Snarkfest

So after much consideration, I've decided I'm going to move the blog from Tumblr over to Blogger. It's a little easier to use for me, and it is a little brighter, and I've found it easier to add stuff without actually having knowledge of nuclear physics. So any further posts from this point on will be done at my new location on Blogger. http://snarkfestblog.blogspot.com/

One thing I like about that format is that you can sign up to receive emails when I post a new blog. If you could do that here, I have no idea how.

I work for a non-profit environmental group. I'm green. Ish. 

I try to be as kind to the planet as I can and leave as small a carbon footprint on it as possible. But when I read this blog about a woman who bikes her 6 kids around everywhere, I had to give pause. This chick has 6 kids ages, 6 through 11 and she doesn't drive. She CAN drive. She HAS a license, they OWN a car. But her husband drives a sedan but her kids don't ride in it. No, they ride in this thing she's got with a big 4 seater deuce coupe in the front (called a bakfiet), a kid bungie-corded to the back of her seat and another little bike-type thing attached to the rear for whichever kid has been punished that week. "Don't piss mom off or you get to ride in the rumble seat and have to help pedal!" Now, before you go getting all pissy and whiney about how much this woman is doing her part for the environment and teaching her children about being green and environmentally friendly, let me just say this: Seriously?

More power to biker mom. I give her all the credit in the world. There's just no flipping way on God's green earth that I'd ever agree to that shit. She used to have a Suburban and sold it when they moved. Ok, I'll give it to you that a Suburban is a big, bad gas guzzler. I'm guessing she HAD to sell the Suburban if she wanted to keep the 6 kids. Gas is pricier than food these days, so she'd probably have to sell a kid each week to afford to fill the tank. After 6 weeks, she'd be out of kids and wouldn't NEED the Suburban anymore. But that's a big-ass commitment to make. Give up my car and bike my kids all around the town? No flipping way.

14 does cross country and marching band. 12 has 4H and volleyball. Practices for these activities are everyday. (*The previously mentioned activities are only in the fall, in the winter, spring and summer we get REALLY busy). One child must be taken to one place at one time, and the other is expected to show up at a different location at exactly the same time. How I manage to make that happen is only by the grace of God. I am lucky enough to have a fantastic support system of friends, those friends have children 14 & 12's ages so they give them rides either when I'm at work or when I'm expected to be in 2 places at one time. But can you imagine me trying to return the favor? "Ok, you take my kid to volleyball practice along with your kid, and I'll pick them both up and deliver yours to your house after practice. Except you live 10 miles away and I'm riding my bike so your kid will be riding on my handlebars while my kid rides in the wagon I'm pulling through the dark country roads at 9:00 at night. You're cool with that, right?"

Yeah, I didn't think so. Consider, too, that my darling children have a nasty habit of missing the bus. Many of you are familiar with the on-going saga of 'did they or didn't they make the bus'. I promise, there will be many a blog on that subject in the upcoming months. (Are you reading this 14 & 12?? Want mom to shut up about the freaking bus already? How about making it everyday??) But can you imagine if 14 misses her bus and it's raining outside? "Mommy, I'm sorry, can you bike me to school? I missed the bus."

School is 12 miles one way. On winding country roads with no shoulders. She'll be missing school and we'll have the truant officer at our house daily if they expect me to bike that girl to school. Hell I won't even allow HER to ride her bike to school.

Now, I'm not judging so don't get all uppity with me, but I'm guessing that this mom of 6 is a home schooling mom. There is NOTHING wrong with that. I give homeschooling moms all the credit in the world. It's just not something I could do. I love my kids endlessly and would walk through fire for them, but there's no freaking way I could home school them. I just don't have the patience for that. Plus, so many of my friends are teachers and I'd feel guilty if they couldn't find work because I took away their job. AND, let's face it, I'm not smart enough to home school my kids. I had a conversation with 12 the other day about my hatred for algebra. I told her that 'numbers have no business being in math'. Yes, go back and re-read that sentence. I said 'numbers' but I MEANT to say 'letters' have no place in math. How could I be sure that my children are getting the best education if I myself have NO idea what's going to come out of my mouth next??

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. Biking mom probably does not have to bike her chilluns to school so that's one (or 6) less trips she has to make on her bike. Can you imagine NOT having to worry about your kid missing the school bus EVERY morning? It would be like Christmas EVERY DAY!!  Maybe I could have another home schooling mom home school my kids. And I could just drop them off. No, wait, back to the biker mom. I do think it's an amazing challenge, I give her much much credit for having the strength (the bakfiet alone weighs 100 lbs), the discipline and the wherewithal to run her brood all around the town on her Schwinn. It's just something that I would never even consider doing.

In our house, we have an adorable fat cat named Cinnamon, named for her beautiful golden orange coloring. Her nickname, however, is Dumbass, named for her penchant for doing absolutely ridiculous things. Dumbass has been with us for almost 11 years. She was born on September 11, 2001. Yes, that day. It's very possible that had she been born on a different day, she'd be nicknamed Einstein rather than Dumbass. Maybe she'd have the ability to pee in the toilet, feed herself, cook dinner and do laundry. But alas, that was not to be. She is now and forever will be our little Dumbass.

"But Teri," one might say, if one were to question me, "Dumbass isn't a very nice nickname to give to that sweet, adorable little furball. Why don't you call her by her given name of Cinnamon?" Well, Sparky, I'll tell you why. Dumbass is called Dumbass because she's a Dumbass. Plain and simple. If she was a smart ass, I'd call her Smartass. If she were sarcastic like me, she'd be nicknamed Wiseass. But no. This is no ordinary Dumbass. This is a Dumbass who continually does dumbass things to retain the nickname. Maybe if she only did one or two dumbass things, we'd go back to calling her Cinnamon. But no, she continues to amaze and perform Dumbass moves, which keeps earning her that moniker.

Don't believe me? Ok, how about some history.

Back in 2004, my wonderful husband was deployed to Kuwait, leaving 15 & 13 (who were 7 & 5) and myself to fend for ourselves at home. Both girls were in before and after care at their respective schools (THANK GOD FOR THAT) and I was working 10 hour days. So I would drop the girls off at school at 6:45, work from 7:30 til 5:30 and then go back and pick the girls up and we'd all go home to have supper. One fine, cool fall morning, we did our normal routine with one exception. 7 had to get something last minute out of the fridge. She did so and ran out the door and off we went to start our day.

Fast forward to 6:00 that evening when we returned home from school and work. 7 opened the fridge to get out the juice and what surprise does she happen to find in the fridge? One very cold, very pissed off cat. "Mom" said 7, "why is Cinnamon in the fridge?" What could possibly be your reply to that question?? "WHAT??" Was about the only thing I could come up with. Had she just jumped into the fridge when 7 opened it? I picked Cinnamon up off the floor after she jumped out of the fridge and she was pretty damned cold. Not frozen, because she wasn't in the freezer, but as cold as, say a gallon of milk? Cold cuts? A jar of pickles? Yes, she was that cold. Which could only possibly mean one thing. Dumbass had begun her illustrious career as a Dumbass by getting herself trapped in the fridge for almost 12 hours. When 7 opened the fridge in the morning on her way out, Dumbass had jumped in, surely out of curiosity, and had then gotten trapped inside. Only by the grace of God, or the fact that the fridge was plugged in and thus, air was circulating, did she not die. I checked her as I held her chilly, furry butt and she looked okay. Stupid, but okay. I put her down and she walked back over to the fridge. When 5 came in to open the fridge to get herself some milk, guess who jumped back inside.

Dumbass in a fridge

And now you're thinking, 'maybe she's not all that bright, but really? It's still not a nice nickname'. Your honor, I give the court People's Exhibit B:

Dumbass in a drawer.

Yes, our little Dumbass just HAD to know what was in the back of that drawer. And when she got in there, she couldn't get her fat ass back out. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "Why didn't you help her out?? Why did you take a picture of her struggling to get her poor little feline head out of that bad old drawer??" Because no one would believe me if I didn't have photographic proof of her Dumbass-edness. Seriously. My cat got stuck in a drawer. It sounds funny, but really, you NEED this image to actually GET how funny it was. And yes, before you ask me, once I took the picture, I DID put the camera down and help her Dumbass out. Eventually.

Then there are the normal cat-like things she does. Things like, sit in a shoebox that's obviously not her size. She probably would've preferred a size 12 shoebox but alas, my feet are only an 8 wide, so she wedged her fat ass into a size 8 shoebox:

Fat Dumbass in a box

We actually thought for the longest time that her ass was allergic to the floor, because if there was a piece of 8.5 X 11" paper that fell on the floor, she'd go over and lie down on it. If there was a package of toilet paper rolls on the floor, she'd climb on it and lie there, almost claiming it as her own. If we could just get her to USE the toilet paper, life would be grand. She would lie on ANYTHING that was on the floor to keep her ass from actually TOUCHING the floor. Then there are higher places:

Dumbass on top of a cabinet

I believe she climbed up on top of the cabinet to draw my attention to the rather large, dirty cobweb that was up there that I'm too short to reach without a ladder. Why she didn't just grab a damn paper towel and clean the damn thing herself is beyond me. But there she is, up there on top of the cabinet, looking down on everyone as is the norm for her. It's as if she's saying "Look at this awful, filthy house in which I live. Cobwebs! How uncivilized!" Little bitch.

However, she DOES have her cute moments, like when 7 came home from school one day, went into the bathroom, put down her book bag, did her stuff and left her book bag on the floor. We later found Dumbass lying on said book bag, because, God forbid her ass actually touch the floor:

Dumbass on a book bag.

I think this picture needs no description:

Dumbass in a sink.

It's almost like she's questioning my right to take her picture. Look at that face, she may as well be rolling her eyes at me.

This is, by far, one of my all time favorite pics of Dumbass:

Dumbass on 15's ass. (I can't remember how old 15 was in this shot).

This is another one of those pictures I'm particularly fond of:

Dumbass doesn't like dog.

This was Henry the day we brought him home from the shelter, lying in the cat's bed. Why is Henry lying in the cats bed? Because from the second we brought that cat bed into the house, the cat has scoffed at it, questioning our sanity. "Why would you purchase that? I'll never lie down in that thing, not while there are drawers, cabinets, boxes, sinks or asses for me to lie on." That's what she says in that little Dumbass cat brain of hers. But when Henry decided he wanted to lie down in the cat bed, Dumbass would have none of it. Look at her tongue. She's obviously going to eat the dog for having the audacity to lie down on HER bed (that she's never used).

Back in December, my incredibly amazing, smart, busy, gorgeous, funny and busy friend Holly texted me a picture of a 15 year old dog she'd found when she was out at a shelter looking for a dog to rescue and bring home for her son 11 for Christmas. 11 is 12's best friend. These two have been best friends since, like, 1974. Or so it seems. Anyway, I said 'that's not a puppy, I thought you were getting a puppy'. But Holly didn't see any puppies that caught her attention. She called me to tell me all about this old dog. She said his previous owners had him for all those years, and when they moved to a new house, they didn't want to be bothered by all his shedding. They tried shaving him but he kept on shedding and they didn't want to be bothered, so they left him at the shelter. Isn't that just like a dog? So she didn't come home from the shelter that day with a puppy. She came home with Clyde, a 15 year old dog with bad breath, warts on his back, awful arthritis and a gigantic heart. He became the family Christmas gift. Only he gave the family more than they could ever have imagined.

I have just been given a great compliment from a fellow blogger and I have to share! Kim from Not My Mom's Blog has just bestowed upon me the Versatile Blogger Award!

                                         Since I'm extremely green at this blogging thing, I truly appreciate this and accept it with a huge THANK YOU, KIM!!

 The Versatile Blogger Award comes with not so versatile rules.

Create a post for the Versatile Blogger Award

Add the Versatile Blogger Award

In the same post, thank the blogger(s) who gave you the award and put a link back to their blogs.

Nominate 15 fellow bloggers the Versatile Blogger Award and inform each nominated blogger by posting a comment on each blog

In the same post, share 7 completely random pieces of information about yourself

In the same post, include this set of rules

I'm going to go nominate 15 other bloggers but first, here are 7 completely random facts that I'm sure you were just chomping at the bit to know about me.

1. I hate wasps. Not the flying White Anglo Saxon Protestants, but the big brown ones with stingers and wings and......ewwwwwww.

2. I have 2 bunions, one on each foot. I had the one on my right foot removed when I was a freshman in High School, but alas, it came back.

3. Despite the fact that I refer to my daughters as 14 & 12, I do truly love them and could not imagine my life without them.

4. I hate liver, brussel sprouts and lima beans. 

5. I have a tendancy to speak before my brain realizes what's actually coming out of my mouth. This is normally followed by me putting a foot in my mouth.

6. I have a HUGE crush on the dirty man himself, Mike Rowe, of Dirty Jobs.

7. I can't stand Fred Willard or Martin Mull.

Here are my nominees for their very own Versatile Blogger Awards:

Rubber Chicken Madness

My Daily Jenn-ism

The Somewhat Sane Mom

Glitnir76's Blog

Moms Who Need Wine

Rants from Mommyland

Beware the Ginger Ninja

Crazy Mama Drama

Two Point Five Kids

You Know It Happens At Your House Too

People I Want To Punch In The Throat

Rage Against The Minivan

Overworked Supermom

Funny Pregnant Lady

Scary Mommy

A lot of my friends and neighbors know the story of Towpath, who is a pit puppy that was found near death on the C&O Canal Towpath close to where we live. One of our neighbors found him and brought him home, nursed him, got him the medical care that he needed and basically brought him back to life. Now he's a thriving, active little pup who, despite his physical scars, seems to have overcome the odds and is now happy, getting healthier everyday and is an inspiration to everyone who is lucky enough to meet him. Have a look at Towpath and his inspiring story here.

Towpath early on.

Towpath's scars, healing up a bit.

Look at that sweet face.

....being totally and utterly confused. I signed on to a Linky party (no, no hats or noisemakers. It's not THAT kind of party, just a cool list of some really funny bloggers out there) and see that I don't have NEARLY enough crap on my blog to get people to notice me. Sure, I've been whoring myself out there on FB to all my friends to share my blog on their pages, but with some great advice from the amazing Jen at People I Want To Punch In The Throat, I did the Linky thing, found a bunch of cool blogs, followed some of them in the hopes that they'll follow me back, and I successfully added the HTML code to my blog to put their buttons on my page (scroll down, then PLEASE go check those blogs out, you WON'T be sorry. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll enjoy, I promise).

However, despite my friend MEL's advice to check out a site that walks me through HTML, I still look like Helen Keller searching for the water pump. I added a link at the very bottom of each page to 'Subscribe to Snarkfest by email' but sadly, that link is in purple, so it didn't show up on the initial brown page that Snarkfest originally sported. Now I'm trying to figure out if I can change that color or if I have to change the colors of the blog itself. Please stay tuned as I wander around in the dark looking to make Snarkfest prettified.

Technologically challenged and yours in Snark,

Congrats to Ryan Lochte on winning the gold medal in the Men's 400 IM! 

Now that I've got your attention, I answered my phone today while sitting at my desk working and it was 14. Apparently, 12 came home from her PT appointment and made herself bacon and eggs. Now, before you go getting all 'oooh, you should NEVER let your children use the stove unsupervised' on me, understand that this was NOT something that 12 has EVER done before. Have we allowed her to cook eggs, soup, or God forbid Ramen noodles alone? Yes but we're usually somewhere in the house when she's doing it.  But bacon? Nope, this is a first for 12. One thing you need to know about 12 is that she is an aspiring chef. No shit.  12 spends more time watching Food Network than Nickelodeon (unless, of course, One Direction is on, then Bobby Flay can go pound salmon cakes up his butt).  She's gotten different tips, ideas and suggestions from Food Network and she really has made some cool creations. She even texted me a picture of a salad she made while at her grandma's house last week. So I wasn't horribly bothered by her bacon-cooking. But I can't say the same for 14.

Back to the phone call. 14 says "Mom, 12 came home from PT and made herself bacon and eggs and I asked her if she'd make me some and she won't." Now imagine me, sitting at my desk with a room full of interns to my left and a room full of my boss to my right. I just stared, unbelieving, at the phone thinking "think fast rabbit...." I told 14 to put 12 on the phone. When 12 got on, I said in my most terse, stern and quietly furious voice, "make your sister bacon. Don't ask me why, just make her the bacon. Because I said so." As the whining and arguing and 'but why can't she make it herself' laments went on and on, I hung up on her. After a few moments, after calming myself down and taking a few breaths, I texted her: "Because she is your sister and u love her. You are the one who loves to cook." To which 12 shot right back: "It's bacon! I could heat it up in the microwave if I wanted to! That's not even real cooking!!!" I believe the second and third exclamation points weren't necessary but I digress. I replied: "Then show her how." 12's response? "This should be fun."

I'm envisioning 12 in a red cape, devil horns and a pitchfork, with the flame all the way up telling 14, 'put your face closer to the pan, smell the bacon frying, feel the heat from the grease, don't be a sissy, get right in there! You wanted to learn!' And in my sick imagination, I see 14's contacts melting to her eyeballs as popping grease shoots up and hits her face like bullets. But I hoped for the best, and I did not hear the fire department sound any alarms so I can only assume that no houses were burned to the ground in the making of bacon at my house.

But wait, there's more.

Last night in our little burg there was a water main break, and we received word that there was a 'boil water advisory' in effect until further notice. Sweet. I had 2 cups of coffee, showered and brushed my teeth in that unboiled water, since I didn't get that little slice of info until I got to work. So after the bacon crisis had passed, my phone rings again and I see that it's 12. I counted to 937 and answered it in my most pleasant, quiet, calm mommy voice. "Mom, can my bestie come over and help me clean my room? It's okay with bestie's parents. And then after my room is clean, bestie's parents will come get us and take us to their house." "No, clean your own room." I said, trying NOT to attract attention to the fact that I was, once again, talking with one of my children on a personal call. "But mom.... blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.....etc" "Fine, do what you need to do. I'm tired of fighting with you. And make sure you and 14 don't drink any water. There's a boil water advisory happening." I relented.

"I know, they called. But I really want a drink of water. Can I boil some and then put it in the refrigerator?" Asks 12. Now, while the idea of my 12 year old daughter cooking bacon wasn't something I found to be terribly, horribly frightening, the idea of my 12 year old daughter boiling water, then putting it in a glass and putting the glass in the fridge to cool off scared the bejeezus out of me. I could not contain my displeasure in my response. "Absolutely not."

"But why not? I want a drink of water!" 12 pleaded. Now, I try to get my kids to drink water, I really do. I never keep soda in the house. We have milk, we have juice, we have Mio, we have Gatorade and we have lemonade mix. Today, for the first time in her entire life, she NEEDS a drink of water. She proceeded to hound and beg me to allow her to boil a pot of water so she could have a drink in 2 hours when it's cool enough to drink. Jesus by the time it's cool enough to drink, the water main will be fixed and she could just turn on the damn tap. "NO. I'm not going to argue with you, my answer is NO. Period. The end." I said through clenched teeth.

"Mommy, you sound angry. Is everything alright?"

Ya think???? I need to remember that this is my youngest baby daughter, the one I love, the one I adore, the one I'm going to sell to the gypsies if she doesn't stop calling me at work to ask me for a drink of freaking water.

Please forgive my rantings from the other day. I was feeling low and every time I tried to get out of my funk, I'd get dizzy and have to sit back down. That'll make anybody feel crappy. However, today, I went to the Physical Therapist and had an Epley Maneuver performed. Weird as this looks, it seems to have done the trick. Whatever little crystals that had broken free in my ear tubey-thingies (not the technical term!) were trying their best to escape my head, but the PT did this thing where he grabbed my head, spun me around the room, ripped my head off, juggled it with some clubs and a chainsaw, scotch taped it back on and I seem to be as good as new. (I wouldn't recommend trying that at home, unless you have really strong scotch tape). 

I've kept my head as still as possible all day (I'm starting to look like Lurch from the Addams Family) so as to get those nasty brain crystals to settle back down into the tubes and stay there. I've been running errands all day with 14 and after being on the go from about 9:00 this morning, I'm feeling better than I have been after lying around all weekend. So YAY for Epley, whoever he is, and YAY for the PT who took care of me. 

I've never actually climbed my walls before, but after lying around in the house by myself (ok, not really alone, I've got Henry and Cosmo, and Dumbass the cat but they don't have much to say and they don't get my snark), I'm tempted to try. You see, on Thursday morning, I woke up with bed spins. Not the good kind that comes from a night of drinking heavily, but the bad kind, where you have to lie there and wait for everything to come to a standstill before you can leave the bed. After breakfast and coffee, I went up for a shower to get ready for work. I moved my head in such a way in the shower that my entire world started spinning again. Fast.  Holding on to the sides of the shower to keep from falling, I opened my eyes to look at the floor and saw that the shower drain was spinning like top, uncontrollably and showed no signs of stopping.

Once my world slowed down, I exited the shower and immediately called the doctor. I was diagnosed with benign positional vertigo. Either a virus is in my inner ear or something broke loose and is wreaking all sorts of havoc inside my brain. Either way, I've had to take it very easy. Which for one day would've been fine. That was Thursday. Thursday, I took the afternoon off from work and just chilled out. I took off Friday as well, and again, just hung out on the couch napping off and on and watching crappy TV (how many episodes of Auction Kings can one watch before going absolutely mad?) But now I'm on day 3 and this shit is for the birds.

I'm registered to do this little race in Frederick, MD in September, it's called the Tough Mudder. My friend Joseph signed up to do one of these races in the Poconos in May and called me on his way home from that run to tell me how much fun it was. He told me about obstacles like the "Arctic Enema", the "Log Bog Jog" and the "Trench Warfare", combined with a 12 mile run. Who in their right mind WOULDN'T want to sign up?? But after talking with him, I apparently lost my mind and registered for the one in September.

The Tough Mudder is a run designed by British Special Forces to kill everyone who runs it. I can't imagine how more people haven't actually died. And yet, I'm registered. I'm on Joseph's team and I just can't wait to see him in the Arctic Enema, when his twigs and berries have retreated to the safety of his insides and ask him exactly when the fun starts. As we're leaping across flames, I want to see the smile on his face and experience the joy he feels when he crawls into the darkened tube of mud that slowly closes in on him as it's filling with water. Yeah, good times!

Our team was initially called "Team Fossil," however we are considering a name change. "Team Honey Badger"  just sounds more badass, and I've always wanted to wear a shirt that says "Honey Badgers don't give a shit". I may eat a snake if there's an obstacle that exists for that activity! The initial name, "Team Fossil" came about because apparently Joseph was the oldest member of the last team with which he competed in May and they jokingly called him a fossil. Well, the joke is on me. I do believe I will be the oldest fossil on Team Fossil or Team Honey Badger or Team I'm Going To Go Crying to my Mama.  Whatever. As you may have read in my blog, 45, I'm not that young anymore. I'm not dead yet. Just closer to it than many (most) others on my team. While I'm in much better shape now than I was in my 20's or 30's, I do love to eat. And because of that love, I need to workout harder and longer to lose weight, especially with my metabolism slowing down with age. Which brings me to our workout/training routine.

There is a team here in our area who has done Tough Mudders before and they have graciously invited us to join them in their weekly workout sessions. They are the Mud Dogs. And to quote Paul, one of the Mud Dogs: "The Dawgs let others eat from the same bowl!!!!" How awesome is that? The Dawgs training sessions are led by an amazing/psychopath/genius named Mike. In Mike's absence, various Dawgs step up to lead the workouts because they've been doing this for many months. I have not been to a single workout with the Dawgs that hasn't been completely and totally exhausting, and that's fantastic. We push one another, and there is such a cool camaraderie between all of the members of the Mud Dogs and the Fossils (Honey Badgers, whatever). It's never the same group of people twice, so I'm always meeting new people who are there for the same reason as me. We're trying to build up our strength and endurance for a race that is literally going to kick our asses. Mike's girlfriend Heather even created a video of the Mud Dogs (and Badgers). Very cool stuff. I'm in the blue shirt and white hat, close to death.

At 45, I just may be the oldest in this crew. And I appreciate that they've let an old broad like me join in the festivities and sweat right along with them. I've developed upper body strength that I didn't realize that I had. I've sweat like a hooker in church. But overall, I've had fun and look forward to our Tues/Thurs workouts much more than I actually thought I would. When Joseph told me that Tough Mudder training with the Dawgs was 'a blast and a harder workout than the actual Tough Mudder race' I thought maybe he had fallen and hit his head. Well, Joseph, you were right about the training sessions. Let's just hope you're right about the actual race.