Picture Perfect Cheese.


It’s an absolutely beautifully perfect day today. It reminds me why we choose to live here, and Lord knows I need remindin’ sometimes. The traffic. The high cost of living. The unaffordable homes. At times I want to pack up and move to Texas, but then a day like this comes along and I’m all “hell no! I won’t go!”

I took Gabriella to the park so we could enjoy the beautiful sunshine .

I couldn’t justify staying in this dark, dusty house when there was sunshine, green grass and pretty little birdies singing outside. (It’s been a LONG time since I hit you with The Cheese. You will take The Cheese and you will LIKE IT!)

She loved laying on the grass. But not as much as I loved watching her.
And taking pictures of her. Lots and lots of pictures of her. My God, she is a beautiful baby.
After we were through playing in the wet, cool grass, we walked over to the playground. I wanted to put her in the baby swing and see if she’d enjoy it or if she’d freak out.

She loved it.
She laughed. She squeeled. She kicked her feet. It was incredible to watch.

And yes, I totally cried. Right there at the park while pushing her swing. I couldn’t get over how precious my daughter is.

After much swinging and laughter and quite a bit of farting, we went on a little walk so I could get some exercise in. It wasn’t long before the excitement of the day got to Gabby and she was ready for a nap.
We came home, I kissed her on her cheek and thanked her for a glorious day, then I went to my room, got on my knees and thanked God for knowing I needed her and giving her to me.

Yo quero un strudel

Why do people act so shocked when I tell them I don’t speak Spanish? What is UP with that?
Yes, I’m HALF Mexican, but, um, I wasn’t raised in Mexico. I was raised in here in the good ol U.S of A. And? My mom is WHITE. I’m only part Mexican, people. The other part is German/Croation. I like to call myself a Germican.
My dad never spoke Spanish in our house. Always English. That’s not totally true. We’d say “tortilla” and “chonis” and “cola”, but other than that? Straight up English in our casa.
I can’t ever recall anyone being shocked or outraged that I don’t speak German. Never ONCE have I had anyone been all up in my grill when we pass by a Der Wienerschnitzel.
“What’s a shnitzel?” You’re German! YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT!” But DIOS MIO, if we pass by Casa Jiminez and I can’t tell The Whitey in the car what a Jiminez is? THE OUTRAGE!!
You’re half mexican! You should know what a Jiminez is!
Really? I should? Well, HOW COME YOU DIDN’T ASK ME WHAT A SCHNIZTEL IS WHEN WE PASSED DER WIENERSCHNITZEL? Why are you singling out My Mexican?
“Well… your DAD IS MEXICAN!”
I yiyiiiii! You’re correcto! I totally forgoto! I’ve been so busy doing gigs with my Mariachi bando, that completely SLIPPED MY MINDo! Thank you SO much for reminding me! Can I treat you to a burrito?
What’s with the outrage, people?

Psycho mom strikes again


We’re having a bit of a “facial enlargement due to a severe infection of the tooth” over here. Anyone who knows me would know that this means that I am in full freak out mode. (For the record? The swelling has gotten worse and his eye is almost swollen shut now. I swear I’m not exaggerating one bit!)
Ethan started crying on Sunday complaining of severe pain. I called TWO dentists (his old pediatric dentist and our new piece of crap, don’t know how to keep his office clean dentist). Both of their voicemails said “if this is in emergency, we WILL call you RIGHT BACK.
I must be dumb because I thought that meant they’d call me right back or something, but apparently, that was “code” for “we won’t call you back EVER” because neither one of them called back!
This morning I was awoken by a crying boy with HALF OF HIS FACE SWOLLEN. I did what I normally do when I see one of my offspring with a swollen body part and I FREAKED THE HELL OUT.
When am I going to stop doing this? As their mother, it is my job to make them feel like everything is going to be ok and they’re not going to die or have to get half of their face chopped off. But every single time, I turn into MY mother, the mother who went made us take my brother to the neighbors house with a finger hanging on by a piece of skin because she freaked out when she saw the blood. That was the example I had of how a mother is supposed to handle blood and swollen faces, so, I blame her.
I calmed down and got a grip, until Ethan started THROWING UP.
That is when I called Tony at work demanding he come home because throwing up + facial swelling of half of his entire face = emergency. I don’t DO emergencies by myself. It’s in The Contract.
I had no idea Ethan wouldn’t be the only one chucking up puke. I caught a glance of son emptying the cup he had filled with his PUSSY,BLOODY SPIT into the sink and WHOMP! There went a little throw up in the dentist’s office.
I swear I’m a great mother as long as my kids aren’t swollen anywhere, bleeding from their heads, puking or SPITTING PUS INTO A CUP.
I’m currently administering antibiotics, motrin, icepacks and lots of love to poor baby and in 10 days, I will be taking him back to the dentist for a tooth extraction.
The joys of parenting, they never cease to end.

She learned from a pro

Gabby when she gets what she wants…

Gabby when she does NOT get what she wants…

What she wants…

Not what she wants…

And my family has THE NERVE to call her a spoiled brat.
That’s pretty much exactly what my temper tantrums look like. When Tony brings home the wrong kind of drink from Starbucks, Lord have mercy!
I’m all happy when I first see the cup!
“Yay! A frap!”
Then I realize they forgot the extra caramel and I’m all “I aint drinking that stupid piece of crap drink! I will throw it down the drain!”
My sister and I used to have a name for the anger we feel when people don’t get our food orders right. It’s called “Squish the Foam”.
You see, one day Tony went to get us a frozen yogurt. We gave him our order and he came back with THE WRONG SIZES! We wanted larges and he got smalls. SMALLS! . We were both pissed, but didn’t want to say anything because, well, it was really nice of him to get it for us. I sat there, looking at this stupid piece of crap SMALL yogurt and I lost it. I started to squeeze the Styrofoam container as hard as I could. The yogurt oozed out of the cup, all over my hands and dropped onto the table. We both started laughing uncontrollably at how stupid we were acting because we didn’t get larges! We have “issues” with food, obviously and there have been many times since that incident in which we’ve called each other on the phone to talk about “A Squish The Foam” incident we had experienced that day.
Have you ever had a Squish the Foam moment? You were looking forward to eating something and when you brought the food home, the order was totally screwed up and you didn’t want to eat it because you were SO PISSED that it wasn’t exactly what you wanted?
I have a feeling me and my sister are crazy and just may be alone on this issue.

What is this “aging gracefully” thing that people speak of?

The whole “I need to see your I.D, whoops, I was looking at your ass and not your face and now that I see your face… DAMN YOU LOOK OLD! nevermind!” incident really effed me up.
I’m feeling uglier then I normally do.
I spent all morning examining the wrinkles all over my face and my neck. How did I miss the fact that I am chock full o’ wrinkles? Everywhere!! GROSS!
It didn’t help matters that during the wrinkle examination, I found another gray hair all up in my scalp.
Oh! And did you know I have VERICOSE VIENS on the back of my calves?
WHY COULDN’T TONY HAVE BOUGHT HIS OWN DAMN BEER?

Sunshine.

I got carded tonight, bitches!
Sort of. Kind of. Almost.
Ok. I didn’t get carded at all.
But My ASS totally did.
That’s right, apparently, my ass looks underage, but MY FACE does not.
As I was checking out at the self check out lanes, the lady who works there yelled out “I’m going to need to see I.D” because I had scanned a 12 pack of beer for Tony. “NO PROBLEM!” I shouted, as I pulled out my wallet.
I turned around to show her my card and the ho was all “Ohhhhhhhhh from behind you looked REALLY YOUNG, NEVERMIND, I DON’T NEED TO SEE IT.”
“You could have seen the I.D all the way through, even after you realised I look like an OLD HAG, to save me from feeling like an ass, ya know”
She apologized a hundred times and it took everything within my soul to not give her a round house kick to the ribs and knock all of her teeth out. Like, SHUTUP ALREADY AND GO AWAY BECAUSE I’M TIRED OF PEOPLE STARING AND LAUGHING ALREADY, HO!
My ass taunted me the whole way home. “Ha! I may be fat, but I can lose weight and you can’t lose those wrinkles ALL OVER YOUR FACE YOU OLD HAG!”
I hate my ass.
But not as much as I hate that stupid skank who halted “the carding” the minute she SAW MY FACE.

Puberty.

PUBERTY IS GROSSER THAN GROSS!!
I remember when my little brothers went through it, I was so grossed out, I didn’t want to be around them with their smell, their zits, their voice, their overall ugliness/ackwardness. It was too gross to deal with.
Now, it’s my son. My BABY is pube’n.
Zits! Hair! B.O! BONERS!
I can’t take it, people.
I see the zits on my sons nose, and I want to pop them, but I’m like… PUBERTY! GROSS! YOU CAN’T TOUCH PUBERTY ZITS!
And don’t even get me started on the puberty ‘tude.
This morning, at 9:30am, my son YELLS AT ME from his bed.
“Turn that music down! You’re waking me up!”
Um. Excuse me, kid, but it’s almost 10am. When I was your age, I had to be up by 7 and scrubbing toilets by 7:15, after I had read the bible and prayed, of course. And you’re yelling at me that my music is WAKING YOUR LAZY ASS UP?
Aw hell no.
I don’t know how much of this I can take. :shudders: