On being the eldest

I have four siblings.  Two brothers and two sisters.  That makes me the eldest of five.

Most of the time I would say I’m very loving and maternal towards them.  I’m sort of like a den mother type. 

But of course siblings can piss you off. 

We don’t fight often, but when we do, things escalate pretty quickly.  We get MEAN.

When you fight with a sibling, you don’t hold back.  

My youngest sister sent me this yesterday to say the sun reminds her of me. 



Ha ha ha.  😂 I have to say, I agree.  

Fifty shades of gross

Happy Valentine’s Day! ❤️❤️❤️

My in laws did us the awesome favor of babysitting. Yay for couple time!

My husband’s work friends all asked him when he was going to go see Fifty Shades of Grey. Apparently their wives and girlfriends are all dragging them to the movie.

I haven’t even read the book yet and I’m not planning to, either. My idea of a great book/love story is Jane Eyre. I can watch that on Netflix and read it on iBooks. And I have.

Michael Fassbender makes an awesome Mr.Rochester. 😍

I heard something funny on the radio about Fifty Shades of Grey. A DJ described the movie as “two hours of the stuff you fast forward through in a porno.”

Interesting.

Because one is the loneliest number

Still to be neat, still to be dressed,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

-Ben Jonson

Makeup.

That first step in the overall process of socialization for human females.

A grooming ritual performed primarily in order to portray an image of looking better than one actually is.

I’ve tried cosmetics in the past.  Sometimes I still do, just to fit in.  I seem to be the one woman on the planet that isn’t interested in this stuff that other ladies go crazy over.  Even my sisters think I’m nuts because I choose to head out of the house with nothing on my face except some moisturizer and sunscreen.

Something about makeup never appealed to me, besides the fact that even when it’s done right I feel I look more like Ronald McDonald than some Indian beauty queen.  There’s just something so illusionary about it.  That’s not to say I never tried to like it, though.

After a few YouTube searches on how to makeup tutorial, I gave up and decided that face paint application is apparently more complex than advanced calculus.  Just the amount and types of brushes they used confused the hell out of me.  Even the doctors that performed my two cesareans had less instruments to work with.

I’m also hopeless with jewelry.  My mom almost killed me for all of hers that I misplaced when I was a teenager.  You haven’t seen crazy angry until you’ve come across an Indian woman bemoaning the loss of her gold finery.

A lot of ladies out there are probably thinking that with my dislike for things that are synonymous with femininity, I’m really a man hiding two grapefruits underneath his shirt.  If I miss any more waxing appointments I just might fit that description.

But no.  All ovaries, eggs, and monthly bloating here.  My collection of clothes, shoes, hair care products, and perfumes can attest to that.

Wait a sec.  Who ever said you need to qualify in order to be a woman?

In the past I’ve been made to feel like an unsophisticated and simple country mouse due to my preference for the bare faced look, but I say to each woman her own.  You like going out caked in layers of overpriced cosmetics, go for it.  If you prefer the I just woke up, zombie look, go for that.  If you want to  grow out the hair in your armpits and not shower for a week, then –

Never mind.  Don’t do that last one.

For richer or for poorer, but not during the Colts game

Prayers for the tragedy in France.  “Peace cannot be achieved through violence, it must be attained through understanding” – Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Welcome to the newly renovated The View Through The Window.  I was getting tired of that old theme and I like to switch things up now and then.  I hope you like this new blog style as much as I do.  Now back to our regularly scheduled blog post.

He’s the good cop to your bad cop.  The fun loving parent to your disciplinarian.  The one who sneaks your kids candy during time outs.  I quote, “Daddy’s awesome and you suck.”

Point noted.

Husbands.  You gotta love em.  And because we love them, let’s start with all the things they do that make them wonderful :

-He comes home after work.

Moving on.

I’m just kidding.  We all know husbands do a lot more good than just come home from work.  Let’s add to the list.

-He comes straight home from work.

Still kidding.  Don’t get your boxers in a bunch.  The real list follows :

-He comes straight home from work to a crabby wife and hyper kids, yet still manages to remain upbeat.

-Is tired as hell but tells you to take a break.

-Knows exactly what to do when you’re angry.  When I’m mad at him, my husband starts cleaning.  He strongly believes that cleanliness is next to godliness because it prevents your wife from doing that head turning thing from the Exorcist.

-Doesn’t question the logic behind why I can be as grumpy as I want but he gets in trouble for not smiling enough.

-Worked for years at a job he hated because he felt he had to.  His hard work is what made it possible for me to stay at home with our kids.  This is the reason why I call my husband the real superman.  That and because he’s survived being married to me for so long.

-Is ever supportive, whether it’s you wanting to go back to school, starting a blog or turning off all the lights and pretending no one’s home when the neighbor’s annoying kids show up uninvited.

-Is the world’s greatest dad.  My husband has more patience than a monkey has love for bananas.  He can play make believe games with my boys for hours.  I would rather clean the house. Or watch paint dry.  Or clean the house while I watch paint dry.

-He lets you blog about him.

And since nothing and no one is perfect, here are things he does that make him so very annoying :

-You send him to the supermarket for cauliflower and he returns with lettuce.  You ask for parsley and he gets spinach.

-Half your kitchen stuff ends up where it shouldn’t be when he unloads the dishwasher.

-His version of cleaning is to dump everything in the kids’ toy box and/or the closet.

-You can always count on him to not answer his phone.

-Wouldn’t know his way around the kitchen even if it came equipped with exit signs.

-Thinks it’s okay to have a conversation with you when you’re brushing your teeth.  Or through the bathroom door.  But thou shall not interrupt viewing of football game.

-Thinks we are out of <fill in the blank> if a sixty second search for it yields nothing.

-Grins and says But I picked you when you tell him his taste sucks.

-Thinks sitting down to pee is a strange and foreign concept.

-His looking for something usually ends up with you finding it for him.

-His lack of attention to detail and failure to pick up on social cues makes you wonder if he spent his adolescent years devoid of human interaction.  When I was pregnant and mine no longer fit, my husband thought it was okay to tell my family I was wearing his underwear.

-Hogs the blanket.  Tosses and turns enough to wake the dead.  My husband’s nocturnal bed shaking (no, not that kind) once even woke him up.  He turned to me, still half asleep, and asked was there an earthquake? to which I replied no, darling, your ass was just doing its sleep aerobics thing again.

-Leaves all pantry and cabinet doors wide open.  Shutting them makes you feel like Vanna White after an exceptionally large puzzle solving on an early 90’s episode of Wheel of Fortune.  You know, before it went all touch screen.

-He lets you blog about him with the condition that you will do a similar post on wives.

Needless to say, I accepted the challenge.

I only just sort of don’t like you

It’s that time of year again.  When you get a little note in the mail from your doctor’s office telling you to pop in for your pap in.  Pap smear, that is.  I don’t know anyone that gets excited over doctor visits.  Just the thought of one gives me a low level panic attack.

I am a classic case of white coat paranoia.  I smell death everywhere in the exam room and see the grim reaper himself in a lab coat.  Okay, so I have a Chicken Little type of irrationality, but what do you see when you walk into a gynecologist’s office?  Needles and probes and some sort of steely aluminum shit in the corner that looks like an effed up version of Wall-e.  My first thought when I saw that machine was god damn, where the hell is he going to stick that?  I don’t think I have any hole in me big enough. 

But then again, doctors know more about your body than you do.  They also have their own unique way of relating the news to you. I ask my cardiologist what’s up with my heart and he’ll say well, you have paroxysmal supra ventricular tachycardia and/or quite possibly idiopathic ventricular tachycardia and I’ll open up my eyes big and wide, lie through my teeth, and say oh, yeah, of course! okay, that makes total sense now!, even more effing confused than before I asked the question and mentally ticking off the way I’d like things to be done at my funeral.  Dear Mr.John Hopkins, you need a crash course in how to explain non deadly afflictions in less deadly sounding terminology.

These cats look very much like I do during and after said scenario.

YyghrKHwhoop_de_doo_cat

As bad as it is, a cardiologist visit is nothing compared to an appointment with the gynecologist.  Having someone who looks like my grandfather tell me to lay back and spread my legs is disconcerting, to say the least.  They also seem very suspicious of my efforts at losing the baby weight over there.  It might have something to do with the fact that the baby starts kindergarten next year.

The question of so are you going to have more kids? is inevitable and I can’t answer Gee, I don’t even know when the next time I’m going to take a piss isI’m guessing it’ll be when you ask me to do it in a cup, but neither one of us knows for sure, right?  They of all people should know that kids don’t ask for an invite.  They just show up, as did my youngest, and leave you wondering where did you come from?!  I’ve had my uterus securely under lock, key, and alarm system since then.  Only god can hack that code.

Speaking of which, good god,  doctors love to judge you.  The way they ask how many partners have you had, with steely gaze fixed, makes you squirm and wonder if even that man who tried to feel you up in the crowded elevator counts, with the afterthought of damn, that was eight years, two kids, and some pounds ago.  If I gave him the offer today he would probably refuse.

The biggest bummer of all is that most medical professionals look more like Dr.Phil than Derek Shepherd.

dr_phil_bversus tumblr_static_derek-shepherd-photo

Then there’s the trust issue.  He’ll assure you he’s gentle when his speculum wielding leaves you requesting a fucking epidural, but if at the same time he tells you you have esophageal hepatitis type F aortic kidney disease with inflamed pulmonary hardening of the abdominal cavity, you’ll believe him.  I bet half the people reading this thought that shit was real.

Don’t let this post take away from all the good doctors do, though.  Don’t think that.  You know what I’m talking about.  That sneaky little thought that if a doctor did any real work, he’d be called a nurse.  That kind of thinking is not nice.  Sure, he might only pop in for five minutes, but those five minutes are enough for someone with years of medical experience and if he was any better at what he did, he’d fix whatever was wrong with you with a twitch of his mouth and only the halo over his head as a light source.  Unless he graduated from shadymedschool.com, in which case I’d fly my ass right outta there.  Doctors do 95 percent of the good in this world, if you don’t count the one that performed Dick Cheney’s heart transplant.  That mofo should’ve known better.

Coming up next, The Doctor’s Version : A Rebuttal.  Spoiler ahead : Includes pissed off as hell MD’s who claim they are unfairly blamed for all medical problems of every fucking patient we come across.  Might also include diagnosis of put down the Fritos and get on treadmill for smart ass female patient

Disclaimer : That was a joke and I don’t promise any future posts on a doctor’s version of the shit he has to endure at the hands of whiny patients when he just tells them stuff for their own effing good.  I mean, where would I find someone like that?

Cat pics courtesy of https://catmacros.wordpress.com/tag/biting-sarcasm/.   McDreamy pic courtesy of my dreams.  Dr.Phil pic courtesy of just pick any effing place, he’s all over the internet anyway.

It’s Jurassic Park around here and just call me Tyrannosaurus Rex

26-how-it-feels-to-be-around-women-on-their-periods

Warning : Intense bitching and discussing of female issues to follow.  Enter at your own risk.

Those dinosaurs?  They’re me.  The kid scared out of his mind, cowering behind the desk?  Anyone that crosses my path a certain week out of certain months out of the year.  It’s not always like this.  It’s not always bad.  It’s usually pretty easy, minus a few cramps and way too many trips to the bathroom.  But when it gets bad, it gets bad pretty quickly.  The angry verbal lava you are spewing from your mouth runs hot and fast and before you know it, there’s been a lot of damage done.

I don’t know how women who have to deal with PMS every month manage to survive and with their marriages intact.  My periods have always been pretty symptom less, but post pregnancies, they got complicated, just like everything else in my life.  Now I don’t know what each month will bring.  It’s like being on the Price is Right.  There could be a new car behind that door or a frying pan.  I could be writhing in pain and sofa bound, cursing my uterus, ovaries, estrogen, mother nature and the cosmic forces that made me a woman.  Or the week could breeze by with minimal discomfort and I can toss and turn and sleep in whatever position I want to without worrying about waking up to the Chainsaw massacre.

This guess and go game of my reproductive cycle is distressing.  It may not seem that way, but I don’t like being a bitch.  No, I really don’t.  I feel like when I am, it’s because I’m provoked.  Examples would be when the old fart next door is mowing his lawn for the >insert any number of your liking here, it’ll work< time and that too on a Saturday morning, when no one wants to see the ass crack of dawn.  I feel like I’m usually nice to a fault, but I’m sure my husband would disagree.

This post isn’t about me, though.  It’s about me in relation to PMS.  Premenstrual syndrome.  I don’t know why they call it that when you feel the symptoms before, after, and during your cycle.  Someone enlighten me.  The worst thing, in my opinion, about PMS is that you JUST CANNOT FREAKING CONTROL IT.  It’s like a damn affliction.  When I’m swearing at the spaghetti water because “how the eff do you dare to boil that slow, your mother must have been some form of reverse osmosis shit”, I know I look like a mad woman.  But I can’t help it.  It’s like you know the bridge has collapsed and there’s a bazillion foot fall but you’re going to go on ahead anyway because your brain has lost control of the stick shift that is your mental balance.  That’s what it is.  A momentary (long moment) loss of mental balance.  Describes it perfectly for me.  I just didn’t want to use the term out of respect to people who really suffer from mental illness.  But then they say PMS can sometimes be a form of mental illness.  This is such a face palm moment.

Anyway, I hope I didn’t gross you out too much and you managed to enjoy your little tour through the female brain during uterine shedding season.  And no, I don’t think women are superior to men because they have to deal with Niagara falls in the overalls every month, even if the vein of this blog post seems to be heading in that direction.  As someone once snarkily pointed out to me, men have issues that are unique to their gender, also.  Like how to deal with their wives when aunt flow is visiting.  I see my husband’s face when I’ve turned into the housewife from hell and I hate the look I see there.  It makes me sad that I’m so mean and he’s so helpful, which unleashes another spewing of demonic proportions brought on by the frustration of knowing I’m so mean and he’s so helpful.  It’s a crazy, vicious cycle.  Pun intended.

So there’s my rant of the day/ode to my sistas.  What’s that?  I shouldn’t blog about female issues because it’s a public platform and it’s gross and what’s my problem, do I have cooties?  Well, what can I say?  That’s just how I am.  I don’t mind discussing issues of the female persuasion in the company of males as long as it’s done aesthetically, meaning I won’t ask you to see if this tampon can fit inside your nostril but I can help you out if you want to know what medicine will work best for your girlfriend and her “female problems.” What?  I sound like a bitch?  Well then, you’ll just have to forgive me.  You see, I’m on my period.

Dinosaur pic courtesy of http://www.pmslweb.com.