I'm My Own Worst Enemy

So,  I almost died last night. Boyfriend, quit rolling your eyes.  I was eating dinner last night, and since I'm like a stupid cat, I always eat entirely too fast, and since I'm also dog-like, I hardly ever chew my food.  So, as you can imagine, I frequently almost choke to death during the happiest parts of my day.  

That's for those of you who don't care for me too much.  You're welcome, because it happens at least once a day.  I'm not entirely sure if it's because I think somebody is going to try to steal my food if I don't inhale it right away, or if I just get so excited about eating that I must have it all right then.  Or, the more obvious reason, I was some form of domesticated animal in a past life.  Whichever it is, my inability to put my safety above my taste buds just might do me in one day.  And that's not the only way I put my life in danger on a regular basis. 

One of the ways I know people like to manage their time is by brushing their teeth in the shower.  Me?  I like to save a few extra minutes by doing lunges and squats in the shower.  I mean, I'm just standing there, might as well use those extra fifteen minutes to sleep and just combine strength training and personal hygiene.  That's just an exercise video waiting to happen and you know it.  Remember, this was my idea, unless of course the release of said video is immediately followed by a lawsuit or twelve.  In that case, not my idea.  That Jillian Michaels, she made me do it.  So far, I've been able to successfully condition my hair while firming up my quads and tush, but it's only a matter of time before my plan to shorten up my morning routine ends with the boyfriend finding me on the bathroom floor with a concussion, a broken arm, and a bruised ego. 

Yes, I'm fully aware that cat wasn't in the shower when he fell over, but I almost peed my pants laughing at him, so I used it anyways.  Which, brings me to my next point.  I have a really bad habit of waiting until I feel like my bladder is going to burst before getting up to go pee.  TMI?  Maybe.  Lazy?  So fuckin' lazy.  I have zero problem running five miles earlier in the day, but having to walk ten feet to the bathroom at work?  Not happening.  This really isn't a good idea since I force myself to drink a liter of water a night at work, plus start my night off with a cup of coffee or six.  And yes my bladder can explode, I saw it on Grey's Anatomy once. Dr. Bailey would never lie to me.

And the last way I almost cause my untimely death, and definitely the most likely of the reasons, is my Joey.  Since most drivers completely ignore traffic signals and the fact that a pedestrian and her dog are rightfully and legally in the crosswalk, having to dodge a car or two is practically in my daily routine.  And since I would curl up in a ball and die from a broken heart if anything ever happened to my pup, I usually ending up putting myself in between her and that lady in the SUV who is probably texting.  Sure Joe has better insurance than I do, but I feel like I would stand a better chance against the bitch in her white Lexus.  And also, the jackass in the black Charger.  Oh, and let's not forget the douche in the red Jeep.  Yeah, I remember each of you.  And Winter Park isn't that big, I'll find you.  But seriously, please stop trying to kill us, I love her too much to not jump in the way.

See ya on the flip side.

The Chandler to my Monica

Hey there!  Forgive me for posting when the day is practically over, but I had a hard time getting into a more comfortable position on the couch that would allow for typing.  Happy Monday, suckers.  I had a pretty busy weekend, so I'll get to it.  I got to do one of my favorite things in all the land this weekend:  dog sit.  The only thing I love more than hanging out with my dog is hanging out with my dog and her best friend. 

First of all, please note how cute that lady is.  Second, Joe's face let's you know exactly just how much Barkley being in her seat displeases her.  We haven't quite gotten the whole 'sharing' thing down yet.  She doesn't have too hard of a time sharing her momma though.

After spending my Saturday at the dog park with two of my favorite girls, I met up with the boyfriend to head out to celebrate a sweet sweet friend turning the big 3-0. 

These group of girls that I celebrated with know how to drink their faces, so I felt like a big pile of shit on Sunday, and left my couch only to answer the door so Mr. Delivery Man could give me my omelet and french fries.  Flipping through my pictures from the night before I realized something, if the bf and I ever have to do engagement/wedding pictures they are going to SUCK.

He's a big giant pain in my ass when it comes to picture taking.  Just think Joey on FRIENDS having to stand in for Chandler when he and Monica were taking engagement pictures.  So if any you guys who actually suffer through reading this sucker on a Monday want to stand in for him should we ever need to take engagement photos, let me know.  Boy or girl.  It's 2013.  Maybe he's in witness protection and can't chance having his picture taking.  That would make him like 20 times cooler than me.  That's fine, he can be cooler than me, as long as he still gives me kisses. 

I know, GROSS.  But until he starts looking at the camera a little less like he wants to kill it or me, you guys have to suffer through us actually looking like the annoying couple we usually aren't.  Maybe I should look into bribery to get him to start taking pictures with me.  Or actual physical harm, because I can only bake so much and buy him so many presents.  So, if any of you guys have some tips on forcing the boyfriend to do things he clearly doesn't want to, I'm all ears.

Dueces.

Green Eyed Monster

Hey there, kittens!  Welcome to Tuesday.  You made it through Monday again, while I sat on the couch with the pets, only getting up to make cookies.  Oh, and brownies, too.  But we're not here to talk about how fat and lazy I am.  Again.  I come to you from a bitter place today.  If you happen to be lucky enough to have somebody to share your fur babies with, then you'll get where I'm coming from.  Excuse my insane jealousy for the next few minutes.  I'm not proud of it.  

Now, I have three sweet little babies running around my house, sometimes four when the neighbor cat sneaks in the back door, but I'm here to deal specifically with my middle child and the fact that she has absolutely no problem showing favoritism toward her father.

Yeah, I'm talking about you two.  First things first, Joey was MY birthday present.  MINE.  But where does she like to spend the majority of her time? 

Right in her favorite dude's lap.  It doesn't matter one bit that I'm the one who holds her hand through Vet visits and I'm the one who may or may not definitely has a specific credit card used to keep her giant toy basket over flowing.  Or that I'm the one who has a frequent flier pass to the dog park.  All that I do for her is forgotten as soon as Daddy walks through the front door.

I don't mean to make it sound like I'm basically a single parent over here, but my work schedule just allows for me to have more time for her than he does.  But you just try telling her that.  To her, I'm just the crazy lady takes pictures of her and keeps her food bowl full until 5:00 happens and her favorite person finally pulls into the driveway. 

Do you see how he doesn't even acknowledge her sometimes?  You think that phases her?  Absolutely not.  I'm 100% convinced that actually makes her love him more.

She seriously can't get enough of him.  Nevermind the lady who picks up her shit and loses countless hours of sleep over worrying about her being comfortable in the bed she isn't even supposed to be sleeping in.  Or the lady who has slept several nights on a tile floor or a dog bed when somebody didn't feel good.  Yeah, that was me, not your father.

Could have fooled you, right?  Maybe one too many holiday outfits bought by yours truly finally pushed her permanently into the waiting arms of the man we both love.  BULLSHIT.

What prompted this insanely jealous rant of mine?  After I spent all weekend not at home with her and then spent three hours at the dog park with her when I got home because I felt so bad leaving her, she spent the the remainder of the night throwing her love for him in my face.

I hate them both.  And anybody who thinks they're precious, I'm aware, so keep your comments to yourself.

Baby Shower!

Oh, this weekend.  It was way too long and way too short all at the same time.  This weekend was FINALLY baby shower time.  I feel like I've been planning this thing for roughly six years.  After finishing up some last minute things Friday night, it was finally time to get my co-hosting on on Saturday.  Baby showers are one of the very few things in life that are 100% worth the hard work you put into them.  Helping a good friend prepare for one of the most important things that will ever happen to her and seeing her get all the happiness she wants and deserves in life will always leave you feeling awesome.

I was actually smart about this shower though, and co-hosted it instead of being an idiot and trying to throw another one by myself.  So, instead of feeling like this the whole time:

I felt more like this:

A. I actually had somebody to high five since I wasn't doing this solo, and B. Things went much more smoothly than I anticipated.  If you ask anybody who was there they will more than likely call me a big fat liar, because I ran around like a crazy person all day long, but much less crazy like than I thought.

Another tip for shower throwing besides making sure you share the planning duties, is do a co-ed a shower if possible.

First of all, a group of boys will give you an excuse to get a keg and stuff a piñata full of liquor.  Also, when you feel taking a break from hosting duties and kicking your feet up chugging a beer, the boys are there to provide entertainment.  The dad to be and the other dudes who showed up definitely did not disappoint in the entertainment providing.  All those guys and the pretty ladies who also made an appearance did not dissapoint in the presents department either.

Baby Elaina will definitely not go without when she finally shows her beautiful face next month.

Another thing that helps when planning a baby shower?  When the mother to be's sweet aunt knows how to make a kick ass cake. 

That definitely saved me a ton of money/stress/few years off my life. 

And like a bad little blogger, I don't have anymore pictures.  Sorry, I was too busy coming in second in a co-ed beer chugging contest and doing shots of crown with Sarah, my handy dandy co-host.  Sorry about it.  But, I do have a fair amount of pictures coming my way shortly, so keep your eyes open for another post.  Get excited.  I promise to include a recipe for the crazy delicious sangria I made for the shower too, so seriously, stay tuned.  
 

Also, I managed to chip a bone in my hand while trying to make ham pinwheels. Don't ask. Happy Monday, kiddos!

Living In Sin

Hey there! I'm alive.  I've just been napping or something.  Mr. Boyfriend and I celebrated an anniversary of sorts yesterday.  (Don't worry, babe, you're not in trouble for not getting me anything.)  He and I have been officially shacking up together for two whole years. I feel like such an *gulp* adult.  Even more adult like of me?  We just renewed our lease for two more years.  *Double gulp*.  I gulp because of the adult-ness of the situation, not because I'm nervous about being contractually bound to doing his laundry for two more years.  Moving in with him was honestly the easiest decision I have ever made. 

It just made sense.  I love him and don't like being away from him.  He loves me, and was probably out of clean socks that day.  Worked out perfectly.  Anywho, instead of panicking a bit over doing what any late twenty something year old female would do and living with their S.O. of over three years, I decided to focus on the fact that I actually live with a child. 

With my wacky schedule, that dude up there is left to get into any kind of shennigans his little heart desires four nights a week.  To avoid being a psycho girlfriend, I don't insist he call me as soon as he walks in the door, or send me constant check-ins via text.  I lie, I require check-ins if it's raining out side, because I don't know how not to worry.  I usually do get a 'good night' phone call or text because he either wants to talk to me or wants to avoid me turning into a crazy face.  Either way, it keeps me happy.  Last night was one of those nights I required a text or phone call.  The weather was just fine, so fine actually, that he wanted to ride his skateboard to a friend's house.  And since he's not my child and I can't wrap him in bubble wrap and glue a helmet to his head, I needed to know when he was home, safely.

I can't say that I've seen an adult riding a skateboard that didn't involve millions of dollars in sponsorship money.  Ever.  He also had me find his backpack for him before his little joy ride. 

We've recently had an unusual amount of Nerf gun usage in our love shack this week.  It started out innocent enough, with a friend bringing his cute little kids over last weekend and it being a little inappropriate for us to continue letting them play with dog toys.  So, babe broke out the Nerf gun to give them something to play with.  Problem is, the Nerf gun hasn't been put back up.  In fact, it is now used to discipline the kiddos.  Ok, that one was a collaborative effort.  I didn't feel like getting up to make the cat stop doing whatever thing she wasn't supposed to be doing, and he suggested I shoot Olive with the Nerf gun.  Bad parenting?  Maybe.  Effective?  Sort of.  Fun?  Absolutely.

The last time he did some solid grocery shopping, he came back with roughly enough Popsicles to last us through the Apocalypse, and we're still working on two gallons of maple syrup from last year.

Ok, turns out, I don't have as much content for this post as I thought I would.  If he ever decided to start a blog though, he could write for days on how he lives with a child.  I'm pretty sure he has actually had to tie my shoes for me once. 

So, hang on, honey!  Here comes two more years of wondering how exactly I survived before I lived with you, and how exactly it is you come home to me still alive, breathing, and without my head caught in something each time you leave me alone for the weekend.  If my calculations are correct, we get three pets for every two years of domestic bliss.  I would like a guinea pig or a ball python next, please. 

Hmmm, maybe one of those could be the present you should have gotten me to celebrate.

Momma Would Be Proud

Oh, I'm already feeling the shame oozing of this post.  I've recently become a huge fan of link ups, because I went crazy when I first started this blog of mine and pretty much wrote a new post every day.  Since the juices don't flow as freely, I find myself staring at a blank page more frequently than I would like.  Link ups not only give me an idea for a post, they also introduce me to new blogs, so they're pretty awesome.  Some pretty awesome ladies came up with a fantastic idea for a link up about 21st birthdays, so hold guys, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

 

I wasn't  a drinker in high school, unlike most of you heathens, so I learned everything I know about drinking in college.  Well except for that short little span of unruliness when I was eleven. But let's keep chubby Tina out of this. I had some pretty solid fake IDs in college, plus there were of course your standard college dive bars, that let anything with boobs drink, so you would think turning 21 wouldn't be that big of a deal. Oh, but it was.  First, I grabbed some dinner with my college roomies/two of my favorite people in the entire world.

Everything was great.  The drinks.  The dinner.  The company.  But then I made the mistake of meeting up with some friends who drink to a level that will or has already landed them on Intervention.

Tina! You're not drunk enough, chug that drink!

Tina! Rap Jenna a song!

Tina! Pick your head up! You can't sleep at a bar!

Tina! Go talk to some strangers!

Tina! Even better idea! Let those strangers touch you!

Tina! Just go to sleep wherever you want.  

And that's all I have for you.  Of course this was going to be nothing but pictures.  I woke with a slight limp and a black and blue forehead.  You can thank my lovely roommates for that.  That's what happens when you live with two girls who barely come up to your shoulders and weight eight pounds a piece and  you're still built like the damn soccer goalie that you were.  They couldn't so much carry me to bed as they could shove me door.  So I guess you can really thank whoever designed our apartment and put the kitchen counter so damn close to the front door. Anyway, I woke up in my bed in that cute little outfit and thought everything went fine, but when when I tried to tell somebody that over the phone, Jenna come charging out of her bedroom yelling 'Are you fucking kidding me?!".  If you know Jennas, you know she doesn't know how to charge or curse.  Apparently I was 18 kinds of a handful and I'm pretty sure the apartment complex had to pressure wash their parking lot due to a few mind erasers not agreeing with me and coming back up.  Lovely.

Either way, I survived.  That was also my first black out.  I'm not entirely sure if that was from alcohol or the possible concussion.

Moral of this story:  Live with people who are bigger than you so they can carry you to bed.

Five Stages of Grief

If you came here to get cheered up, then you're in the wrong corner of the Internet, unless you're a Dodgers fan.  If that's the case, I have no idea how you got past security.  I'd like to say I'm not one of those people who let the outcome of a sporting event dictate my mood, but that would be a big fat lie.  And baseball hits me the hardest.

Yeah, that about nails it.  I went to bed sad, at 2:00 in the morning, mind you.  I woke up sad.  I'm blogging sad.  I'm about to go for a really sad run.  If you think I'm being dramatic, you can suck it.  I am GRIEVING, people!  And I just want it to be over.  Grieving over a tough loss is no different than anything else.  I have to push through these five stages, and get on with my life.

Stage One:  Denial

I can't tell  you how long after the game I sat on my couch last night waiting for something to happen.  Somebody found steroids in the Dodgers' Gatorade.  The Braves had earned a magical extra inning.  Something!  There was just no way that my baseball season was over.  I'm just not accepting it.  We are the best come from behind team in the MLB this year.  This game just can't be over.  

Stage Two:  Anger

Oh, I'm angry.  Big time.  You guys get paid MILLIONS of dollars to win.  DO IT!  I'm do my job for 1% of that, and I do it well.  And remember, you're the come from behind team.  Those damn announcers reminded me every two seconds.  Was I lied to?  I think I've covered where liars go.  I am 800 shades of angry right now.   You guys had one job.  One job!

That pretty much nails what my face looks like when it's not stained with tears.  And yes, I did throw a few things last night, because I'm an adult and that's how I express my anger.  Shove it.

Stage Three:  Bargaining

 I've already blown through this stage before the game started.  You know, since this is a major, life changing, important event, I said a little prayer the night before the game and right before the game started.  And there was definitely a 'Please God!' thrown in about once an inning.
  

It didn't work.  Obviously.  I guess the whole point of bargaining is to offer something in return.  I didn't promise to stop cursing, or drinking, or to get a handle on my problem with gluttony.  Maybe that's where I went wrong.  
  
Stage Four:  Depression

And this is the stage I have been hanging out in the most.  I. Am. Sad.  I love all sports, but baseball is my jam.  It's my favorite.  My first love.  The reason I'm happy from March to October every year.  And now it's over for me.  O-V-E-R.  My heart is broken. 

Thank goodness all we keep in the house is Folic Acid and Birth Control, so I didn't make any rash decisions in all my sadness last night and try to OD.  Baseball is serious, ya'll.

Stage Five:  Acceptance

Sweet, sweet acceptance.  Will I ever get there?  I'm inclined to answer 'no' but, I've been here before.  So, I know I'll make it.  It just doesn't feel like it right now.  I feel like I'll be in this sad little bubble until next October, when we can try again.  But, I know, deep now, I will be happy again.  I will see the light.  I'll get there.  One day I'll wake up and my heart won't be so heavy.

Don't you guys worry about me.  I'll be fine.  Feel free to send flowers and drop off some casseroles in the mean time.  Or some Rays apparel.  That's the beauty of finding a significant other who cheers for different teams than you.  When your team bombs their chance, you have a back up.  Lessens the blow a little bit.

So, all my fellow Braves fans, we'll be ok.  I promise.  If you're a new fan, you'll get used to this feeling.

Oh, and the Dodgers suck.

Don't Go Breaking My Heart

Sigh.  If I were the kind of lady who had trust issues, they would be due to a large number of men, all of them wear baseball pants or football pads.  Although a few of my football pad wearing boys left me crying on Monday, my current issue is with those boys in the tight pants.  My Braves.

First of all, I'm still trying get over life without one Mr. Larry Jones.

I may or may not have just rewatched his last career at bat and cried.  Again.  Sometimes there is crying in baseball.  I mean, I was just getting over us ditching Javier Lopez ten years ago when that guy up there split.  It's been a rough decade for me.

Anyways, I can be quite the shit talker when it comes to my sports teams, but it's been a hot minute since they've backed up my big mouth.  This year though, my boys have been on fire.  Every time I turned around they were on a double digit winning streak.  It was glorious, and slightly unlike us.  But whatever.  Everyday I could see a World Series appearance, and dare I say, win in my future.  And then we played the first game of the NLDS and it kind of looked like this:

Or, using numbers, it looked like this:

Really guys?  Really?  I NEED a World Series.  Need it.  One of my sports teams hasn't been the best at anything since longer than I care to mention.  Once again, you can look that fact up, but keep your comments to yourself. 

Thankfully this is a series.  So, they can go home, sleep on it, win the next three games, and be one step closer to a World Series, AKA pull their shit together.  It's going to happen.  I can feel it.  Why am I so sure?  Because the Braves would wait until the year after my favorite player/the best third baseman ever/my husband left, to win.  It's just the kind of luck myself and the hubs would have.  Oh well, I'll still take it.  So guys, PULL IT TOGETHER.  Do it for me.  Do it for Chipper.  Do it so I don't waste my Christmas money on liquor. I was only eight years old when I got to watch you guys win the World Series.

And I have now reached the age where my memories start at about 15 years old.  It could be because of how old I am, or could be because of those four years I lived off of Rumplemintz.  Who knows?  Just win, okay?  Just do it.

I was really hoping you guys would give me more positive motivation for a post for Fan Friday, but such is life.

Love ya, mean it.