Redneck Ninjas

So many blog-worthy events and so little time! Everyone (well, except me) in the house is asleep right now - 8:30am on a holiday morning - so let's see how much I can catch up before the "I'm hungry" whine-fest begins.

See if you can tell what's different in these two photos:




If you noticed that in the second photo the lawn has been mowed, the hose put away and the front steps cleaned up you'd be wrong! Because the hose was merely MOVED to another part of the lawn. What you're SUPPOSED to be noticing is the absence of the hideous shrubs that used to flank my doorway, like green, overgrown, poorly placed guards. The only thing they were good for was holding up some Christmas lights. Now you might be thinking that my house looks a little bare without them. A little naked and vulnerable. I agree, so help me think of what I should plant there instead. I was thinking maybe azaleas, but there are so many options!

Those of you that know my husband might be wondering who transformed my house, because you know that it was NOT him. He didn't even move the hose. He didn't even CALL the guys that moved the hose. There were two of them, and although they call their business Robin's Nest, I think they should rename it REDNECK NINJAS. Seriously! They got here in their truck with cigarettes dangling from their lips to do a little bit of siding work for us. They asked if there was anything else I needed to have done, and of course I keep a mental "Honey Do" list (so optimistic of me!). Before I knew it they had not only taken out these front door shrubs, but 4 more just like it AND the rotted half of the tree in the front yard.


I only have one regret, and that is not taking better photos of the redneck ninjas. One was at least 65 and I swear he climbed straight up my tree like a monkey with a CHAINSAW! He was the tree man, and below I've got a shot of him with his CHAINSAW. The other guy was the hawtness of the operation. There was some serious testosterone going on at my house. I mean, just look at the way he's holding that rake behind the tree! (Sorry for the bad picture, but I felt kind of dumb taking pictures of them while they were working and I was drinking lemonade and looking at a magazine in my cool living room. So I pulled back a curtain and took this photo through the window.)


So when all was said and done they only charged me a third of what I was told it would cost JUST to have the rotting tree removed. This is the opposite of what happened to my brother in Belgium who called a guy to help him trim his hedge and got charged over $1000. My poor, angry brother - you need to come live here so Redneck Ninjas can trim your hedge for some pocket change while you have a BBQ at my house and I take sneaky pictures of men wielding chainsaws.

Crying Over Spilled Milk

Anyone that has ever pumped milk from their breasts so that their child could have this precious nectar of life can understand that this liquid is to be treated in a reverential way. You don't leave it on the counter when pawing through the fridge for something to eat. You don't just toss a frozen bag in the diaper bag when you go out. While you don't necessarily pay homage to it... okay, you pretty much do. You put it away in the freezer and hoard it, like liquid gold. Not only does it represent your good mommyhood, it also represents peace of mind and freedom. And anyone that has ever exclusively breastfed a baby will know exactly what I mean.

Unfortunately, my trove is all used up. This photo is a picture of some of it before I went back to work, along with the extraction torture device, er I mean breast pump.


I'm at the point where I can barely stay ahead of the appetite. I've usually got enough in the morning put away for that day, but no more, and usually I have to stay up 'til 2am to even make that much. Anyway, so today I had a full day's worth ready in the fridge for my babysitter. I came out of my room (I'm working from home) around mid-morning to get a drink and I see all of the milk containers Empty on the counter.

HORROR. SHOCK. BOGGLING. Not-quite-passing-out.

I staggered back to my room in a daze (yes, I'm exaggerating a little, but my loyal readers need to understand the magnitude of this). By lunch-time I'd composed myself enough to come back out and hear the story. Apparently the nipple/ring wasn't screwed onto the first bottle enough so about half of it leaked out while she was feeding him. Since he was still hungry she warmed up another bottle and the nipple wasn't pulled all the way through the ring, so a whole bunch more spilled out onto the floor.

I always thought the saying, "Don't cry over spilled milk," was a little silly, because what's the big deal about wiping up some milk?

Now I know that spilled milk is a TRAGEDY, and I'll let you know when I'm done crying about it.

My Little Extrovert

At some point back in college I came across a new definition for extrovert and introvert.

Extrovert: Someone that recharges themself by being with other people.

Introvert: Someone that recharges themself by being alone.

It really struck a chord for me, because while I never considered myself an extrovert, neither could I identify with myself as a socially awkward and reclusive introvert. By this new definition I could embrace my introvertedness, despite enjoying parties. I just understood why I always needed some downtime afterwards. I have extroverted friends, but I've learned to make sure I get a break from them sometimes, because otherwise I start to feel really drained.

Just this week I finally decided my daughter is an extrovert. I wish I would have thought of it sooner because it would explain a lot. Maybe all little kids are extroverts, but it seems like I've seen other kids happily playing on their own. Mine doesn't do that. It explains why I'm so tired at the end of the day. Physically yes, but mentally too. Here's a conversation we have at least every 30 minutes:

Mama?
Yes?
Umm.. Mama?
Yes?
Umm, I was, um, are you listening?
Yes. What is it?
Mama?
OMIGOSH STOP SAYING MAMA!!
Don't say that to me! You said mad words to me.
Okay, you're right. I'm sorry. What did you want to tell me?
Mama?

I have to admit my new guilty pleasure is that I'm really enjoying the relative peace and quiet at work.