Mrs. CPA

How Did You Guess?

I've been tagged by Donna (yea! a former professor of mine!) and Amy W (A loooooooong time ago) to catalog my weirdness for posterity.  So here goes...

1.  I can't drink water that isn't cold.  It's OK if it is chilled with ice, but I prefer straight out of the fridge.  If it's not cold, I don't want it, and plain cold tap water is not the same.  As a matter of fact, this is one of the reasons I am apprehensive about ever traveling out of the country because I've heard horror stories about how hard it is to get ice for your water.  And that's just ridiculous.  I can admit that to myself.  But I need my water cold.

2.  I don't like armpits.  I don't like saying the word, I don't like looking at them, I don't like anything to do with them.  I don't even like typing it.  I don't think I was ever smothered by one as a child or anything.  I have no idea where this phobia comes from.   Seeing deodorant commercials on TV sort of gives me the willies.   

3.  I have a gag reflex reaction to unattached hair.  Even if it is mine.  I know where this one came from, my mother has the same issue and she passed it along to me.  When my hair is long and I wash my hair, the hair that gets on my fingers creeps me out.  Do not even get me started about cleaning out a hairbrush.  I sort of have to shut my eyes and just do it and not look as I flush it down the toilet.  You would think that someone with a super-shedding St. Bernard would get over this, but no.

4.  I can't sleep if I don't have a pillow between my knees.  Something about my knees touching keeps me awake.  And if I have to sleep in my street clothes, pants touching the tops of my feet make my feet itch and twitch so badly, that I can never go to sleep. 

5.  My dad, my great uncle and my aunt are all accountants, and I taught myself how to use the adding machine (or 10-key, whatever you want to call it) when I was about 7.  I loved pushing in numbers.  I NEEDED the numbers.  I would do my own telephone number and all of the numbers of people I knew for practice.  I like the tapping sound the keys make.  And when the computer keyboards went silent in deference to the cubicle farms sprouting up, it broke my heart.  I could only type about 35 words a minutes in Jr. High, but I could do the numeric keypad at 70+ a minute when we got to that lesson.  I bought an adding machine when I went to college so that I could do my accounting homework on it.  Accounting is meant to be done on an adding machine.  I'm not sure how I could have chosen any other profession.   

I think that's about all I can drum up (that I will admit to the internet, anyway).  Since this made the rounds about a week and a half ago, I figure everyone else has done it already, but if per chance you have not - do it now - so I can come a bask in the knowledge that there are other people out there who are as crazy as me.  I'll be cleaning out my hairbrush if you need me.

And one more - I hate the smell of coffee. 

 

batting 1000

1.  Muffie has, of course, peed in the kitchen floor again this morning, and I have to clean it up.

2.  TP wears the same pants to work that he wore yesterday (See post below)

3.  I have no work to do, and I've already packed up my office for the move next week.  I'm bored.

4.  Muffie and Pete get in a fight over a treat and Muffie bit me on the hand.  I think it may be getting infected.  Yea!!

5.  More Muffie pee. 

But wait, it gets better...

6.  Daycare calls.  Mr. Cheeks has a fever and I need to go get him. 

7.  At the doctor, he has two more ear infections, which means a recommendation for tubes.  So surgery.  On my tiny preshus babieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!  He could also possibly have strep, but she doesn't test him because it might make him throw up, and he's getting antibiotics anyway.  So screw all you other parents who might need to know if your kid has been exposed to an infectious disease.

8.  It's so freaking hot in the doctor's office that I think people can probably see my ass sweat as I leave the office.  I know they're all talking about me and not paying attention to their sick children who are engrossed by Elmo on TV.

9.  I have enough sense to call my CVS and see if they have the medicine we need.

10.  Guess what?  THEY DON'T.  Die CVS, Die.

11.  We go home and Mr. Cheeks promptly poops.  Hot grouchy baby + poopy diaper = more ass sweat.

12.  I have to go to another CVS after TP gets home and wait 45 minutes behind some old man who hasn't purchased children's medicine in 59 years, but his son sent home to get the prescriptions for his grandchild's cold.

13.  I can't breathe.  The voice-loosing sinus funk has resumed in my head, and I can barely function.

14.  I have to sign the meth dealer's log to buy some sudafed. 

15.  I get the day off tomorrow. 

I've never tasted a cherry like the ones they use to flavor the Nighttime cough medicine, and I'm pretty sure that flavor doesn't occur in nature. But kids vapor bath totally works on adults too.  As does Little Noses, which I am huffing as I type.   

Keeping the Tradition Alive

Mr. Cheeks got his first accident report from school today.  He managed to get by the door when someone was coming in and got his fingers smushed.  Ice was applied along with a liberal dose of TLC, and he survived.  With a mother who had three broken arms, ER visits too numerous to count, a ride in an ambulance after a snowcone drenched car wreck, skinned knees from a gas pump, a grandmother who droped a bag of frozen hot tamales on her foot and almost broke it, a grandfather who fell into an empty swimming pool and shattered his foot, who also broke his ankle skiing and continued the rest of the day on the slopes,  Mr. Cheeks is in for a bumpy ride. 

Maybe I can get Miss Zoot's hand me down protecto-suit after NikkiZ is finished with it?   

Stop , Wait, Don't Go!

So I'm laying on the couch in my normal Monday night TP is out playing pool and I'm watching TV after I have put Mr. Cheeks into the fiery pit of hell that is his bed tradition, coming out of my stupor only long enough to push the fast forward button on the Tivo remote, through the commercials of Heroes and Studio 60.  When what to my wandering ears do hear but a knock at my door, and twelve thundering paws going straight for the surprise victim visitor.  I drag myself off the couch, thinking "Does Publishers Clearing House come after nine?" and "If this is a Jehovah's Witness and they wake my kid up, I'll find a place to stuff those pamphlets." and "I totally look like a mom in my new, gray, waffle weave, heart patterned pajamas."  Who do you think was at the door? 

It was Pizza Hut calling, and the messenger was a very large black man, who looked suspiciously like the man on the errant rookie football card that my father mysteriously had included in with his nativity figures that I unpacked last night.  Maybe the baby Jesus likes Walter White?  As I shook my head in disbelief that Pizza Hut has finally allowed my to order my pizza telepathically - that "one number ordering" business does not work - the delivery guy took my slack jawed drooling as a denial that the order was mine.  I fought the dogs off the door, and he turned away to walk down the steps back to his shiny red Camaro, I wanted to tell him to wait, that I was sorry someone pranked him, how much is that pizza, will you give me a I didn't order that discount and I have four dollars in cash that I will give you as a tip for just navigating the steps up from the street. 

But he just kept walking back to his car, with a "sorry to have bothered you," where I presume he called the Pizza Hut mothership and clarified the address he was taking his cheesy goodness to.  A few minutes later, he was walking back to his car, empty pizza heat retaining bag hanging at his side, a satisfied smile on his face that he had fulfilled his destiny and delivered someone's dinner.

I don't even like Pizza Hut pizza.  But their breadsticks are awesome.   

The One Where I was a Royal Bitch

One Thanksgiving long, long ago...

My parents invited some friends of ours for Thanksgiving dinner, it was a girl, Carrie, that we had met on choir tour, and her parents.  I was in college and TP and I were already dating, and he had come from Birmingham for the holiday.  My friend Breta and I had stayed out half the night, drinking and goofing off, and we were in the middle of our Thanksgiving nap when the guests arrived.  John Davis came in to try and wake us up, and we were grouchy.  I acted like a spoiled brat and stomped around and was rude and ugly and basically a bitch.

Loading and unloading the dishwasher is akin to prison torture to me, and since I had acted like a 5 year old, and to get me out of the general population of the house, my mother banished me to the kitchen to clean up the Thanksgiving carnage.  I was so pissed about the whole thing, I dumped EVERYTHING in the trash or down the garbage disposal.  TP could hear me in there banging around and came to see what was going on.  He started laughing when he saw what I was doing.  He knew that I was making sure that I NEVER had to do the dishes again.  The dishwasher was loaded and started and I felt much better.   There was not one green bean, not one hashbrown, not one deviled egg left.  I think I may have save the slices of turkey that were already cut, but I threw the rest away. 

That night, my Mom went in and opened the refrigerator, looking for a snack. 
"Where's all the leftovers?" she asked. 

"I threw them away."

*heavy sigh*

I never got asked to do the dishes again.

Fear in my Heart

I have just realized that I am going on a trip to Arkansas for a week, and I have exactly one pair of blue jeans, one pair of gray sweatpants, and one pair of navy sweatpants to wear for this week.  And the jeans are reserved for meeting Hillary and Liz.  What the hell am I going to wear?  I do not want to pack work pants, because that would be lame.  By the end of the week, my pants will be able to stand up on their own. 

On the other hand, Mr. Cheeks has approximately 4,862 combinations of squeelingly cute things to wear, and I don't think I have enough room to pack it all.  Especially since he'll have to wear that cute thing his poppy and Ging-Ging got him at their house and the jacket that his other grandmother got him at her house, and the outfit with the turkey on it at his Nan's and then the other 4,799 items that I like have to fit in there somewhere. 

Maybe I'll go and buy some more pants tomorrow.  TP will be thrilled. 

Shopping Always Makes Me Feel Better

-Or-

Maybe you should call CPS on me.

-Or-

First contusion, brought to you by lack of attention. 

Take your pick.

Mr. Cheeks fell out of the bed this morning.   On his giant noggin.   To the hardwood floor.

He cried like a big ol' baby.  He's fine, though.  I however, feel like shit.  I had to get up and answer the phone, which was a courtesy call from the bank telling me that my car payment was overdue.  Which I didn't quite grasp in my drowsiness since it's automatically drafted each month.  Except last month.  And TP didn't notice the multitude of dollars in our account.  So while I was on the phone, Mr. Cheeks obviously snaked himself over to the edge of the bed and did a swan dive.  All while TP snored away. 

As I came back to the bedroom, I heard a large *thud* followed by screaming.  He's really ok.  Within 15 minutes he was smiling and laughing again.  Please don't call CPS. 

Then I went and got my hair cut.  On my way home I just happen to pass a Gymboree and I just happened to have a 20% of coupon.  So Mr. Cheeks got a new hat.  I think it comes down low enough to cover the bruise.  Hopefully he can wear it all the time for the next week. 

 

And he got some new shoes, which will keep him from eating his socks.  Our luck, he would actually ingest one and get a bowel obstruction.  And he got some new couch pants.  Gymboree-where 70's corduroy couches go to die and be reborn as cute kid's pants...

If we can mange to get through tomorrow with no throw-up, no dog calamities, and me not falling down the front steps, I'll count this weekend a success.      

How Many More Days in November??

So today started out just like any other, get up way too late.  It was dog grooming day, so I like to leave the house around 7:30 so I get there by 8 and I'm not too late for work.  Mr. Cheeks woke up around 4 and is in our bed peacefully snoozing, while my pillow is half on the nightstand and my arm is in some sort of reject yoga position, one that makes your arm feel like it's coming out of the socket.  Shower time, get dog food ready, check on Mr. Cheeks, still snoozing, feed dogs.  This involves standing in the middle of the kitchen so that Pete doesn't attack Jax for his food.  Pete also gets thyroid medicine and an anti-convulsant in his water-soaked easily digestible, won't make him poop funny, food.  Hi! I have high maintenance dogs!

Tiny baby awakens, TP informs me that his diaper has leaked, TP also left him sitting in the bed, but he pulled the sheet up over the pee spot, so "it should be ok!"  (Jackass.  How about you try sitting around in some soakey pajamas and see haw that feels?)  Change his diaper and his clothes and put him in his crib with some toys.  He looks like a frat boy off a three day bender who has shown up to sit in the front row of Biology 101.  He's not happy about this waking up in pee business. 

Get Mr. Cheek's bag together for the day.  Three bottles, cereal, two jars of food and a spoon.  He needs wipes and more extra clothes so I get that together, shove them in the bag, and zip it up hoping the zipper holds.  Sort of like my pants. 

Get out dogs' leashes.  Watch all three dogs go apeshit at the sight of leashes.  Barking.  More Barking. Barking at neighbor dog.  Muddy paws everywhere.  At least they're getting a bath at the groomers. 

Mr. Cheeks has fallen over in his crib, and is pissed about it.  I get him out and put him in his exersauser so I can wrangle the dogs, with TP's help, into the car. 

All the leashes have been secured and checked for holdfastedness by, (I bet you can't guess who) TP.  Because I'm a moron who doesn't know how to work a leash clip.  There's a loose dog at the fence, so it has to be shooed away before our precious little doggies can go outside the fence.  Eleanor doesn't want to get in the back.  I have about 10,000 pieces of dog hair on me already. 

I'm trying to keep the dog hair and dog feet and dog drool out of my purse.  Pete's paws are magically drawn to the folder of work I brought home (and never even opened) and now it looks like the Design on a Dime people have been over practicing their faux painting techniques.  One of those techniques where the homeowners look at the designer as if the person just painted shit on their walls.  Which is a very real possibility in this case, considering where those paws have been. 

And we're off, one large Saint Bernard head hanging out the window, one small toy Schnauzer nervously in my lap, and one Lhasas Apso gleefully applying mud to my front seat.  Of course the dog groomer is late, and shows up at five minutes after 8.  It's a relief to actually get to the office and wash my hands up to the elbow to get the dog smell off.  I also used 3 sheets of lint roller on my pants, and hope like hell that the wet spot of drool on my shirt has dried.

I'm almost hungry enough to eat the leftover blue corn chicken nachos from last Thursday for breakfast.  But I don't.  Only because they need sour cream and I don't have any.  It's 8:30.

At 11:30 I realize my cell phone is dead.  Which means the dogs are probably ready and I haven't gotten the message yet.  I try to figure out how to get messages from a land line and give up after the computer has told me in a cheerful "eat shit and die" voice that I have no idea what I am doing so she is going to hang up on me. 

I call the groomer, the dogs are ready.  Then my office phone rings.  It's the daycare.  Mr. Cheeks has barfed up his lunch and they would like for us to come and get him.  I've seen him throw up, I would have liked for you to come and get him then, too.  So I try to locate TP to pick up the baby.  Because baby in car + dogs in car=possible baby casualty at the paws of one giant Saint Bernard who likes to hop from the back to the middle seat to drool as passing cars. 

I can't call TP on the way because, in case you missed it, MY CELL PHONE IS DEAD.  He calls me back in the nick of time after I try to type in his bosses name in the phone system which has approximately 976,362 employees in it and I can't seem to get to anyone because I don't know their complete first and last name. 

We agree to meet at home.  Clean dogs, who basically smell like dog and baby powder, bound out of the car and head for the yard.  I'm so hungry I barely have the strength to close the car door.  Considering the sum total of food in my fridge is fresh dill, salsa that was fresh on Saturday, and some mustard, things are not looking good. 

But then, I get to the back door and Mr. Cheeks is in his johnny jump up, jumping and grinning away.  And it's not so bad.  I put on my pajamas, go to Sonic with the Sonic card Nan sent us, come home and eat and then crawl into bed (a blanket over the now dry accident from this morning) with my baby and my clean dog.  And we giggle and play for a few minutes and then he goes to sleep.  And I do too. 

Until some moron calls at 5:15 with the wrong number.  Don't you know people are trying to SLEEP around here??  Jesus. 

(I think Mr. Cheeks is 'lergic to sweet potatoes.  That is the only common denominator in the throw up business.  So we will not be eating them any more.  I knew I hated orange food for a reason.)

My Husband, The Pimp

As promised, here is a picture of TP with his winning costume.

I've got big rates, small rates, and hourly rates...

And we're $100 richer.

I went as the-crazy-person-who-got-to-the-gym-and-forgot-when-she-put-on-her-rainbow-
brite-bra-that-morning-that-her-gym-shirt-was-cream-so-everyone-could-see-right-
though-it.  At least it was a distraction from my ass. 

I did manage not to rear-end anyone on my way to the gym this time. 

We had no trick-or-treaters because we are horrible scrooges, (Can you be a scrooge on Halloween?  What's the holiday appropriate term you would use?) and the front of our house was not decorated at all.  I even put our carved pumpkin on the deck, since that's where we would spend most of our time anyway. 

And then I sat on the couch, ate leftovers from TP's office party, and watched three weeks worth of ER. 

(I promise the rest of the month my entries will get better than that last line there.)

Cookie Makin'

Recipe for Disaster...

Ingredients:
1 overly tired and possibly grouchy CPA on October 15th, said yes to cookie making
3 trips to the grocery store
1 assistant director (AD)of Mr. Cheeks Daycare center who got confused when I said I would help with the Halloween party, not the new director meeting /reception
1 glass of pre-mixed margaritas, gold variety
1 husband to watch munchkin
Actual cookie ingredients

Directions:
Type "no" response to AD's request for cookies.  Delete and say "sure!"  Kick own ass. 
Go to grocery store on Sunday afternoon at 5 o'clock (after nap)
Tear open package of butter flavored Crisco* to get cookie recipe, while looking around furtively for grocery store police 
Put chocolate chips and butter flavored Crisco in buggy, also brown sugar.
Get distracted because cans of Similac in the old packaging are on sale FOR HALF PRICE.  Put four in buggy. 
Cashier apologizes for opened Crisco package, have to tell her I did it myself.
Call husband upon exiting store to relate good formula fortune.  Also call Nan.  (Shut up.  Half price formula is AWESOME.)
Make husband unload groceries, including the approximately 421 jars of baby food. 
Get out mixer.  Clean dust off mixer. 
Gather ingredients. 
Um, not enough vanilla, also thought I was almost out of sugar, not flour.
Get in car, go to Piggly Wiggly.
Start mixing ingredients.  Realize I have no baking soda. 
Say lots of bad words.
Get back in car, go to closer, fancy grocery store, hoping for some yellow Arm & Hammer boxes.
Find baking soda.  Only in Freezer/Fridge pack, pay my .85 and get the hell out of there.
Go home, realize that baking soda does not have ingredients listed, could possibly contain some toxic deodorizer like rat poison, look on Internet.  Can't find anything.  Think, "It's only 1/4 teaspoon, probably won't kill anyone."
Put in bowl. 
Read wrong end of recipe card.  Put in three cups of flour instead of 1 3/4 cup.  Do math and scoop out extra.  (This takes a long time.  Math is hard.)
Pour last glass of margarita. 
Finish mixing cookies, put on pan.
Toast third pan of cookies because of Internet distraction.
Make second batch. 
Make TP "test" a cookie for possible toxic/death causing chemical in baking powder.
Does not clutch throat in death throes; Deem cookies save for consumption.
Assemble on platter.  Pray that no one dies, or says the cookies taste like ass. 

Bake at 672 degrees, since it is OCTOBER AND IT IS 80 DEGREES OUTSIDE AND THE OVEN MAKES MY HOUSE HOT, for 3.5 hours.  Hope for the best. 

*(This makes the best cookies, also does not taste good raw, so no sampling)