1. Brownies are good and will be done in about 40 minutes. Brownie batter is better, but gone.
2. Saying “myself” a lot doesn’t make you sound smarter. Especially when you use it in place of pronouns like “I”. For example, saying, “Myself and my boyfriend are going to the store,” makes you sound dumb, because that is not a situation where one should use ‘myself’.
3. Hazel pooped while she and Oliver were in the bathtub tonight. Thank God for Conner, because he cleaned it up. I was gagging and asked to please leave the room. It was really really gross. Conner also cleaned the bath toys, and rewashed both children.
4. Traffic was so bad on I-495 today that I left work at about 3:15 and did not get home (26 miles away) until 5. Unreasonable.

Elevator Usage

So, every day at least two or three people find my blog when they Google search for “How to Use an Elevator“.

I don’t know which is more sad–that so many people know how to use Google, but not an elevator, or the sheer number of people who spell elevator wrong. Or, maybe the fact that there really are so many people who are so dumb when it comes to using an elevator in the first place. Especially people who should know better–like the people who live in our building, where we have an elevator.

My Life is Complete

You know how occasionally something happens–you do something–that is just the ultimate.

This happened to me today. I have a knit (not by me) cardigan that I keep at work that I throw on when it is absolutely freezing in the audit room. (As an aside–I always wonder if they make audit rooms as uncomfortably temperatured as possible on purpose… to freeze/heat us out, maybe?)

One of the cuffs of this cardigan had come apart, so that it flopped awkwardly every time I moved my left arm. I keep meaning to bring it home with me and sew back up the side. But, of course, then my cardigan would be at home, and I probably wouldn’t do it anyway. So I never bring it home. This morning, the audit room was freezing as usual. But I just couldn’t bear the thought of putting on the floppy arm one more time.

So I grabbed a darning needle and a couple of rubber bands, and sewed together my sleeve.

My life is now complete–I have done something knitterly with office supplies.

And the Joke Falls Flat…

As usual, I was walking around with Hazel in the moby, and her little legs were poking out.  Someone gushes, “Oh, look at those wonderful chubby legs!”.

I turned around and said in what was an obviously joking voice, “Hers, right?  Not mine?” 

The person didn’t get it.

Don’t you hate it when you’re clever, witty, and fabulous and the people around you just don’t appreciate it? 

Because Yesterday Wasn’t Enough

Today, I had Hazel in her Moby again, and was riding on the bus.  A sweet old lady got on the bus and asked “Is that a baby in there?”.  Dumb question, but she was old, so we’ll move on and not mock her.  Especially since when I said yes she looked absolutely delighted. 

The woman sitting beside me then says, “Oh, I was wondering that too.  I thought maybe it was just your stomach.”

Um, hello?!  First of all, you’re saying that you thought that me + baby was just me?  How big and misshapen do you think I am?  Second of all, I had a HAT on Hazel.  A freakin’ hat!  No, I generally don’t walk around calling attention to my misshapen tummy fat by covering it with a sweet brown-and-pink paisley HAT!

Idiot woman.  What is wrong with people?  Think before you speak, folks. 


In recent months I’ve been wondering: is there a requirement that in order to be a receptionist at a doctor’s office that a person has to pass a ‘surly’ test? And an incompetence test?

I feel like every doctor’s office I go to, the receptionists are rude, mean, and inconsiderate. When I was first pregnant with Hazel, my OBGYN’s receptionist implied that I would lose the baby before my next appointment. At Hazel’s pediatrician today, Hazel was crying bloody murder, but the receptionist kept interrupting me while I was trying to make her follow up appointment… interrupting me to talk to the other receptionists. Finally, I said I’d call to make an appointment and left. I wanted to ask her if she realized that when a two week old is crying like that, it means she’s probably hungry. So my milk is letting down. I’m probably stressing out because my newborn is crying. The last thing I want to know is the gossip of what ‘the girls’ are doing later. Give me a break!

The receptionist at my dentist’s office was one of the ones who was berating me about getting a second c-section and not trying for a VBAC.

So, is it a secret rule in the receptionist manual?