I Guess I Asked For It

Don’t you just love it when people who don’t even know you or know very much about you give you critical advice that you MUST follow or you’ll regret it?  I’m still stewing over a situation I got myself into today and have moved from kind of hurt to pissed off.

Miles is having some minor health issues and I thought I’d hop onto my local Weston A. Price Foundation listserve to find out what their thoughts were on traditional, nourishing foods to address the problems and help heal him.  After all, I’m  big believer in food being our medicine.

So, silly me, once I explained the current situation, I checked back eagerly throughout the day to see what people might have to say.  And lo and behold what they had to say was this:

I am “allowing” my child to only eat certain foods.

My child is a picky eater.

I need to “nip” his “picky eating habits” in the bud or I’ll “regret it” later.

Definitely don’t allow him to snack during the day, 3 squares and that’s it

and, my personal favorite so far

I should just serve him his dinner and if he doesn’t like it he can eat again at breakfast.  (oh, yes? really?  feel free to come to my house at 1:37 a.m. when he wakes up crying from an empty belly and YOU be the one to get up with him, feed him and then get him back to sleep. or not. because maybe he won’t be ABLE to get back to sleep for another 3 hours. feel free to just come and do that. that’s fine.)

First of all, all I asked for was some dietary advice.  I thought this was the Weston A Price group, NOT the James Dobson group.

Secondly, you have no idea about me as a parent but even more specifically about my son and the type of child he is.

I pick my battles with my son.  They are many. He is persistent. I pick the ones that I have the most chance of winning.  The rest is a non-issue.

My son doesn’t like green beans?  What do I care?  He eats curry!

It’s not that he’s picky, he just could care less about food.  He’d much rather play hungry than sit and eat and not play.   And that’s what he does. Unless I remind him to eat…and remind him..and remind him…and cajole…and sit there…and finally put the food into his mouth….and 45 minutes later he’s eaten a 1/4 cup of oatmeal.

Who has time for that?

I make sure that the things he likes best are of the best quality I can afford and if he won’t eat onions, well, I for one am not going to get my knickers in a twist.

This child is more persistent than 3 kids put together.  Someday I’m sure that will be a good thing.  Right now, as his mother, it seriously drives me to the brink sometimes.  Look, YOU KNOW how he is if you’ve read this blog from a few years back…go refresh your memory if you need to, I’ll wait.

So he has a limited menu of likes?  He can freaking READ and WRITE.  So stuff it, ladies.  Don’t judge me, don’t judge my son. If you don’t have anything actually useful to say, don’t waste my time with your preachy drivel. Go away and ferment something but leave me alone.

 

Sew Merry

I hate Christmas.

There now you know.

Bah. Humbug.

Every year I tell myself I’m going to start early, start getting presents early, like really early, like May and then you can parcel out the money you are spending over the better part of a year instead of ending up, 2 weeks before Christmas realizing that a) you actually don’t have the money this month (again), b) you don’t have a clue what people would really value even if you could buy it for them and c) it’s going to be “homemade and handmade” yet again.

Then you work yourself into a fevered frenzy the last week trying to make and bake something because even though you’ve told everyone you won’t be doing gifts this year, the fact remains that you feel like an awful  heel if you didn’t have at least SOMETHING to wrap and give.

Even if that something is COMPLETELY LAME and everyone will be like “uh, thaaaanksss”, yet another home/handmade craptastic gift from  Michele, who excels at craptastic, far-from-perfect and still essentially useless gift-making.

And everybody feels like Ralphy from The Christmas Story

(http://hookedonhouses.net/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/bunny-suit.jpg)

Well, at least I don’t make them WEAR anything I make.

And so in the back of your head are all the upcoming things that you will be paying for in the next two months (car seat, midwife, doulas, birth pool, diapers, WHO KNOWS WHAT ELSE???) and you are sewing LAME GIFTS like mad when what you really want to be sewing are diapers because EIGHT WEEKS is not that long (and still you have to re-configure Miles’ room to accomodate #2 as well) and you have all of ONE extra dish made and frozen so far when your list has about 8 more things that need to be made (oh, and how to fit THOSE into the grocery budget) and then you still have to go to the grocery store with your $25 for this week and suddenly your pre-schooler took out the humidifier filter when you were filling that and you realize you need a new filter and so that means a stop at Target and then said pre-schooler wants another Blue’s Clues dvd (and you  realize that YET AGAIN you’ve forgetten to get the other dvds back in time, which means MORE fines) so a stop at the library will need to happen.

And also, how in the world have you managed to get not one but two medical appointments scheduled THE WEEK OF CHRISTMAS HELLO WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?, therefore cutting into yet more time.

And you melt down at the thought of all the running around you have to do and say you hate Christmas and then your preschooler gets really upset and then you decide that you need to relax a minute so let’s read a book and on the way to the bedroom to get a book, your preschooler trips over all the toys lying on the floor and so then you snap and YELL AT HIM for no other reason than his toys are on the floor because you are AN EVIL MOM and then you feel horrible and tell your preschooler you have a headache and need to go to the bathroom for awhile and while he “picks up” his toys (aka, plays with), you go sob in the bathroom over the counter, dripping snot and mucus everywhere and SWEARING that NEXT YEAR you are cancelling Christmas FOR REAL (except for your preschooler’s gifts) so that you won’t find yourself in the same condition NEXT year, which you won’t because by then you’ll have forgotten all the misery.

At least the Christmas cards got out on time.

Merry Christmas.

(bah)

Open Letter to the Idiot Who Almost Made Mrs Fussy Crankypants Smash Into Him Because He Doesn’t Know How To Drive in the Snow

Dear Idiot:

It came rapidly to Mrs Fussy Crankypants’ (aka, Grumpy Pregnant Woman) attention that you do not know how to drive in the snow.

Let’s have a little basic science lesson to ameliorate this situation, shall we?

“Snow” (that white stuff that falls from the sky; look around you, there’s a bit right now on the ground) is a kind of frozen water that falls onto the ground when it is very cold during the winter. This “snow” has a detrimental (“detrimental” means “bad”) effect on driving because it “interferes” (“interferes” means “messes with”) with “friction”.

“Friction” is a natural force that helps your car start, continue and stop.  So if “snow” “interferes” with “friction”, THAT means you can’t start, continue or stop as quickly (“quickly” means “fast”) as when it is not “snowy”.

So, when there is “snow” on the street, and you are trying to gun it across five lanes of traffic because you don’t want to wait and sit there spinning  your wheels in the “snow” while Mrs Fussy Crankypants (aka, Grumpy Pregnant Woman) heads straight toward and has to hit the brakes, that could cause an accident.

And, Mr. Idiot, Mrs Fussy Crankypants (aka, Grumpy Pregnant Woman) PROMISES that you do not want to make her hit you. You would EXTREMELY regret it. Mrs Fussy Crankypants has a whole TANKFUL of pent-up hormones that she does not get to vent nearly as often as she would like to via vast, long and inventive strings of invectives (that means, “bad words”) that she saves for emergency situations.

So, Mr. Idiot Who Doesn’t Know How To Drive in the Snow, the next time you are tempted to cut across five lanes of traffic because you are an idiot when it is snowy, please recall this little science lesson and be advised that you would do well to avoid at ALL COSTS forcing Grumpy Pregnant Women to broadside you.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Fussy Crankypants
aka, Grumpy Pregnant Woman

Ditch Digging FAIL

Last week after a torrential downpour, The Fussypants’ garage flooded.  The Fussies went out the next morning after the rain during the night to standing water.

Sigh.

So, no big deal. The Fussies can dig a ditch, line it with perforated PVC and run it out into the yard.  POIFECT. A cunning plan.  Manual labor? No problem. Mrs Fussy Crankypants is good at digging, if she does say so herself. The Fussies can save a lot of money and have the satisfaction of DYThemselves.

Note the straightness of the line. Note the cunning slope. Note the catchment at the end to allow the water to have someplace to go.

But, alas:

DITCH FAIL

with the same amount (or a little more) of water standing in there for the 3rd time in a week as Mrs Fussy types.

And probably again tomorrow.

The Fussy Crankypants contacted the sellers to find out how often this had happened to them. They said it happened ONE TIME in the 7 years they lived here.

It’s just the Fussy’s luck.

Fussy FAIL.

Oh, We Just Can’t HAVE Nice Things. Tsk

Oh, is that a map of the world you just got for Miles?  Let me throw up on it.

Oh, is that a new white rug for the bedroom? Let me throw up on it.

Oh!  A new, expensive slip-cover!  Allow me to use that as a scratching post!

Oh! A new, expensive slip-cover!  Allow me to see what happens when I write on it!

Oh! A new, expensive slip-cover! Allow me to throw up on it.

This is our new sisal area rug.  Let’s spill coffee on it and see what happens, shall we?

This is your new sisal area rug? Allow me to throw up on it.

And here is the lovely maroon and gold tablecloth from Thailand and oh, what’s this? Yes, a mysterious wax stain!

And here is an also-lovely multi-colored silk wallhanging, also from Thailand, which, let’s just play with the fringe with our claws and see what that does.

This unique serving dish I brought back from Korea? This one? Right here in several pieces on the floor? Yes, that’s the one.

Oh, look at this darling glass bird that was bought for Miles for his first Christmas! It’s just sitting up on the mantle. I think someone should jump up there and knock it down and smash it into smithereens.  Just for fun!

And by the way, Pottery Barn, to me, this sofa that was in the most recent catalog you sent me that I recycled:

Manhattan Leather Sofa

This just looks like one  big and very expensive scratching post to me.  Does it come with a double sticky finish? Or built-in automated squirt-gun triggered by feline proximity?  Coffee, tea, any other solid, liquid or gas or marker of pen or scissor-proofing? Because then I might be in.

City, 1; FussyCrankypants, 0; or, Why is it ALWAYS the bike??

When the Fussy Crankypants first got married, Mrs Fussy Crankypants had a bike (named Clive, true story) and this bike lived on the balcony of the second floor apartment they had the dubious pleasure of renting.  Clive’s history with the Fussy Crankypants was very short-lived as he was soon thereafter lifted/pinched/stolen/heisted from said balcony.

Last Father’s Day, Mrs Fussy Crankypants just happened to decide that buying a bike for Mr Fussy Crankypants would be both a brilliant and an awesome gift as Mr FC was always talking about going for a bike ride.  So one day, Mrs Fussy Crankypants left him at home with The Tyrant while Mrs Fussy Crankypants took his car (Mrs FC’s car having a carseat in it) to the Big Evil Box Store That Shall Remain Nameless But that Starts With Wal and Ends With Mart and picked out a brand new bicycle and wheeled it up and paid for it and took it out into the parking lot and put it into the trunk except she didn’t do that part because as it turned out it wouldn’t FIT in the trunk and so therefore she stood around in the parking lot looking frustrated and sweaty (did she mention it was starting to rain?) until some nice man who just HAPPENED to be an avid cyclist parked his car two cars down and came down to help and just HAPPENED to have the right kind of tool in his car to be able to take the wheel off and get the bike in the trunk at last and got it home and into the shed (did she mention the rain?).

Upon getting the bicycle for Father’s Day, Mr FC was delighted but also not in that he did not like the super-cool retro designed bike that Mrs FC had chosen, claming it was “too hard” to pedal. (Whatever) And so the bike was exchanged, after a suitable waiting time, coordiation of schedules, cramming BACK into the car and also waiting for the Only Employee Who Could Sell a Bike to get back from vacation at the Big Evil Box Store That Shall Remain Nameless But that Starts With Wal and Ends With Mart. And also it was Tuesday in the fourth quarter of the new moon three weeks before the summer solstice. Probably.

After getting the Bike of His Dreams For Under $100, Mr FC then proceeded to ride the bike around the FC’s then-neighborhood non-stop. Or at least three times.

Following the Folly of the Big Move of the Fussy Crankypants’ this year, the bike took up permanent residence in the garage, waiting for happier weather in which to be ridden.

HOWEVER.

This past weekend, intent upon mischief and also possibly finding a warm place to sleep, one or several unknown miscreants broke into said garage and proceeded to sleep in a warm place and/or  lift/pinch/steal/heist Mr FC’s erstwhile and ill-fated bicycle.

Therefore, vagrants and general miscreants in the city of This Fair City are hereby warned and notified that the Fussy Crankypants are no longer under any compulsion to offer succour (or hand-outs) to said down-and-outers as they have just made a $100 non-tax-deductible donation in your honor.

You have no house, the FCs have no bicycle.   That just about evens the score, right?

My One Brief Complaint, well, maybe not that brief and probably not “one” either

I am not happy right now. Not. Happy.

My little house is no longer mine and in fact, not having signed a lease yet, we are in a strange condition of neither being a home owner nor a renter. But actually since we’ve been in that position many times before, I guess it’s not all that “strange”.

The house is crammed with boxes, bubble wrap, crumbs, furniture.

Adding insult to injury, I believe my son is drawing on my Korean drum with non-washable crayons, too.

I don’t want to move. But the deed is done.

Other than that, I have no cause for complaint.  I am somewhat gainfully employed, my husband is gainfully employed, none of us are sick or chronically ill or facing death. I am not enslaved. I am not addicted to any substance or habit (except chocolate. and granola. and maybe designer coffee-based drinks.  but that’s it.)

So I try to keep it all in perspective because it could be a lot worse.

I just don’t want to move.

And I just feel very unhappy right now.

Ok, that’s all. Not going to complain again.

(HAHAHA! Yeah, RIGHT!)

(ok, not going to complain about the move again!)

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