I had to pay for coffee

In response to the post earlier today, I'd like to say that once upon a time I had to pay for coffee.  At work. It was 50 cents a cup and terrible.*  Since this was break-room coffee, we had to pay cash and I never could come up with that stupid 50 cents.  The coffee was so terrible that it wasn't even worth the 50 cents.  

I feel like coffee should be provided to employees like air or bathroom facilities.  A business should not expect for their employees to thrive without free coffee.  I feel fortunate to now work for a company that feels the same way.

*The terrible-ness of the coffee probably had more to do with the rusty old pipes in the building than the quality of the coffee.

Fat? Really?

Last night someone called me "fat."

This is where you say, "But Lauren, you're not fat, you're pregnant."

To which my response should be, "I know that I'm not fat.  I'm about to deliver a baby.  Pregnant women are beautiful, blah, blah, blah."

Truth is, I'm still seething over the following exchange.  Perhaps later I'll have simmered down to "livid."  Perhaps.

The conversation went something like this:

telephone: ring, ring
Jerk:  "Hello my little fat girl."
Me:  "Um, what did you call me?"
Jerk:  "Oh, I'm sorry.  I thought you were my (insert relationship here)."
Me:  "This is your (insert relationship here).  What did you call me?"
Jerk:  "I called you 'my little fat girl.''

This is where the details get hazy.  I might have told this jerk that he was being inappropriate, which is my blanket response when Joey is calling something "poopy."  I might have blacked out and called the offender every name in the book.  Or I might have just hung up the phone.  I did, however, send a concise, polite email to say that commenting on a woman's weight is never appropriate.

But, seriously, on what friggin' planet is it okay to say that to a person?  One where it's okay to be verbally abusive?  One where eating disorders are the norm?  I am just flabbergasted by the insensitivity of some people.  Pregnant or not, it's not polite to comment on a person's weight. 

At 39 weeks pregnant, believe me, I'm ready to lose the baby weight and get into my old clothes.  Although the elastic-waist pants make frequent trips to the bathroom less of a hassle, I'm looking forward to pants with buttons and zippers.  I've been wearing the same four articles of clothing for the past two months and I am so sick of these things that I have already half-way packed my maternity clothes away.  I don't even want to do any post-pregnancy shopping for anything new (gasp!), I just want to be able to wear my old stuff.  I don't care if my "old" clothes are totally outdated by now;  unfortunately the boyfriend jean trend didn't seem to last very long, and I've heard that skinny jeans are making way for the comeback of flares.  Regardless, I'm ready to fit into those things again.

To be clear, my sweet husband is not the offender.  He's nice to me.  He rubs my feet. 

The War on Toys

I am frustrated.

I am frustrated by my messy house.  It's not that I don't clean.  I clean up a lot of messes.  Every day.  I clean up messes that I've already cleaned and then clean it up again.

Today each one of Joey's toys was out of place.  Every block, every tea cup, every piece of Mr. Potato Head.  Toys were scattered throughout my house and yard.  And it wasn't just toys that were all over the place.  I was finding kitchen utensils in the beds.  Dirt in the bed.  Birdseed in the bed.  Books and movies all over the living room floor.  Outside toys knocked over.  And to top it off, Joey was having a "naked day" and would not sit on the potty.  Today's mess was not the kind that you can pick up in a few minutes.  This girl can trash a house quicker than a frat party.

It sounds like I should probably do a better job of entertaining my two-year-old.

Instead I instituted a war on toys.

Months ago, in an effort to be more organized, I bought several clear plastic bins for Joey's toy shelves.  I sorted her toys by type and then half went into the closet.  Every few weeks I would rotate her toys out.  Kids don't tend to miss their toys when they're out of sight, and the toys seem new again when they're put back into the rotation.  But after a while she caught on to my ruse and wanted all of her toys to be accessible all the time.  So today when Joey emptied each and every bin onto the floor, I was compelled to reorganize.  Half of her toys are again neatly organized in the closet. 

While I was sorting through the toys I had a trash bag handy...you know, for all of those "crap" toys.  I took no prisoners.  I threw away (recycled, thank you) old plastic bottles that Joey liked to play with in the bathtub.  I tossed Happy Meal toys.  Paint swatches.  Bubble wrap (where did that even come from?).  Broken toys.  A broken-beyond-repair book.  Why did we still have these things?  I got rid of all of the non-toys, such as spent paper towel rolls and Mardi Gras beads (strangulation hazard?).  I felt so wasteful for throwing so much in the trash, but it was junk!   

I should make it clear that I don't think there's anything wrong with kids playing with empty cardboard boxes or peanut butter jar lids.  Non-toys are great for fostering a child's imagination.  But once the kid is done with it, throw it out.  Do not put it in the toy box.  It's lost it's luster.

My house is half-way clean now.  I'm sure that it will be back to normal by tomorrow.

Can everyone just control their bodily functions? Please?

Very late last night, or very early this morning, however you choose to look at it, Joey woke us up because she was crying in her bed.  She doesn't normally cry in her bed; she'll get out of bed by herself and get into our bed.  I got up to get her and as I walked to her bed I was accosted by the most sickening smell.  And then I felt something wet next to my foot.  Vomit?  Was Joey sick?  Paul turned on the hall light.  It was poop.  How was there poop next to Joey's bed?  Macy was in her crate.  Oh no, Macy was not in her crate.  How did she get out of her crate?  No bother, "Macy, get in your crate."  I got to work cleaning the poop while Joey sat quietly and watched.  And as it turns out, there was also dog pee to clean up. 

As I picked up Joey to carry her to our bed I realized she was soaking wet.  Wet as though someone had poured cold water all over her.  We cloth diaper and overnight we use what we call "super soakers," where we stuff extra cloth inserts into the diaper.  But last night she refused to allow Paul to change her so she went to bed in a normal diaper.  And so in the middle of the night she was cold and wet with urine. 

After getting cleaned up and a new (super soaker) diaper, Joey got into bed between me and Paul.  Within five minutes, she was out.  For Paul and me, getting back to sleep took a little longer.

Is My Soapbox Recyclable?

Anyone remember my pile of recycling?

 It's still there.

Our fair city has discontinued their "recycling program," which was really just a couple of containers at City Hall.  I suppose we are either supposed to fill landfills with our recyclables or let Tuscaloosa be responsible for our recycling.  This really shows our mayor's commitment to one of his key issues, ha!