Tuesday, September 26, 2006
"The web address below is for a new makeup line that Nordstroms is going to start carrying, but they are trying to get the word out first by selling everything for a buck… Don’t know if it is any good but I ordered some, what the heck for a dollar you cant complain…"
Monday, September 25, 2006
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Dear Boo Bear,
I think I start every one of these letters with, "I can't believe it's been ___ months." But I can't. The past 8 months can't have possibly gone so fast and yet I watch you growing every day. I can't remember when you were "little" hardly, but then you we go to get you wieghed and you haven't even doubled your birth weight yet. You eat like we will take it away from you, and don't worry I won't. You have no qualms about telling me when you don't like what you are eating, you just don't eat it. You clamp your little mouth shut and make your turtle face and I know (I think) that you don't like it. I also know that when you do like something, you will eat and eat and eat until I don't see how you could possibly put all that food in your little bitty body, yet you do.
You have finally started showing us when you are excited too. I was beginning to worry that you might be too laid back. When you get excited you flap your arms up and down and if I am holding you, my arm gets a nice little beating. But it's so darn cute, so I let you beat on me, as long as that means you are happy. You rarely get to see your father during this time of year because he has to work all the time, so when you do, you smile so big and get so excited, beat, beat, beat goes the hand. He tries to get you out of bed every morning for just a small glimpse of you. You hug his arm while he changes your diaper and play and when he brings you into our bathroom as I blearily brush my teeth, there goes that arm. When I come to get you in the morning, you cry, because, hey lady, you got the foods, forget my diaper, gimme the boobie.
You are becoming mobile and I am running around in circles chasing my tail about what to do about it. The other day I set you in the middle of our very long bathroom like I always do to take a shower. You promptly slipped onto your stomach and began scooching towards my closet. Since I couldn't recall the full state of my closet and despite the fact that my floors are filthy, I really didn't want you chomping on my shoes, I banged on the shower door to grab your attention. Grab it I did as you moseyed on over to check things out. Two minutes later I realized stupidly that with you laying right outside the shower door, I potentially could be stuck in the shower. Now there may be times, quite frequently really, that I would not mind being forced to hang out in the shower, but this was not one of them. Something about inquiring eyes and the lack of relaxation being the reason. Luckily, you laid your head down and the shower door was just high enough to skim over your helmet. I am sure this is just the beginning of how you will terrorize your Mother, dear girl.
Your smile still makes all the worlds problems go away in one fell swoop and when you laugh, I could conquer anything. You make me laugh with your giggle and your mischevious little grin. Speaking of grin, you are getting your bottom two teeth. I will not say anything about the teething experience for fear of jinxing myself and ruining the rest of my life as a mother. I plan on having other children, no need to mess of the balance of the universe with one stupid comment. Despite the doctor saying from the day you were born that you would teeth early, you waited until 7.5 months, just like all the average babies. You are far from average though baby girl.
You have started to discover that your hands belong to your body and will stop what you are doing and look at your hand while you slowly open and close it. Open. Close. Open. Close. Then you resume what you were doing. Your favorite toy is a tooth brush that has some sort of noise maker in the base of it and you fling that thing around like you are playing an instrument. Of course after slobbering, I mean, brushing your teeth, on it, you like to fling the slobber like the best of them too.
You have definitely found your outside voice and you love to screach repeatedly. This is a huge hit at playgroup because all the older children think it's fun too. Not so much. Mommy likes her head feeling like something other than the day after a college party. If I am going to have a headache, I better get the fun that came before it. You have also started blowing raspberries. Not on anything, but repeatedly pursing your lips and blowing like there is no tomorrow. Cute in general, not so cute when you have your mouth full of food.
A few days ago I sat you in your crib so that I could vacuum your room and you promptly grabbed the side rail and pulled up to standing. Holy Crap on a stick, batman, help me. You then let go and fell over and cried and cried. When I sat you back up you promptly grabbed the side once again and pulled yourself back up to standing. Three days ago, we walked in to get you in the morning and there you sat all by yourself. Gah! We have now lowered the crib and I go back and forth every day with whether or not to take out the bumper. I fear you will use it as a foot hold for climbing, but then all also fear you will get your little hands and feet stuck in between the slats and break something. Half a dozen... Today I came to check on you about 15 minutes after I had put you down for your nap. I opened the door and there you sat playing. When you saw me, you quickly flopped onto your stomach and laid your head down. I couldn't help but laugh as I walked back out of the room. You little sneaker-pot.
It is only a matter of time until you figure out that you can move faster on your knees than just pulling your body along with your hands. You move very quickly now and I can no longer work with you on the floor because you move quick as a flash under my desk, taking a beeline straight to all the cords and wheels and other fun things I can worry about you killing yourself with. I guess it's time to baby proof (is there really such a thing) this house.
You have recently started to sleep on your face. This terrifies me, but there is nothing I can do. You sleep mostly on your side or stomach now with your nose and mouth buried in the mattress. I can only hope that when we take off your helmet you will stop doing this as the helmet is at least a little bit of a buffer. My sweet girl you are too cute when you sleep though, with just the smallest little snore. I am constantly coming in and placing my hand on your back, making sure that you are still breathing. Please keep breathing.
Boo Bear, you light up my life. You bless me in ways I never dreamed of. I love you. I love you. I love you. A million kisses a day.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Did I mention we don't have a home phone, so all my numbers are on that cell phone.
Oy to the Vey!
UPDATE: I talked to a Cingular rep. He told me to turn the phone off and then back on. All the numbers were there. I told him he was a genius.
Moral of the story: No more open face phone time for Boo Bear.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Hubby: "Look, it's Pittsburgh and Missing In Action."
Preface: We have an outdoor cat named Tigger.
Hubby: "Whadda up my Tigger?" (Said in the way Conan O'Brien says "Whaddup my babieees!"
I gave him THE LOOK, (I HATE the N-word) and he says, "What, that's how you greet the cat homeys."
My hubby is very hard on his cell phones and we have to get him a new one about once a year. His current phone is at the end of its life. The end button and down button and various others no longer work. In order to hang up his phone he has to hit a series of buttons. I joke that he is entering the secret code. I told him, "We've discovered Mission Impossible IV, hanging up your phone."
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
For this month's Blogging for Books, write about a time when you either: 1) learned a harsh life lesson, got punk'd, or simply had someone make an ass of you;2) gained a spectacular new insight into life; or3) decided to educate yourself about something.
The following story probably encompasses all three, because I got schooled for sure and made a fool of and certainly learned my lessons, albeit quite slowly.
I was 19, a sophomore in college, the epitome of young and carefree. Still enjoying the newfound freedom being away from parental guidance gives. Little did I know that this year would forever shape my relationships with men. My roommate and I both worked at a country bar and decided to go hang out on a Tuesday night since we were both off and what better place to hang out than where you work (read: cheap drinks). Long story short, I met a guy. He was cute, he was charming, he seemed perfect. That should have been my first red flag.
We started dating and moved along quite quickly. Pretty soon he was staying at my place a lot. Of course, his living situation was the couch at a friends' one bedroom apartment where 5 other guys were living as well. Second red flag, duh!
One weekend we decided to make the trip up to north Texas to meet the 'rents (his, not mine). I had to work, but we decided to leave late after work, so our drive from Austin began around 11 PM one night. Not sure why now, but we had borrowed one of his buddies cars to take with us and had to clean it out because it was full of beer cans. On the drive we talked and talked and it was during this trip that I saw just a glimpse into his shady past. He told me about warrants for traffic violations and minor other things as well as a little check fraud thrown in for fun. BIG RED FLAG WAVING WILDLY. RUN THE OTHER DIRECTION. But he's cute and did I mention he's cute so I'll just overlook that little bit of law breaking.
About 4 AM we are about an hour from his parents place when it happens. The lights, red and blue behind us. He is driving, and oh, by the way, license suspended. No biggie, right. The short of it. Cop. Window. License and Registration. Run license and registration. Step out of the vehicle. Search the vehicle, find beer can. Handcuffs (him, not me). Crying (me, not him).
At this point, I am still a young, scared female whose heart beats out of her chest every time she's sees a cop, not to mention getting pulled over. I am freaking the hell out. The officers won't let me go with them to the jail, because duh there is no where for me to hang out. We are in the middle of no where and I have to now drive to a town I've never been to, call people I have never met and tell them that their son is in jail. (Little did I know that they were used to this) But I was not used to this.
I'll spare you the details of the meeting the parents, the trailer, the missing teeth, the (and I am so not being a snob here) below my level of living that I was accustomed to. We discuss how we (I) will get him out of jail. He calls crying, "get me out of here." CRYING. (Say it with me, SUCKER) Cost of his freedom? $2000.00. You read that right, two, zero, zero, zero dollars. I don't have that kind of money. His parents sure don't have that kind of money. I call my best friend and she loans it to me. His father assures me that it will all get paid back, every cent, no problem, they will figure out a way to pay it back, we're good for it, blah, blah, blah, lies. We deal with the transfer of the money and after 24 hours of no sleep, spring him from the pokey.
Skip forward two weeks. I'm waiting at work, for Mr. Wonderful-not-so-much to pick me up from work. No call, can't find him. Finally get a call from one of his friends. Bet you can't guess where he is? JAIL, again. He calls me CRYING again. Bet you can't guess what I did. If you guessed, left him there, well, that would be the logical thing to do, but no, $800 later and his truck impounded (where it would stay forever), we were back home. One big happy, stupid, couple.
Life went on for awhile without him getting his butt thrown in jail and it was all hunky dory while his best friend and other friends all moved in with us and then his sister moved in with us and I raised her and bought her clothes and blah, blah, stupid, blah, sucker, blah. One night we had a party at our house, his idea, not mine and he disappeared. He was gone all night and the next day. I had learned by now that I would call the jails first, then the hospitals. This was the night I found out he was cheating on me. This was the night that naiveté slapped me in the face, called me its b&$ch and said, honey get OUT! So I did.
A couple months later my roommate and I ran into him and the hussy he was cheating on me with in a bar that we frequented. My best friend worked for a lawyer at this time and we had spent months trying to get the money back that he owed us for his jail stays. (We never did see any money) He had recently received a phone call from one of the attorneys regarding the money. He told the lawyer that I was paying all the money back. LIAR. (That is actually what did end up happening, but it took me 10 years to pay back and lost me 4 years of a friendship) So when I saw him there with the hussy, I walked up and asked him what kind of man can't pay back his own debts. The hussy stuck her hand in my face and pushed me. After recovering from my initial shock, I lunged at her, I was going to beat the crap out of this girl. I've never been known to be a fighter, but I will defend myself and I do have a temper if riled up enough. Unfortunately my roommate had gone to get her boyfriend and he showed up just in time to pull me back. I was pissed. Roommate was pissed. Bouncers were called, things got ugly. We knew the head of security so my roommate was trying to talk to him and he was trying to calm her down and she shoved him. It was innocent really, but the other bouncers didn't know that she knew him. We were thrown out of the club. The club we were regulars at. We made it halfway home before we spun that car around and headed back. This was our turf and I was not about to let him or her get away with kicking me out of my own turf. When we got to the door we had to agree to behave in order to be let back in. We did, but only because Spineless and Hussy had left.
I won;t go into the details of the verbal abuse I took during this relationship and the person that I became while with him. Let's just say I'm not proud of who I was during this time. I'm not proud of things I did during this time. I'm not proud of the stupid mistakes that I made or how stupid I felt for letting someone like this get the better of me. This man was a con artist and a coward and probably still is. God help any woman that comes across this man and God help any woman who actually marries him. I know that people can change, and maybe he has, but I doubt it. These were hard lessons and ones that have shaped every relationship since then. I can tell you that I have never let someone treat me like that since and I never will.
My next boyfriend after this one got a nice little lecture when we started getting serious. It was pretty simple, you get thrown in jail, don't call me because I won't be the one to bail you out.
Moral(s) of the story: If it looks like a loser, walks like a loser and talks like a loser, it probably is. If he gets his butt thrown in jail once, you might bail him out. If he gets his butt thrown in jail twice, LEAVE HIS BUTT THERE.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Shooter is my nickname given to me by my darling husband. Interesting name you say? Technically Shooter is only half of it. My full nickname in all it's glory is Pooter Shooter. Now, while you go get that visual/auditory out of your head, I'll wait. It really has nothing to do with either pooting or shooting. My husband generally finds nicknames for everyone he becomes close too. Some are more creative than others. When my hubby and I were just friends, he started trying to come up with a nickname for me. The first one he tried out was Cheeseballs and frankly, I didn't quite like that one. Again, doesn't bring up the greatest visual. Well, one day he started calling me Pooter Shooter and it stuck. The nickname has many variations, some of which I never thought I would find endearing, but I do. He may have to stop using them thought when Boo Bear gets a little older. It will be hard enough when she tells her teachers that her Mom's name is Shooter, but using some of the other variations such as Shooter Acapulco, poo head, poo poo shoo, poo shoo, may just get her kicked out of school.
The station part of Shootersstation comes from a gun range that I pass on occassion, it's name is Shooter's Station, hence the name of the blog. I am not a "shooter" of real guns, wasn't raised around them and don't care to shoot them at all. They make me nervous, but I thought it sounded like an interesting name for the blog, so it stuck.
And that is how I came up with this here blog's name. How about you?
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Friday, September 01, 2006
It's not the greatest picture, but this was taken on our mass exodus from Hurricane Rita last year. We took back roads to Austin and made it in 6.5 hours or so, decent time considering. This was taken in Hutto. Note the Hurricane Victims Collection sign on the right. This trip was surreal and all the days surrounding it were surreal. I can only imagine the experience Hurricane Katrina was for those who lived it.