
Katie

Ice Ice Baby

The other night, with some awesome friends, I was discussing the act that many (let's be honest... ALL) of us face: unpreparedness of having a baby.  And, that really got me thinking...

In my life, I have experienced a wide range of "preparedness" from one end of the spectrum to the other.  For example, I recently showed up to a Christmas gift exchange, consisting of five people, with one gift.  I apparently misread something.  Preparedness uber fail.  (But hotdamn- I wrapped that shit pretty!)

On the other end of the spectrum- I really like lists.  I used to create checklists for myself and my friends of what we needed to pack for trips.  This list was approximately 12 pages long and covered pretty much everything under the sun, with about 85% of it being totally unnecessary.  But, we would be prepared for everything from hangnails to hurricanes (both weather and beverage) and then some.  Oh, your book light stopped working?  Don't worry, I just happen to have a variety pack of batteries my dad bought at Costco!  What's that?  You got a hole in your cropped tank top from Wet Seal?  A: Shocking!  B: Don't worry, let me whip out my mini sewing kit with 15 thread color options!  But, you will have to do it because I have no idea how to sew...

Having a baby was kind of like having a sewing kit, but not a clue how to use it.  I had lists printed out left and right from registries to what I needed to what to pack for the hospital...

And, I soon understood why the nurses (along with my husband) were laughing about the bag I actually brought to the hospital.  Apparently, I thought I was going to be there for a month or so and I had enough outfits for 8 people.  I had everything from flip flops to my trusty Ugg boots.  I mean, you just never know what I might feel like wearing while laying in a hospital bed; or, what the weather might be like on the day that our baby decides to grace us with his presence.  (Ok- in my defense, November in the Lowcountry can go from freezing to 80° in a day.  Literally.  So, I was not toooo crazy about my over-preparedness for all existing weather possibilities.)

But, as far as what I felt like wearing after birthing a baby?  I wish I had known that all I'd want was... ice packs.  That was pretty much all I cared about being on my body.  Oh, what's that?  My boob is still hanging out after that feeding?  I don't care.  I need more ice packs.  Oh, this gown that I have been in for 2 days is supposed to be tied in the back?  Huh...  Hope you enjoyed the view?  So... about those ice packs?

I also packed my hair dryer, hair straightener, hair products, and make up.  I surely did.  Now, I know some of you reading this are all like "Oh, me too!  Best decision ever!  I looked sooo beautiful for my pictures right after delivery."  (I intended for that to be read in Cartman's voice from South Park by the way.)  Well, to you: Mrs. Postpartum Prissypants (you know who you are)- I think that you are either superhuman or completely batshit crazy.  My beautifying necessities never saw the fluorescent light of the hospital room, and I was living proof.

I also brought my book.  Now, that was funny.

I quickly learned that no matter what you pack- you will never be prepared for that freight train of life that is going to ram you in your lady parts.  No matter what you read- you will never be prepared for that little, needy, wailing, bundle of love that is covered in spit-up and poo.  No matter what classes you take- you will never be prepared for that moment when you are sent home and wonder what the hell just happened.

Nope.  No matter the level of your "preparedness"- you will be thinking that this must be some sort of mistake.  They definitely forgot to tell you something... something?  Screw something- they forgot to tell you everything!... How did you end up here?  You were not supposed to be home yet- because you have NO FREAKING CLUE what to do with a human baby.

My husband and I, wondering what the hell just happened
and why are we at home already? We have a dog?

I now realize that unpreparedness should be the actual definition, or at least most popular synonym, for having a baby.  Because... that's the only way to do it.  No matter how "prepared" you are- you're not.  And, as it turns out... that's okay.

My name is Katie.  

I was incredibly unprepared to have a baby.  

And, I would not have changed a thing. 

(Except, I would have had more icepacks ready.)

Mmmmmm....

Since I discussed my favorite word (bumblebee) in my last post, I guess I will disclose the word that I most detest.  

But, before I do- I must stress that your newfound knowledge of this word does NOT mean that you should, in any manner, taunt me with it the next time that we come in contact with one another.  My friends and family who have known of this word and my immense hatred for it, also know that taunting me does not go over well.  I do not find it funny if you say it around me.  I do not find it funny if you show it to me in any written form.  It is about as funny as eating a cat turd.  Which if you think that is at all funny, then I can only hope that we are not friends and you just stumbled upon this blog by accident.  I also hope that you do not own a cat.  

Now, that we have that cleared up... back to the word.  It is... the "M" word.  I cannot even type it because I will have to reread it and it makes me want to gag.  

If you do not know what word I am referring to, it is the existence of water in trace amounts... like humidity.  It is also a descriptive term that people often use to complement a good cake- which really pisses me off.  I mean, if someone sits down to enjoy a nice slice of cake- why would you want to make them vom by talking about it's "M"???!?  That's just freakin' nasty and wrong... just wrong.

Why do I hate this word so much?  Well, as I mentioned in my last post in regards to my favorite word- the physical vocalization of the word and what expression results on your face comes into play.  For example, when I say "bumblebee" my faces turns into a smile.  When someone (not myself, because I do not say this word) articulates the "M" word- they make an incredibly ugly face.  Normally, this is where I would ask you to participate and say the word so that you can see what I mean, but please spare yourself and anyone in your general vicinity.  Just trust me: ugly ass face.  

Ok- just so you are not tempted to say it, here is an example of what you basically would look like:

You might think that I am weird (in regards to my distaste of the "M" word- never for anything else), but I have learned over the years that a surprisingly large amount of people share my hatred of this word.  This has been a blessing in many ways because they too will never utter this disgusting word.

Since I personally knew so many people who hated it, I did some research (and by research- I mean I just now looked it up on google) to see just how common it was.  (Yes, I did this in hopes of you finding me a little less weird.)  You would actually be surprised at how many articles I came across... but long story short- A LOT of people hate that word.  (I really do not want to have to cite any of my findings- but you can google it too if you do not believe me.)  

Many people, including myself, would prefer it just be removed from the English language.  And, no- do NOT try to defend keeping it around so you can talk about your damn cake.  There are plenty of other descriptive words that you can use for that.  And, isn't the point of bragging about your cake to make people want to eat it?  I would hope so.  So, please spare 90% of the population and just choose a different, less offensive descriptive term.  

And, remember: taunting me with the "M" word = you think eating cat turds is funny.

I bid you adieu (not from a cat you sicko),

Katie

Meant To Bee

I failed to mention in my first post a very important fact about myself in regards to the English language... my favorite word of all time.... "bumblebee."

Why do I like that word so much?  Well, for starters when you say it- you smile.  Do it.  "Bumblebee."  See?  Ahhh...  

It definitely brings back memories for me too.  As a child, I use to swat carpenter bees that were burrowing into our house, with a badminton racquet.  Quite a demented pastime now that I think about it, but so damn fun.  I can still hear that "pop."  Ahhh...

I also like the bee itself, because it led me to my honey.  (Ba dum bump.)  For those of you who do not know the story… Let me begin…

I attended the most wonderful college on Earth- the University of Georgia.  It was an hour away from my hometown and where my best friends (both old and new) went.  This led to spectacular tailgates with people of all ages and their families.  Seriously amazing times... from what I remember.

One particular tailgate will forever stand out to me.  Everyone was talking about a guy there who was apparently having a severe allergic reaction.  Naturally, I grab my camera (the good ole' disposable kind- because that was all I was allowed to use in college) to take a picture of this creature for our "wall of shame."  (Yes, this wall existed in our apartment.  It was where we posted our disposable film outtakes of embarrassing images including ourselves, friends, and randoms.  Although, it led to a few fights- it was pretty amazing and I'm considering doing one in my current home.)

An example of something that would have made the wall: 

               (Yes, this is me.  I must have had some bad Chinese.  Please take note of the reflection in the mirror.)

Anyways, while at the tailgate, I could occasionaly get a good glimpse of this "allergic reaction guy" (we will call him Quasimodo [because that is what he looked like]) but not a picture (thanks in large part to my "high-power lens.")  

For some reason, people kept telling me things like "have you seen him when he looks normal?"  (I am assuming by normal they meant HUMAN?) and "Ya know, this guy is actually cute when he does not look like...this."  I just laughed it off with a "doubt it" and realized I should really stop hanging out with drunks all the time.

Someone finally introduces me to Quasi and after a very brief moment of shooting the shit (whilst trying my best to not look directly at what is supposedly his face) I shoot him straight.  "So, any chance I can take a picture of you?"  (I am assuming he had a confused look on his face... but....can't really tell?)  "You see... we have a wall of shame at our place and you would be perfect for it."  (The sales pitch approach seemed like a great idea after several rum and cokes.)

"Ummm, hell no."  (I would assume a glare or disgusted face followed, but again- can't tell.)

And... I am standing alone.  (Apparently, the sales pitch approach was a failure.)

But, guess who grabbed a picture!!!  (Insert my "shake it like a polaroid picture" dance here.)  It is important to note that I did not know I had gotten a shot until about a month later when I finally took my disposable Kodak camera to Kmart to get it developed.  Gosh, do you remember doing that??  It is also important to note that I unfortunately have no idea of the current whereabouts of this picture.  I am guessing it was destroyed by Quasi.

I later discovered that Quasi was Quasi because he had been highly intoxicated and on the way to the tailgate he decide to reenact a scene from The Whole Nine Yards, grabbing a bee (instead of a fly) out of the air and shoving it into his mouth.  (Because, that sounds like a great idea regardless of the insect?)  Evidently, bees do not like to be eaten by humans and Quasi is highly allergic to bees.

So, at the following tailgate, everyone is saying that the "Bee Guy" is back.  I figure out who he is (I literally had to figure it out because he now resembled a person) and we start talking.  He introduces himself (apparently I had not made much of an impression).  I smile politely and say, "Yes, I actually met you at the last tailgate."

He did the "Oh yeah- when I had that allergic reaction?"  (Yes, Quasi.)  "Yeah, some bitch kept trying to take my picture."

My polite smile morphs into my you should walk away now smile.  "Yep, that's the one.  And, I am that 'bitch' that was trying to take your picture.  Nice to meet you again."

Three years later... the bitch and Quasi were married.*  Ahhh.... bumblebee.

Buzzz,
The Bitch

*Yes, we were married (outside) on the hottest day of the year.  Literally.  But, that is another story-

Eye Don't Understand

Last night, Russ and I were laying in bed and I was reading aloud some incredibly important information off of my favorite news source, Facebook.  I suddenly stumbled upon an article about a local "Doc in a Box" (which I will refer to simply as "DnB" for the remainder of this post) that Russ and I had both been to in the past.

Stirring up memories of my experiences at this local establishment, I suddenly laugh.  The kind of laugh that surprises your nose for some reason and makes you snort.  (Luckily, I had already swallowed by vino).

You see, one night a few years back, I went to bed with my eye bothering me.  This was nothing new.  I wear contacts, I am not the best at cleaning my hands before messing with them, blah blah blah...  The next morning when I awoke, I could not open my eye.  Certain that I was going blind, I finally convince Russ that this is serious and he must drive me to the emergency room immediately.  Well, we settle (and by settle I mean I am at Russ' mercy since I cannot see to drive myself) on going to a "DnB", even though I feared they may not have the proper equipment to save my eyeball.  Russ however, was sure it was worth risking my eyesight to save some money.

So, I throw on some shorts (which turned out to be Soffe shorts [cheerleader shorts from high school] if that tells you how rushed I was; because, at this stage of my life I should not really own, let alone be seen in public wearing these) and some form of a t-shirt.

Russ helps me to the car, I mean heavens- I can't see!  The last thing I need is to fall and get another injury!

We finally get to the "DnB".  Russ takes me to a seat in the waiting room, where I must sit in agony and wait for an hour.  He goes to the counter to fill out the necessary paperwork and eventually returns.  With popcorn!  Popcorn!  This place has a popcorn machine!  Are we at a movie theater?  Well, I would not know if we were- because I can't freakin' see!  He offers me some and I glare at him with my one good eye.  No thank you, dear husband.  Apparently you forgot that I might be blind in one eye!  So, I am really not in the mood for popcorn.  Not to mention it is like 9:00 in the morning.

Finally after being forced to wait forever, sitting beside my husband who has been chomping away on what should not be anywhere near me at the moment, a nurse comes and rescues me.  She guides me to the back and helps me up onto the exam table.  They take my vitals or whatever all that stuff is called and tell me that the Doctor will be in shortly.  12 years later he decides to grace me with his presence, introduces himself and another lady who will be sitting in and transcribing everything we say onto her laptop.  (Now I felt like I just left the theater and arrived in court.)

Anywho- I relay the story of why I am there... he flips up my eyelid and there it is.  Fiberglass.  Fiberglass?  (I have heard of this substance, but how one goes about getting it in their eye is still a mystery at this point.)  This fiberglass had been stuck in my eyelid, scratching my eyeball every time my eyeball or eyelid moved!  (Which, no matter how still you try to keep them- they both move.  A lot.  Seriously.  Try it.  You will look like an idiot, but it really is practically impossible.)

The Doc assured me that I was not going to be blind, I had just scratched the crap out of my cornea and I needed drops and rest so it could heal.  Then he looks at his transcriber and asks her to stop typing.  He takes a seat and looks me in the eyes (I mean, eye) and says, "Now, is there anything else that you need to tell me?  This is a safe space and you can talk to me."

Now, I realize I am in the midst of recovering from shock from my traumatic eyeball episode, but I have not a clue what this guy is talking about.  He obviously sees the confusion/whaaaaaat? smeared all over my face and points down to my thighs.  I look down and then, even I can see, that they are totally covered in bruises.  I immediately do the surprise laugh, resulting in a snort.  (I would like to take this time to thank my Soffe shorts for revealing way more than anyone should be subjected to eyeball [ha].)

Now, when are thighs... covered in bruises... ever funny you are probably asking yourself?

"Well, you see Doctor... I was at a bachelorette party this past weekend"

"Ok?"  (Now his face is smeared with confusion/whaaaaaat?)

"Well... we had a party bus."

"Ok?"  (His face has not changed at all- head cocking a bit more).

"Well... this party bus... it had a stripper pole."

(Now he is doing the surprise laugh/snort.)

"It turns out, that I am not very good... especially when the bus is in motion."

The Dr. slowly turns to the lady with the laptop (who seemed to still be processing what she just heard) and said "you did not write any of that down, did you?"

She slowly shook her head side to side.

"Good."

Luckily, it was time for us to wrap up the appointment and for me to gracefully make my exit with my bum eye, badly bruised thighs, and Soffe shorts.  I quickly paid my copay, grabbed my non-beater of a husband who was trying to figure out why I was not talking and in such a hurry, and we walked out into the sunshine (which consequently really hurt my scratched cornea).

And, eye am out-
Raquelle Heavenhooter*

*You can find out your stripper name here: Stripper Name Maker

Alrighty Then

Evidently, the Starbucks' karma b**** is still bitter.

After waiting in a long Starbucks line of fellow caffeine-addicts (with my cookie-addict of a 2 year old) I finally get close enough to the register to feel like there is hope of that sweet nectar soon running through my veins.  In anticipation, I grab my phone to pull up my fancy Starbucks app and prepare to pay. (Because, I will NOT be that person who has stood in line forever and waits until the barista gives them their total before they pull out their form of payment like it is some shocking new sequence of events OR that person who has stood in line forever and waits until the barista asks for their order before they so much as look at the huge menu board that can be read by a blind person a mile away and pretty much everyone in the world has memorized by now.)  But, back to the point...

My phone dies.  Just dies.  That stupid apple figure pops up on a black screen to mock me (you know the one).  Was it on red/low battery for awhile?  No.  Had I accidentally turned it off?  No.  Had I brought my wallet in as a back up plan?  No.  Was I an idiot who decided to rely on technology?  Yes.

I know I must make a quick decision.  Do I try to explain to my kid that mommy is a moron and we cannot get the cookie he has been so patiently waiting on for 15 minutes, but we will run to the car and be right back?  Or, do I make a mad dash out of the store and look like a crazy person?  Obviously, I pick up my 30+ pound bundle of joy and sprint out of the store (of course the one time I am in Starbucks without my yoga pants and running shoes on).  As he looks at me (along with the 9 million people in there) I just smile and say, "isn't this fun? Mommy is running!"  To this, he cocks his head and his mouth falls open.  I meant to catch him off guard and shock him out of crying, but wow- he was super confused.

Then it came.  "Ummm... mama.... where Tuckie's cookie?"  (Yes, my son's name is Tuck; and yes, he often refers to himself in third person, "Tuckie").

"Oh?  Well, you see... oh look- bird!"  as I point randomly up in the sky.

I make it to the car in record time (thank you very much) and grab my wallet.  As soon as he sees the car door open he starts to get that look on his face of I am about to loose my sh*t if we get in this car without Tuckie's cookie.  I slam the door shut and smile really big (the kind of big where you get automatic crazy eyes) and say (in a Count Von Count accent for some reason) "Oh-a-kay!  Now it is a time to a go and a get Tuckie's cooookie.  AH AH AH AH AH!"

As he glares at me (probably trying to decide if he should cry or if he should tell Daddy to have Mommy committed) I briskly walk back to the store, hoping to catch my breath before I reenter and face my audience.

Expecting an applause upon my arrival, I find myself slightly disappointed that no one seemed to have cared or even noticed.  Or, they just felt bad for me and went with the "we just won't look at her" approach.  And, of course, no one in line felt bad enough to let us get back in the front.  When we make it back to the end of the line again, I can feel the daggers of confusion coming out of Tuck's eyes and burrowing into the side of my head.  I continue to look straight ahead like everything is totally normal.  I hear a simple, "Tuckie get apple juice box."  Continuing to avoid eye contact I nod my head and say, "Yes.  Yes, Tuckie get apple juice box."

At least they remembered the espresso this time.

Until a next a time- AH AH AH AH AH,
Count von Katie

P.S.  This will hopefully be my final post of this series of Starbucks drama.  Hopefully.  Assuming karma decides to LET. IT. GO.

Clarification & Today's Not-Happenin' Happening

Ok. So, after speaking with my translators (Russ, the hubs & Emily, my highly opinionated bff [insert threatening white girl gang sign for friend here]) I need to clarify a few things...

Mainly, the title of my blog- 
You see, when I went to set up this thing yesterday- that was as far as I was planning on going... setting it up.  (I am what you might call a "Small Goal Hoe" in that I like to make a lot of little goals that I can easily do to feel like I am actually accomplishing something big, even though that is often not the case.)  It just so happened that after a pot of coffee and two espressos... and another cup of coffee- I could not shut myself up.  I did not think about the title of my blog prior to setting it up and I thought that I could... and would... change it later.  (I am not sure if this is even possible to do though after it is created, because it is now a World Wide Web link.)  (See how impressive that sounded?)  Anyways- whilst in my caffeine haze, I kind of forgot.  I was also initially distracted by my frustration that there are apparently other people out there with my brain and everything I originally tried to title it was taken.  I found this to be both annoying and disturbing.

But, I digress...

I intended for the word "daily" to refer to my subject matter, not the future frequency of my posts.  (For this, you are welcome.)  I just wanted it known that my writings will mainly focus on the daily crazy things that occur in my (hence the use of "Katie" in my title) day to day life.  This will not be a blog about my extensive travels to the ends of the earth or my passion for fashion.  Although, if I make it out of the house not in yoga pants- I might write about that.  Because, it means I must have done something cool that day.

Secondly, I am technologically challenged-
Seriously.  The fact that I got this thing somewhat running is super impressive.  So, for those asking about "following" it- I am afraid that I just don't freaking know.  I think it might require that you have a goggle account?  It might just be a gmail account?  I am not sure if there is a difference?  I think you can sign up for blog emails?  Question mark?  If anyone ever answers these questions for me I will let you know.  Or let's be honest- I will probably have them write it down so I can just relay the message to you; because, I will have tuned them out way before they got to their point.

Now, today's not-happenin' happening-
I started off my day talking to Emily (luckily later than her preferred talking time of 7:30am) and one of my favorite life subject matters arose: karma is a bitch.  We were discussing something Emily had done to initiate the subject matter, but damn if that bitch didn't show up to see me later.  (I do apologize for using the 'b' word so much, but I really feel that in this particular case it is necessary).

I was in the drive thru at the crack house to caffeine lovers- Starbucks, when I took the following picture and wrote my typical smartass comment on instagram:

(Well lookie there- I got it on here!)

After getting my drink (which was supposed to be a triple, grande, nonfat, no-whip, cinnamon dolce latte) and driving away (naturally), I took a sip- only to find it was not what I had ordered.  Now, I am not super picky when it comes to my coffee (or wine) intake.  I have had the wrong order given to me plenty of times in the past and will usually just suck it up.  (<-- See what I just did there?  Did you get it?)  But, this was not a case of window delivery mishap.  Oh no.  They actually had the audacity to give me steamed freakin' milk with a dash of cinnamon on top!  I shit you not.  No espresso.  No fattening, cancer-causing flavored syrup.  Steamed freakin' milk.  What am I?!?  A CAT?!?!?  No. No, I am not a cat.

This was no accident or coincidence.  This was a classic case of lil' miss karma doing her thang (insert three cross-body sassy snaps, side to side head bob, and stink face here).  I'd bet my steamed cat crack that bitch is a Starbucks gold member.

Meow,
Katie

And so it begins...

Whatchu doin' Katie?*
Well, after pure harassment from everyone that I know, I have decided to attempt to write out the gibberish that rattles around in my head onto the electronic pages of the World Wide Web.  (Yup- I am bringing that one back).  Ok, maybe it was not actually harassment as much as a casual "hey... you should consider a blog"; and, maybe it was not everyone I know- but I think at least 3 people mentioned something.  And, now that I think about it - they were probably really just sick of me taking up their Facebook newsfeed with my pointless rants.  But, it took me 15 minutes (ok- 30... 40) to create this damn thing so I will at least pretend to do it for a bit. 

What made you finally cave?*  
Welp, I talk to myself a lot (probably to the point that I should be embarrassed or seek help).  Often by the time that I finish my "selfie-convo" (ha) I am pretty sure that I had made a really good point in there somewhere, but for the life of me I cannot remember what.  Maybe by writing down my thoughts I will remember some of these/solve all of the world's problems.  Or, at least with my rants- make a few people realize what jackasses they are. 

Now why would anyone actually want to read anything that you write?*
I have no idea.  This is why I have not attempted such a thing already.  What I have gathered from Facebook is that people enjoy sarcasm, stories that make myself or someone else look like an idiot, and stories/pictures of my kid.  Because he is really damn cute.  Seriously.  I'll show you later.  If I can figure out how to post a picture on here...

What should you disclose before wasting everyone's time?*
I believe that my best friend (shot out [or is it shout?  These are things I should probably know prior to writing a blog] to Emily- woot woot!) summed it up quite nicely the other day:

"I feel like everyone wants you to write a book. And while I think it would be absolutely hilarious (that IS why you are my best friend), I feel like there are some important things that they would need to understand prior to reading: 
1. It would be made up of one ginormous run-on sentence. 
2. It would be written exactly like you talk. 
3. It would be primarily comprised of non-sensical/made-up words (ex: Norwedish). 
4. It more than likely would require translation by your husband or myself."

I was quite impressed with the accuracy of her points.  Along with these, I would like to add:

5. I occasionally curse, although I have greatly improved in this area since popping out a baby. Well, I slightly improved.  Well, I tried.  It's a work in progress...
6. I tend to embellish.
7. I try not to whine in my posts.  But, I will often wine while writing them.  (And seriously, I really like wine and coffee.  I will most likely write while drinking one or the other.  And, usually it is a lot of one or the other.  You will probably often be able to tell which- but don't let the time stamp fool you).  
8. Me bitching in posts will occur.  A lot.  As I enjoy it greatly and I can only hope that someday the person that was the precursor to my bitching in the first place, might read my post and correct their foolish ways.
9. I love cheesy puns. (See #7).
10. I just rediscovered my love for italics whilst writing this post.
11. I will use words like 'whilst' more often than I should, and often incorrectly.
12. I would like to pre-apologize to all of my former English teachers and to anyone who prefers that words and punctuation be used in the correct manner. 

So, if you do not enjoy the destruction of the English language- you might want to depart from this World Wide Web page now.  It is not that I do not have appreciation for it (ahhh- double negative!), I just think that I can express myself better in my own tongue.  Especially if it is stained with red wine.

Cheers,
Katie

*These questions were part of a selfie-convo interview.  With that being said, I would like to thank myself for taking the time to interview me.