tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9822368951344419932024-03-18T01:12:35.978-05:00I like beer and babies.ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.comBlogger434125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-55511353619868254642020-10-19T14:04:00.003-05:002020-10-21T16:12:10.480-05:00How to live and (almost) die in LAHey there. Just a quick check-in to say that I am still alive and that I hope you are too. <br /><br />I started this year by getting an awesome opportunity to go to LA for work which I then parlayed into an excuse to visit my two best friends who had each moved to California for life. 2020 was gonna be my year, y'all!<br /><br />The day before I flew out, I found myself battling a zit on my face of epic proportions. At least, what I thought was a zit... <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-YdTvd1pgRjc/X43cr-kuMnI/AAAAAAAAqZM/2kM8cg5t-b0F5NsKk1jrCuVA-af7Lmk-wCLcBGAsYHQ/60372649965__74BB1012-7010-4C29-AF90-C1D15387E68F.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-YdTvd1pgRjc/X43cr-kuMnI/AAAAAAAAqZM/2kM8cg5t-b0F5NsKk1jrCuVA-af7Lmk-wCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/60372649965__74BB1012-7010-4C29-AF90-C1D15387E68F.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The zit to the right of my mouth, not the one by my nose...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>After very little sleep, I woke up the next day to head to the airport, my "zit" was even angrier. As my face throbbed, I found myself seated on the plane next to a guy who was a real butthole. I strongly considered rubbing my new-found friend on him, but somehow managed to refrain.<br /><br />Once I landed, I checked into my hotel and immediately took my jaunty new accessory to a wo<span style="text-align: center;">rk event filled with incredibly important people--and me. After I had thoroughly grossed out enough people, I headed back to my room to eat room service and sleep. As my crater-like companion lay precariously close to the corner of my mouth and produced the pain of 20 unmedicated childbirths, eating was no small feat. Neither was sleeping. I slept with a frozen water bottle on my face to help with the pain. It didn't.</span><br /><br />I "woke" the next morning to an even bigger and more painful pal. I had breakfast with my aunt and uncle, who live close to LA. I ate what I could and apologized for the state of my face, which was covered with more concealer than a toddler in a beauty pageant. </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-T6GV44NTNac/X43g2pexyxI/AAAAAAAAqa4/S7GYyZR2NDUA73Syp1Ewvyo5uiG4UA-SQCLcBGAsYHQ/60383341205__E25526F4-65CE-41B3-9D81-002B835EF6DB.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="2048" height="301" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-T6GV44NTNac/X43g2pexyxI/AAAAAAAAqa4/S7GYyZR2NDUA73Syp1Ewvyo5uiG4UA-SQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h301/60383341205__E25526F4-65CE-41B3-9D81-002B835EF6DB.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All about that base...<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />After breakfast, I headed to another hotel where my work event was being held. I did what I could given my current situation and then headed back to my hotel to work some more. While working at the bar of my hotel, I remembered that my company offers telehealth services. Even though I was halfway across the country from home, I could get something to help with whatever the hell was growing on my face!!! Thank the 8 pound 6 ounce baby Jesus, right? Oh, no. Not even close.<div><br /></div><div>The telehealth doctor took about three seconds to listen to my symptoms and look at my face and diagnosed me with...wait for it...herpes. Um, what? With what little use I had left of my mouth, I tried to explain to him that that was not the case for several medically-relevant reasons that I will not bore you with, but he remained unmoved. Thankfully, he did finally agree to prescribe me with a topical and oral antibiotic just in case. Ok. Hopefully we are making some progress. </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4HDtbWr5AE8/X43hg-9DyBI/AAAAAAAAqbI/qvcT7_6EOlscC-o2gFik_oVYeVpjKSijACLcBGAsYHQ/60384599173__BF428132-F2EB-4CCF-AC86-4087ED863867.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="2048" height="301" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4HDtbWr5AE8/X43hg-9DyBI/AAAAAAAAqbI/qvcT7_6EOlscC-o2gFik_oVYeVpjKSijACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h301/60384599173__BF428132-F2EB-4CCF-AC86-4087ED863867.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Herpes, obviously...</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>So I haul my half-dead self to the nearest pharmacy on foot, because I do not have a car and my expense report does not cover Uber rides for potential not-herpes medication. I arrive at the pharmacy and they have nothing from my doctor. Awesome. Super. Great, grand, wonderful. I sit in the chair outside of the pharmacy for two hours waiting for them to receive the script. They finally do. Phew, right? Again, not so fast. They can prescribe me the topical antibiotic, no problem. The oral, however, they can not. Because the doctor prescribed 800mg pills and they only have 400mg. They can just give me two of the 400mg pills for each dose, but the prescribing doctor is not responding. They suggest a sister pharmacy that is 20 miles away (in LA that is like 300 miles) but again, I DON'T HAVE A CAR. So we wait. And then wait some more. We call their line and each time we get an actual person, the line disconnects. Needless to say, I am in tears at this point. After I believe five hours of waiting, I give up. I leave with my topical cream and go sit outside of the pharmacy--in bum pee, mind you--and cry. </div><div><br /></div><div>While weeping on the urine-covered concrete steps outside of Ralph's, the telehealth agency calls. Not to help with the prescription issue though. They want to know how my experience has been using XYZ Telehealth. Seriously? SERIOUSLY??? I explain to the poor woman what happened and she offers to...wait for it...book me another appointment. Whatever. At this point, I am out of options. While setting me up for another appointment with a new doctor, she asks me the preliminary question that every woman gets asked, "What is the first day of your last menstrual cycle?" I laugh and tell her, "Today, actually." She acts as if all wisdom in the history of ever has just been bestowed upon her and responds, "OHHHHH. That's why you're so upset!" </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't even have words for how these words at this moment felt. Let's just say it broke me. I was halfway across the country from home, alone, incredibly sick, starving, sleep-deprived and sitting in downtown LA at night in the dried remains of someone else's pee. And a woman just told me that the only reason I was upset was because I was on my period. Needless to say, I kindly hung up the phone and dragged myself back to my hotel to apply my antibiotic ointment and hopefully sleep away this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.<br /><div><br />Sleep was even more elusive this night than the two previously. The pain in my face was unbearable. I finally threw in the towel at around 5 a.m. When I got up, I realized that things had escalated quickly overnight. My face was hot to the touch, I was feverish and my glands were swollen. Y'all I was fucking scared. </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3JxfKeKcon0/X43hPCctoiI/AAAAAAAAqbA/45EKWFjdei8XxatmF5v0GZMphVmCySNsACLcBGAsYHQ/IMG_4733.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="2048" height="301" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3JxfKeKcon0/X43hPCctoiI/AAAAAAAAqbA/45EKWFjdei8XxatmF5v0GZMphVmCySNsACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h301/IMG_4733.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How I woke up.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I started searching nearby urgent cares that took my insurance, let my team know I would not be at the event that morning and called an Uber. Once I arrived at the urgent care, I poured myself out of the Uber and into their waiting room looking half dead. But I had made it! Oh but wait. Turns out, even though I checked with my insurance before heading to this facility, they did NOT take my insurance. They took the brand and were a partner organization and all that, but for some reason they didn't take the arm my insurance was under. Fuck. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, while sobbing silently in their waiting room and making the poor front desk girl INCREDIBLY uncomfortable, I called my insurance and explained the situation. The sweet woman on the phone helped me find another LA urgent care that 100% took my insurance. So I called another Uber and headed to my second urgent care.</div><div><br /></div><div>I arrive at a super sketchy looking building but at this point, I would let a back alley hooker treat me if they could just make the pain go away and ensure I was not going to die in LA. So I check in at the front desk and sit down. Mere seconds later, the kind receptionist informs me that they do accept my insurance, however they only treat WORKERS COMP cases, so they can not see me. I seriously can not even make this shit up at this point. She also relays that the doctor read my entrance form and saw me when I came in and based on my appearance and symptoms, suggest I head STRAIGHT TO THE ER!!! Cool, cool, cool. Also, remember, I don't have a car and am already two Ubers deep from my hotel. </div><div><br /></div><div>After searching my trusty info provided by the lovely-yet-ill-informed-lady I spoke with from my insurance company earlier, I call A THIRD Uber to transport my corpse from the workers comp urgent care to the nearest hospital that accepts my insurance.</div><div><br /></div>At this point in my journey, I don't know how there is a single drop of moisture left in my body. I have been silently crying for like 12 hours straight. But by some miracle, I am still consistently leaking--and scaring the shit out of every single soul that has the misfortune of coming in contact with me.<div><br /></div><div>Now, I want to take a moment to set the scene of where all of this is happening: Central City East, LA, also known as skid row. No, I'm not kidding. I picked my first urgent care based on (faulty) research on what insurances they accepted, their ratings and their location in proximity to my hotel (which was right by the STAPLES Center, which is right by Central City East). Central City East may be located in beautiful, sunny California, but its residents live in tents and shelters, rather than the palatial mansions inhabited by the Hollywood elite, located mere miles away. Central City East is a glaring reminder of the imbalances our society so easily overlooks. It is also not where you want to find yourself half-dead in need of emergency medical treatment, but I digress.</div><div><br /></div><div>So after hours on this seemingly endless journey, I arrive at the hospital. After checking in, I am immediately escorted back to the emergency waiting room and seated between two gentlemen: one who is covered in blood and vomit, both new and old, and the other who keeps trying to give me his mail and then gets very agitated when I decline to accept it. Then there's me: open lesion on my face, haven't slept or eaten in over three days, and is openly weeping.</div><div><br /></div><div>I get called back to a room where two nice doctors examine me and <strike>almost vomit</strike> ask me questions about my symptoms, length of illness, etc. They quickly inform me that my very angry zit is not a zit at all. Nope, not even close. It's a staph infection and an ugly one at that. The doctorly duo provide me with some bandaids and write me multiple prescriptions for enough antibiotics to kill an elephant. They then promptly deny my request for something for the pain because I look like an extra from the Walking Dead and they think I am a drug-seeking junkie--because I look exactly like a drug-seeking junkie. Touche.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-FxaEkTJe9NM/X43gGf9CeDI/AAAAAAAAqak/DIfFl-t8g7Il1TAoFL_fxx67FIr7WQTFQCLcBGAsYHQ/IMG_4750%2B%25281%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="2048" height="301" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-FxaEkTJe9NM/X43gGf9CeDI/AAAAAAAAqak/DIfFl-t8g7Il1TAoFL_fxx67FIr7WQTFQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h301/IMG_4750%2B%25281%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meth mouth?</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>Prescriptions in hand (fool me once, fuckers), I exit the exam room, remind my postal pal that I do not want his mail even though he assures me there is really, really good stuff in it and I need it, I pay the hospital $500 for their services and then walk to the nearby bodega/pharmacy. I shockingly retrieve my meds without issue, pop my first dose and decide to walk the almost two miles home from the hospital to my hotel. Because if I haven't fucking died yet, nothing is taking me down. </div><div><br /></div><div>After a few doses of antibiotics, I started to feel human again. I wrote a story about Staphanie, a smalltown bacteria with dreams of making it big so she hitched a ride (on me) from the Midwest to Hollywood so she could one day latch on to hosts the likes of Brad Pitt and Lady Gaga. Yeah, I had pretty much lost my mind at this point. I did a lot of really creepy laughing during this time. I then spent the rest of my work responsibilities donning a Nelly-esque bandaid on my face. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9nDn9ZtLEMM/X43gXg9jn3I/AAAAAAAAqaw/QQYQ7c91agESHZn0QspRhDBfXO378WGFACLcBGAsYHQ/IMG_4735.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9nDn9ZtLEMM/X43gXg9jn3I/AAAAAAAAqaw/QQYQ7c91agESHZn0QspRhDBfXO378WGFACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_4735.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">Say it loud, "I'm from the Lou and I'm proud!"</span></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br />When work was over, my friend picked me up in LA and we headed to the whale's vagina for a few days. During that time, whatever was living in my face decided it wanted out. And out it came. Whole. Leaving a giant hole in my face the size of a pencil eraser. It was hot.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xCMoiYDbuSw/X43fEQnLW7I/AAAAAAAAqaU/Q05JAqSdeYMmUGOCKnrI5mpPIDxB7ACQQCLcBGAsYHQ/IMG_4763.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xCMoiYDbuSw/X43fEQnLW7I/AAAAAAAAqaU/Q05JAqSdeYMmUGOCKnrI5mpPIDxB7ACQQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_4763.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This came out of my face. It is solid, like a bouncy ball.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>So that's my tale of how I lived--and almost died--in LA. A telehealth appointment that yielded nothing accept the knowledge of where LA's homeless use the toilet and that Karen works in customer service at XYZ Telehealth, two Ubers to urgent cares that could not treat me, a third Uber to the emergency room where I made friends with a mailman, and a hole in my face you could fit your pinkie into. </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-j4vFic8CPOg/X43ijuM-bGI/AAAAAAAAqbU/sPL0_IcGnqwEyLHmyf8KN9cCewcJP5t_QCLcBGAsYHQ/IMG_4893%2B%25281%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-j4vFic8CPOg/X43ijuM-bGI/AAAAAAAAqbU/sPL0_IcGnqwEyLHmyf8KN9cCewcJP5t_QCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_4893%2B%25281%2529.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A hole...lot better.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>Oh yeah, and I saw sea lions IRL. That was pretty sweet!</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hf7_dU1AapA/X43eYmFxNlI/AAAAAAAAqaI/ysU0FkZjQlQvXzTSb74YV8RRIpjg7WUqQCLcBGAsYHQ/IMG_4832.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="2048" height="301" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hf7_dU1AapA/X43eYmFxNlI/AAAAAAAAqaI/ysU0FkZjQlQvXzTSb74YV8RRIpjg7WUqQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h301/IMG_4832.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Staphanie on a boat.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br />Man, I remember when getting a staph infection while by myself halfway across the country seemed like the worst thing that was going to happen in 2020... Oh, the salad days.<br /><div><br /></div><div>If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. </div></div></div></div>ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-80747580013768895792019-06-10T13:59:00.002-05:002019-06-10T13:59:33.658-05:00Organize Your First Aid Kit and Medicine Cabinet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have been on an organizing kick lately. Not because I am an organized person, but because I am a hot freaking mess and need help wherever I can get it. The place where we keep our first aid supplies and medicines is a friggin' dumpster fire of disorganization and it drives me cray. Every time I need a Band-Aid because I cut half my leg off shaving or nausea meds because children always be pukin', I have to dig for 45 minutes through bottles of expired ExLax and errant tampons. So I decided to slay the beast that is our pharmacy of sorts.<br />
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Target almost always has a deal that if you buy three qualifying items you get a <a href="https://www.target.com/c/build-your-own-kit/-/N-56duv?lnk=Freebag" target="_blank">free medical kit</a>. Well, I literally about cut my damn leg off shaving last week so I needed a bunch of supplies anyway so I stocked up and got two free kits. I made one a kit for the kids meds and one a kit for wound care. I can't tell you how much this has saved me in the last week alone.<br />
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My Kids Meds kit has pain relievers/fever reducers, Pepto tabs, allergy meds, gas relief and eye drops for pink eye because children are disgusting. This kit came in handy this week when my son decide to start leaking from his facial orifices thanks to pollen and my daughter decided to follow up our trip to the circus by projectile vomiting cotton candy at 3 a.m.<br />
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My Boo Boo Kit has Band-Aids, gauze, ointment, medical tape and peroxide. Now I don't have to dig for everything when one of my kids decides to take a header off the couch or I try to de-sasquatch myself.<br />
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Thought I would share since these have been super useful in our house.<br />
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-15030089918726664262018-12-11T10:50:00.001-06:002018-12-11T10:50:17.065-06:00Sorry, not sorry.As a new year prepares to emerge, I have been thinking about what I want 2019 to mean for me. 2018 was a mixed bag. From starting a new job that has become less work and more calling, to helping a friend escape domestic violence that almost ended her life, 2018 was like that bipolar friend you had in college: unpredictable and filled with the highest of highs and lowest of lows. <br /><br />But I have learned so much. Mainly, that I care too much sometimes and that isn’t always healthy for me or the person I am helping. Because I am a “fixer” and there are so many things that are out of my control to “fix”. And those situations leave me feeling frustrated and powerless, and the other party feeling judged and resentful. I have learned to put my own health and mental well being first and to sometimes let other people deal with their own circus and their own monkeys. <br /><br />I have also learned to foster the relationships in my life that are healthy and not one-sided. I have taken stock of my friendships and tried to evaluate which ones are there because they are true friendships and which ones are there due to habit or feelings of obligation. My inventory found that many of the relationships I hold on to are not healthy. Most of which have grown that way from years of neglect of the good and support of the bad. Some of these friendships are worth saving and fighting for, others that are not. All will require change on both sides in order to rebloom and flourish. But my friendship inventory also opened my eyes to so many people in my life that are positive, supportive and genuinely invested in our relationship. These were often the friendships that were easily overlooked. Because they weren’t necessarily flashy or fun-filled. They were even, steady and strong. So now instead of just watering those friendships every so often, I am fertilizing them and watching them grow even stronger. Just like me.<br /><br />Another thing that has to change in 2019: I have been hiding my happiness for too damn long. I never sing from the rooftops when something good happens. I hide it, underplay it and act as if my wins don’t matter. Because I don’t want others to feel less than or jealous if they are not as lucky. But I am not lucky. I am simply reaping what I sowed. Because I work hard, help others, do good wherever I can and live a purposeful life. I am the little red-headed hen. I planted my wheat, tended to it, harvested it, and baked some delicious fucking bread with it. So why am I not allowed to enjoy my tasty ass bread when it is finished? In 2019, ima eat the shit out of that bread and not feel guilty if your bread isn’t done yet. I’ll share my bread when I want to with who I want to. But I won’t ever feel I owe anyone a slice. Get ya own damn bread, chickens.<br /><br />So for 2019, I am updating my resume. <br /><br /><b>Subtractions: </b><br />Whipping girl, doormat and all around person you can use to take your shit out on whenever you feel like it with no rhyme, reason or apologies.<br /><br /><b>Additions:</b><br />Selective, but supportive friend.<br /><br />Fun, fearless and unapologetic about her happiness.<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bring it, 2019.</td></tr>
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<br />So how about you? What changes are you going to make in 2019?<div>
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>.</div>
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ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-51698309125761881242017-12-06T15:51:00.000-06:002017-12-06T15:51:09.589-06:00Santa Brings Joy and Cheer, Not iPadsThe holidays are officially upon us. A time of joyful anticipation for children and ridiculous amounts of work-and wine-for adults. I thought I would take this time to share with you the way our family celebrates Christmas.<br />
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I treat the holidays as a time to gather with friends and family over copious amounts of food, laughter and usually booze. For me, Christmas is a time to be together. To ice cookies and listen to rat pack Christmas albums.<br />
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I don’t do elf on the shelf because I don’t need Santa's little <strike>helper</strike> narc sneaking around my house in the middle of the night to teach my children how to act. I do that. And because I sure as shit don’t have time to remember to move that motherfucker errry. damn. day.<br />
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I also don’t buy my children extravagant gifts under the <a href="http://www.ilikebeerandbabies.com/2014/12/dear-santa-suck-it.html" target="_blank">guise of them being from Santa</a>. Santa only fills stockings at our house and he doesn’t fill them with iPads. He fills them with little toys and trinkets that the kids love--like Rubik's cubes and candy and nail polish. The Hatchimal that I had to go to three damn Targets to secure came from mommy and daddy. Because Santa's jolly ass fo sho isn't getting credit for that shit.<br />
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But more than just not wanting to give a mythical figure credit for my hard earned money and time, I am thinking of other families when I limit what Santa gives my kids. My kids go to a school where there is an incredible range of household incomes. Some children at their school may be lucky to get a few trinkets from the dollar store from Santa, while others get an Xbox and a literal pony. How do you explain to a child in need that Santa provided a family that already had so much with even more and that he provided them with so little? I have no problem with you providing your child with a Clydesdale for Christmas, but don't do it in the name of Santa. On second thought, if you have Clydesdale money, please just promise me that you will make a gift to charity that equals the amount you pay for the horse. Also, can I pet it? And maybe name it Sparky? And possibly have it pull me around in a cart shaped like a smaller horse?<br />
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Anyway. So on Christmas, we give our children very little from "Santa". And to be honest, not much more from us. My kids each get three gifts. All totaling less than $100 per child. Because my kids don't need more "stuff". They need love and support and kindness-all of which come for free.<br />
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So how do our kids feel about this? Happy. And grateful. I told them that I asked Santa to only fill our stockings even when he gives others gifts because we are so lucky with all of the love that we have in our lives. And they get it. And they spread that love and spirit of it's-better-to-give-than-to-receive to others.<br />
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I will step off my Santa soapbox. But I hope that some of you will join me in pulling back on Santa's reins this year. In the name of raising grateful kids, supporting kids in need and getting ALL the damn credit for that damn Hatchimal.<br />
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>.ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-86840279465370769322017-06-13T10:32:00.001-05:002017-06-13T10:34:56.328-05:00Parenting isn't hard. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Parenting isn't hard. Now before you gather your mom friends and head toward my house bearing flaming torches...</div>
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<br />Parenting isn't hard. Life is. Parenting should be a joy. But often that joy is suffocated by real life. Bills, taxes, marital problems, etc. Dropping our kids off at soccer practice isn't hard. The problem is that during that drive instead of enjoying our kids we are thinking about laundry and cooking dinner and... We can't focus on singing crappy '90s rap songs with our kids on the way because we are too busy worrying about the myriad other things we need to be doing in order to keep the wheels on the bus from falling off and our lives driving into a fiery pit of chaos.<br /><br />And crying over spilled milk isn't a joke--it's an epidemic. Just ask any mom who spilled 8 oz of freshly pumped liquid boob gold. Or a mom that just picked her kid's sippy cup off the ground for the 14 millionth time today. In the long run, we aren't mad about the spilled milk. We're mad because we made another mistake because we weren't paying attention. Or because we yelled at our kid for an accident--or a pattern they have developed trying to get our attention. I've lost count of the times that I have completely lost my shit over something small. All because I am absolutely overwhelmed by all of the people/pets/things that I am responsible for in life.<div>
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<br />What's my point? God only knows. I am generally so distracted by everything in life that I lose track of what I was saying/doing three seconds in. But sometimes I'm not. For a split second every once in a while life stops me in my tracks with something beautiful. My children playing together without guidance or fighting, a butterfly fluttering by, a check I didn't know was coming in the mail just when I needed it.<br /><br />So what's my solution? I don't have one. Just a bit of perspective to stop and smell the sweaty soccer cleats every once in a while. Take a minute to laugh at being spit up on right before you have to head to an important meeting. Take five minutes out of each day to stop thinking about all of the flaming piles of poo that life is currently throwing at you and enjoy watching your kids throw all of the laundry you just folded into a pile that they can jump in. Hell, jump in with them. You are going to have to refold it one way or another so you might as well get some joy out of it.<br />
If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>.</div>
ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-39713198139707960752017-02-04T12:52:00.001-06:002017-02-04T12:52:41.149-06:00You boys like Mexico?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So we booked a trip to take the kids to Mexico for spring break. One of those all you can eat and drink and sunburn deals that has a kids club. I am equal parts excited and terrified.<br />
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As we prepare to embark on a vacation that is complete luxury and no necessity, I am reminded of all of the families that are fighting so hard to stay in this country so they can better the lives of their children. There is no difference between those families and mine.<br />
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Though my children reap the benefits every day of the latitude and longitude of their birth location and color of their skin, two things that mean nothing in reality but everything in the mixed up world that they are living in, I work to teach them to fight for others. Speak up for those whose voices can't be heard. Recognize their privilege and use it to change the world for the better.<br />
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If ever I thought raising an infant was hard, raising children in a time where I have to explain the terrible actions of a rich, white male with no empathy for those who are different than himself is so much harder. But I will continue to mold two people who will be selfless, advocates for others.<br />
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Please join me in raising a generation of amazing men and women who will make this world better with every action.<br />
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-52982342568560544002016-06-17T15:10:00.002-05:002016-06-17T15:10:36.232-05:00Love for Orlando<div>
If you're like me, the events in Orlando, both at Pulse and at Disney, have shaken you to your core. It is hard to not imagine one of the dead as your friend, or brother, or son. </div>
<br />As a mother, I feel their loss deep in my soul. My legs feel weak at the thought of the friends and family who have to go on without those 49 people in their lives--a feeling I know all too well. My chest aches and burns for the parents who lost their sweet little boy right before their own eyes. <br /><br />It is times like this where kindness goes farther than ever. To strangers. To your loved ones. To yourself. <br /><br />Though we will find a way to move on from these tragedies, they will change us. But don't let them sour you. Make them strengthen you. <br /><div>
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Take this sadness and turn it into something that betters the world. <br /><br />Don't just embrace people's difference, celebrate them. See people as human beings, regardless of the color of their skin, sexual preference or religious views.<br /><br />Tell your children you love them more. Hug them a little tighter. Read them a story even when you just want to close their bedroom door and relax on the couch with a glass of wine.<br /><br />(Steps off soapbox. Pours said glass of wine.)<br /><br />Ending with love. For all.<br />
If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. </div>
ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-66141578241137122712016-04-04T09:52:00.000-05:002016-04-04T09:52:19.699-05:00Bruce Wayne has had his first taste of blood…So I guess the best way to start this story is to set the stage. Bruce Wayne is more dog than cat.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He likes to read books with the boy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And bath time.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And...well...he doesn't seem to like this very much...</td></tr>
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Example: when my husband came home yesterday after being out of town for the weekend, Bruce greeted him at the door, rolled over onto his back so my husband could rub his belly and then started licking my husband's hand for half an hour… Pretty much the only cat thing he does is watch animals out the window and squeak at them like a huge pussy. </div>
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Well, this morning he finally filled the, "soon…" meme.</div>
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As we opened the door to head out for school/work this morning, a bird screeched like a fucking banshee and swooped over us all and into our fucking house!!! Bruce immediately came out of nowhere and pounced on it Matrix style. The bird managed to get away and fly through the living room and kitchen into the dining room. Bruce again sprung into action and pinned it down. I was amazed. My kids were a mixture of amazed and terrified...</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best comment so far: In his defense, it is the dining room.</td></tr>
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As for the bird, I managed to wrangle him away from Bruce. I checked him out and though he was missing a lot of feathers, he seemed OK. Just stunned. Hoping the best for him but but let's face it, that feathered little fucker dive bombed my entire family and flew into my damned house. He is kind of an asshole bird and deserved to have a few feathers ruffled. I hope he lives though. mostly.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bye Bye, Birdie.</td></tr>
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Needless to say, there are fucking feathers everywhere in my house. And Bruce has a crazed look in his eyes as he has finally gotten his first taste of blood. I am somewhat fearful for my own life now. Though I feel like for Bruce this is the culmination of months of methodical stalking. It is sort of the cat version of a mic drop.<br />
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. </div>
ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-41721042971208319512016-01-20T11:46:00.002-06:002016-01-20T13:19:19.479-06:00MAKING A MURDERER – THE CLIFFS NOTES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KdED-FSWRFw/Vp_G6dwE5kI/AAAAAAAAaiI/e3QEIR069Nk/s1600/netflix-making-a-murderer%2Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KdED-FSWRFw/Vp_G6dwE5kI/AAAAAAAAaiI/e3QEIR069Nk/s400/netflix-making-a-murderer%2Bcopy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Today I am sharing a post with you by my completely funny ass friend, <a href="http://skidmarking.com/how-i-got-here">Hannah</a> from <a href="http://skidmarking.com/">sKidMarking</a>. She is rediculous and has no sense of shame at all. I puffy heart love her. Enjoy!<br />
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If you’re like me, the NETFLIX series <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Making_a_Murderer" style="background-color: inherit; box-sizing: border-box; color: #e8554e; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;" target="_blank">Making A Murderer</a> has trapped you, chewed you up and spit you back out into a colder, crueler world where nothing will ever be as it once was. It is an infuriating, haunting and fascinating look into the justice system that will make you want to crawl into your TV and punch people.</div>
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Obviously there are two sides to every story, but I don’t have time for that. I prefer to consume my news in one sided documentary form and quickly jump to my own conclusions. Preferably conclusions which are spoon fed to me by people looking to make a profit.</div>
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If you don’t have NETFLIX or have not yet had a chance yet to watch, I’ve taken the liberty of nutshelling it all below for your reference. It is a story everyone must hear in order to be properly paranoid. The most routine traffic stop can turn into life in prison in the blink of an eye and you’re gonna need to know what to do when the cops plant a dead cat in your trunk.</div>
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Episode 1:</h3>
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A vacationing woman is raped and beaten on the beach while jogging. The wrong man, Steven Avery, is convicted and spends 18 years in prison. Then in 2003 DNA is invented and they realize they made a mistake and let him out.</div>
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KEY TAKEAWAY: Avoid all physical activity while on vacation</div>
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Episode 2:</h3>
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Steven Avery attests the police knew he was innocent from the get go and unleashes Kill Bill-style vengeance in the form of a sensible, warranted lawsuit. But just when he starts to get some traction, dead girl bones are found in his back yard. Shit gets real.</div>
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KEY TAKEAWAY: If you’re in prison because you’ve been framed by an ENTIRE POLICE DEPARTMENT, when you are let out you run far far away and never look back</div>
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Episode 3:</h3>
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Brendan is Steven’s learning disabled nephew and is coerced into giving a confession that makes no sense, or backed up by, you know, any evidence. Everyone goes to jail.</div>
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Jodi, Steven’s girlfriend promises us she “Ain’t going nowhere”. Thank God for Jodi. She’s the only one in this whole show whose hair doesn’t hurt our eyes.</div>
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KEY TAKEAWAY: Brendan can’t hear you, no matter how loud you scream at your TV to try to help him</div>
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Episode 4:</h3>
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Brendan’s lawyer, a foreskin with glasses, tricks Brendan into giving a written statement. He is later fired but the damage has been done. Jodi leaves us. She was our everything and now she’s gone. Brendan misses Wrestle Mania. His Dad tapes it.</div>
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KEY TAKEAWAY: Jodi is a damn liar</div>
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Episode 5:</h3>
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The trial starts and Teresa’s (the deceased girl) beady eyed, stocking hat wearing ex-boyfriend takes the stand and is obviously guilty because, you know – beady eyes and stocking cap.</div>
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KEY TAKEAWAY: Never book a second date with someone you believe could be capable of shooting you in the head then throwing your body into a fire</div>
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Episode 6:</h3>
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A bloody bullet, which was found in Steven’s garage, is presented as evidence. A bloody bullet found FOUR MONTHS after the previous searches. A bloody bullet found by the police department which was ordered to stay away from crime scene because, you know, THEY FRAMED HIM BEFORE.</div>
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On a side note, this evidence was presented by a woman who is a compilation of everyone who was mean to me in high school. Well guess what, <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Sherry!</em> I’m a grown woman now; you can’t hurt me anymore. And I don’t give two craps about your “evidence”.</div>
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<a href="http://skidmarking.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/sherry-culhane.jpg" style="background-color: inherit; box-sizing: border-box; color: #e8554e; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;"><img alt="sherry culhane" class="wp-image-5267 aligncenter" src="http://skidmarking.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/sherry-culhane.jpg" height="412" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; height: auto; margin: 0px auto 24px; max-width: 100%;" width="500" /></a></div>
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KEY TAKEAWAY: Just kidding please invite me to your birthday</div>
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Episode 7:</h3>
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A car key found in Steven’s bedroom is presented as evidence. A car key found in plain sight MONTHS after the previous searches. A car key found by the exact policeman who was not supposed to be there because he was directly LINKED TO FRAMING HIM BEFORE.</div>
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KEY TAKEAWAY: Previous assumptions that anyone with a northern accent is inherently trustworthy are false</div>
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Episode 8:</h3>
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Everyone is in cahoots. Steven is found guilty and sentenced to life in prison despite any believable evidence or speck of blood found ANYWHERE ON HIS PROPERTY.</div>
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KEY TAKEAWAY: There’s always someone out there having a worse Tuesday than you</div>
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Episode 9:</h3>
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Brendan is guilty as well, despite any physical evidence and severe inconsistencies in the story police instructed him to say. But no one is surprised. We all knew that was coming after this shit show.</div>
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KEY TAKEAWAY: No one ever should watch this documentary</div>
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Episode 10:</h3>
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We’re all learning how to move forward with the lives we’ve been dealt. We have a new girlfriend – she’s no Jodi but she’ll do okay. Oh and P.S. the lead prosecutor in the case was fired due to sexually harassing his domestic abuse clients but we’re not surprised. He was creepy as all get out. No one seems to care or willing to re-open our case.</div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px;">KEY TAKEAWAY: The system is broken, and poor people accused of crimes are royally fucked</span><br />
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-36723405044572783162015-10-27T09:06:00.001-05:002015-10-27T09:06:54.618-05:00The Value of Experience<!--ClickMeter.com page views tracking: hfu7 --> <script type="text/javascript"> var ClickMeter_pixel_url = '//pixel.watch/hfu7'; </script> <script id="cmpixelscript" src="//s3.amazonaws.com/scripts-clickmeter-com/js/pixelNew.js" type="text/javascript"></script> <noscript> <img height='0' width='0' alt='' src='http://pixel.watch/hfu7' /> </noscript>
Growing up, we never had liquid hand soap in our house (or a second bathroom for our family of six or even a shower, for that matter). My mom kept a bar of green soap next to our sinks that we used to get clean--and a bar of that heavy duty Lava soap with sand in it next to the kitchen sink to get the tough stains off of my father's and brothers' hard-working hands. <br />
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As a child, I remember going to friends' houses and seeing that they had liquid soap and thinking that they were basically living in a castle. How fancy and extravagant it must be to have such a novelty.<br />
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Now that I have my own house, hand soap is one of the little indulgences that I allow myself. I use <a href="http://bit.ly/1JOU72p">Seventh Generation</a> because it's purdy, smells good and isn't full of chemical crap. But really, it's just a cheap and easy way to get clean and wax nostalgic. It is also a reminder of the little things that can excite and amaze a child. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w7uLcAT0xxE/Vi-EZUGlFXI/AAAAAAAAagw/O26Q7RlyOD8/s1600/IMG_1353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w7uLcAT0xxE/Vi-EZUGlFXI/AAAAAAAAagw/O26Q7RlyOD8/s400/IMG_1353.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kids get the unscented kind so they don't use the whole damn bottle in one wash because it "smells pretty".</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VJN6el4cwv0/Vi-EqearmwI/AAAAAAAAag4/VfB0hoOk7C0/s1600/IMG_1354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VJN6el4cwv0/Vi-EqearmwI/AAAAAAAAag4/VfB0hoOk7C0/s400/IMG_1354.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mama gets the good stuff. Queen of the castle! Queen of the castle!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My nostalgia-induced hand soap addiction makes me wonder what those little memories will be for my kids. Will they think that having canned bread sticks with spaghetti at a friend's house is the most amazing meal ever like I did? Will they take after me and swoon over their best friend's vast collection of toys, not realizing that those toys are parting gifts in place of their parents' affection?<br />
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When will my children start to notice things like how some houses are warm and inviting and others are cold and lifeless? That some families value possessions over people and feel that having more is never enough. <br />
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Will my children see buying a cheap bottle of hand soap as a frivolity in life or as a necessity? Because it isn't the value of the soap that matters to me. It is that the idea of the soap has value to me. Emotionally. As silly as it sounds, that small indulgence ties me to my past while celebrating my present. When I soap up my children's hands, I remember what it felt like to think that such a thing was an extravagance. But now it is part of our everyday.<br />
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What about you? What is your "hand soap"?<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15.3999996185303px; line-height: 21.5599994659424px;">This post is sponsored by </span><a href="http://bit.ly/1Lw8wRj" style="background-color: white; font-size: 15.3999996185303px; line-height: 21.5599994659424px; text-decoration: none;">Seventh Generation</a><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15.3999996185303px; line-height: 21.5599994659424px;">, but all opinions, sappy stories and hand soap addictions are my own.</span></span><br />
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. </div>
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ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-42315423655495702772015-10-15T11:37:00.004-05:002015-10-15T11:37:50.162-05:00A Farewell to Fatty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LR-T6oKsRgA/Vh_U9-c8nAI/AAAAAAAAagU/qUF97qosHYA/s1600/Fiona.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LR-T6oKsRgA/Vh_U9-c8nAI/AAAAAAAAagU/qUF97qosHYA/s400/Fiona.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.ilikebeerandbabies.com/2015/06/fatty-has-diabeetus.html">Diabetes</a> took its toll.<br />
Our family is no longer whole.<br />
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I will always miss your penetrating stares.<br />
You glared away without a care.<br />
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You liked to <a href="http://www.ilikebeerandbabies.com/2015/03/i-think-my-cat-needs-intervention.html">puke</a> with reckless abandon.<br />
You and the boy had <a href="http://www.ilikebeerandbabies.com/2013/09/my-toddler-and-my-cat-might-actually-be.html">much in common</a>.<br />
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You did not like to <a href="http://www.ilikebeerandbabies.com/search?q=fatty">go outside</a>.<br />
Though when you did, the <a href="http://www.ilikebeerandbabies.com/2013/06/fatty-is-scary.html">critters would hide</a>.<br />
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I will miss you forever you fat, furry bitch.<br />
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-34350115912329071882015-10-08T13:21:00.001-05:002020-11-09T10:23:57.879-06:00How to make laundry less of a dirty job<!--ClickMeter.com page views tracking: hfu7--> <script type="text/javascript"> var ClickMeter_pixel_url = '//pixel.watch/hfu7'; </script> <script id="cmpixelscript" src="//s3.amazonaws.com/scripts-clickmeter-com/js/pixelNew.js" type="text/javascript"></script> <noscript> <img height='0' width='0' alt='' src='http://pixel.watch/hfu7' /> </noscript>
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Let’s talk dirty today. Real dirty. We’re talking grass stains, ketchup remnants and pit smell. Yep, let’s talk dirty laundry. I fucking hate it. Like, HATE doing laundry. But I have found a few corners to cut that help me hate it a tiny bit less. Like:</div>
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<b>Organization</b></div>
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I have developed a sorting system that I think is pretty genius. I bought three big laundry bins. A green one for colors, a black one for darks and a white one for, well you get the point. This makes it easy for my three and five year olds to put their own dirty clothes away. Sometimes my husband even puts his dirty socks in there instead of leaving them on the bedroom floor. I know! Crazy, right?!?! Having the three colors just works better visually and the bins are bigger than those crappy laundry organizers you can buy.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fO5agnSIP8c/VfGimNnnOcI/AAAAAAAAafM/bNZ7ZOMRGYA/s1600/IMG_0981.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fO5agnSIP8c/VfGimNnnOcI/AAAAAAAAafM/bNZ7ZOMRGYA/s400/IMG_0981.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please note the Bruce on the loose...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>Stain Removal</b></div>
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I found that having my stain remover in the basement where the laundry was pretty much guaranteed I never used it. Now, I have it upstairs with the dirty laundry so I actually spray the stains before I put the item in the laundry basket. My kids look less and less like filthy hobos every day! Winning!</div>
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<b>Detergent</b></div>
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As for detergent, even when the kids were babies, we never used Dreft. I think it is a total ripoff that preys on new moms’ emotions. I have, however, always used a dye- and fragrance-free soap because my husband is a freak that breaks out in full-body hives if I use anythings else. We are talking ER visit hives. Right now I am using <a href="http://bit.ly/1NBRYIp">Seventh Generation Free & Clear</a> and liking it. It is tough on the stains my kids create but gentle enough to not make my hubby require an epi pen after wearing clothing washed in it. Their detergent is made of 97% renewable plant-based material, so not only does my family benefit from using it, but the environment does, as well.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kd5WbUh1zzo/VhaxIWkFmkI/AAAAAAAAafo/HrG_DRbghng/s1600/SVG%2BFree%2B%2526%2BClear%2BLaundry.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kd5WbUh1zzo/VhaxIWkFmkI/AAAAAAAAafo/HrG_DRbghng/s320/SVG%2BFree%2B%2526%2BClear%2BLaundry.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<b>But when do you do it? (TWSS)</b></div>
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I tend to tackle all of our laundry on Sunday. I spend the day getting all of it clean, load by load, then I dump it all in the middle of the living room for the kids to sort while watching America’s Funniest Home Videos. Seriously. They even put theirs away when they are done. They don’t fold it, but their clothes are wash-and-wear so they don’t really need folded anyway. They just throw each pile into the drawer it goes in and call it a day. It is a beautiful thing.</div>
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This post is sponsored by <a href="http://bit.ly/1Lw8wRj">Seventh Generation</a>, but I proud to be partnering with a company that cares as much about what goes into their products as I do about the ones that I choose to use on my children.<br />
<br />
If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-49732660120203343852015-10-03T07:16:00.000-05:002015-10-03T07:16:40.847-05:00Why I'm Awake<br />
<ul>
<li>2 am: girl goes to bathroom. Leaves hallway and bathroom lights on.</li>
<li>2:30 am: boy is lonely and climbs into bed with me.</li>
<li>2:30 - 3:30 am: boy proceeds to touch me with his feet for an hour.</li>
<li>3:30 am: cat jumps on chest and proceeds to make nest.</li>
<li>4 am: cat bores of sleep and decides to attack boy's head.</li>
<li>4:30 am: girl comes in inconsolable because she can't find her unicorn (I can't make this shit up).</li>
<li>5 am: girl returns to bathroom and leaves all lights on again.</li>
<li>5:30 am: husband begins snoring so loud he even wakes himself up.</li>
<li>6 am: oh, fuck it. I give up.</li>
</ul>
If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>.ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-49015381206098658532015-09-01T11:13:00.001-05:002015-09-01T11:13:26.488-05:00Being Nice vs Being Kind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qkQF6IJfL-U/VeXMfl9vaAI/AAAAAAAAaeM/BhT-p-4mWEg/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-01%2Bat%2B10.53.20%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qkQF6IJfL-U/VeXMfl9vaAI/AAAAAAAAaeM/BhT-p-4mWEg/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-01%2Bat%2B10.53.20%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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As I approach my 36th year on this earth, I have come to the conclusion that I have spent the last 35 years of my life trying to be nice. But I am not nice. And when I try to act as such it comes off as disingenuous. I am not good, or attractive or of good quality. I am loud, brash and often off-putting.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Fcdy3yR2DsE/VeXMfgFD0NI/AAAAAAAAaeI/BuvyIAmIZas/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-01%2Bat%2B10.54.46%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="101" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Fcdy3yR2DsE/VeXMfgFD0NI/AAAAAAAAaeI/BuvyIAmIZas/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-09-01%2Bat%2B10.54.46%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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What I actually am is kind. Empathetic. Caring. But not “nice”. Though I may be loud, brash and overly outspoken, at the heart of things, I care deeply about people. About helping them when they are hurting. About putting their needs in front of my own. Sometimes to a fault. That is why I am honest about how broken I am at times. Because if bearing my soul a little too often helps even just one person, it is worth it.<br />
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I see niceness as trying to placate others with personality. That is bullshit. Being nice won’t help a person in need. Being kind will. Being nice just projects a rose-colored view on the world. Being kind <i>changes</i> the world.</div>
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So stop being nice. Start being kind. Start being the change you wish to see in the world. With kindness. With empathy. With love.</div>
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(Drops mic. Steps off soapbox. Opens beer.)</div>
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-40103717633353784722015-08-25T07:39:00.001-05:002015-08-25T21:00:29.786-05:00Living life in color, once againLately, I have been struggling with changes that are going on in my life. A new job, my oldest beginning kindergarten and other changes have been hard on me. Not just because there is a different routine, but because it is slowly showing me that I am becoming myself again in many ways. I have come out of the shell of grief that my brother's death created and started to become the person I was before it all.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I am realizing that the person that I was/am again might be a lot for certain people to handle. I am loud, and brash and honest. A lot of people have become used to the broken me and aren't as accepting of the new/old me. When I was grieving, I was subdued, quiet and did more listening than talking. Because I didn't have words. But the words are back, along with my annoying asshole personality.<br />
<br />
So I am at a crossroads of whether I need to tone down who I am or whether I need to get rid of people who I like in my life but aren't excepting of the new me. Which is actually the old me. Dizzy yet? Yeah, me too.<br />
<br />
I am just trying to get my bearings so I can start moving forward and decide who I want to be by my side along the way. It has been a painful struggle, but one that I know will help me grow in the long run. I have been blessed with a semi large group of friends. But I can't tell if they are friends that should be in my life or friends who I just keep there because we have history together.<br />
<br />
But as I get older, and possibly wiser, I am sometimes finding it painful to go forward staying friends with people who are no longer supportive. So do I keep doing the work to stay friends with people out of loyalty or do I just slowly fade away from them? I'm not sure what the right answer is and it is a very big question to pose.<br />
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I struggle daily because I want to be liked. But my personality isn't very likable. I rub a lot of people the wrong way. Some people choose to embrace that as a positive quality. Others are just frustrated by my lack of social couth.<br />
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I guess this is all a somewhat apology for being absent here on the blog. I'm not exactly sure who I am or where I am heading so it is hard to give perspective on myself, let alone anything else.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b08kDZzejns/VdxhsebTTqI/AAAAAAAAaaw/bpZNjVKSDss/s1600/11751459_1481580198820360_9155239890753046230_n%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b08kDZzejns/VdxhsebTTqI/AAAAAAAAaaw/bpZNjVKSDss/s400/11751459_1481580198820360_9155239890753046230_n%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Living life in color, once again.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I will end this post by letting you know that I am happier now than I have been in a long time. Maybe my whole life. I am just trying to make sure that I keep heading in the direction that leads to my own needs and happiness and not others'. That is a very hard path for me to take. But I am working on it.<br />
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<br />
If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-85733395979572991872015-07-17T07:10:00.000-05:002015-07-17T10:46:05.039-05:00Diaper-free is the life for me!<!--ClickMeter.com page views tracking: hfu7 --> <script type='text/javascript'> var ClickMeter_pixel_url = '//pixel.watch/hfu7'; </script> <script type='text/javascript' id='cmpixelscript' src='//s3.amazonaws.com/scripts-clickmeter-com/js/pixelNew.js'></script> <noscript> <img height='0' width='0' alt='' src='http://pixel.watch/hfu7' /> </noscript>
Well, it's official: we are now a no diaper household. Yep, I finally bit the bullet and potty trained The Boy. <br />
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It may seem like a time for nothing but celebrating, but I feel a bit of sadness at the lack of diapered booties running around my house. (No, I am not getting knocked up again so don't even go there. Not today, Satan!) <br />
<br />
Sure, tiny toddler whitey tighties are cute and all, but there was just something about an itty bitty booty in a diaper that I have always loved. A diapered booty is just so sweet and innocent and pure (unless said diaper is overflowing with poo, of course).<br />
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Also, my son has the aim of a drunken sailor so every bathroom in my house smells a whole lot like pee. Seriously, it's like my son thinks that his thing is a damn garden house and every surface in my semi-clean bathroom is a thirsty plant. <br />
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Before we made the final call to go full-undies, I made sure to take some pictures of his last day in diapers.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rolS8u7tlUU/VahT-cN-fdI/AAAAAAAAY_o/PZdA0Xca_ag/s1600/IMG_0446%2B1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rolS8u7tlUU/VahT-cN-fdI/AAAAAAAAY_o/PZdA0Xca_ag/s400/IMG_0446%2B1.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My baby boy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-reMeCw2wst8/VahUM01MwTI/AAAAAAAAY_w/R1480wEexUU/s1600/IMG_0443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-reMeCw2wst8/VahUM01MwTI/AAAAAAAAY_w/R1480wEexUU/s400/IMG_0443.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swoon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I especially liked the <a href="http://bit.ly/1Nfz9qY">Seventh Generation </a>diapers in the end because they just looked so simple and clean. No cartoon figures or cutesy patterns, just an earthy tone that harkened simpler times. I wish I had been using Seventh Generation diapers sooner so I could have given more of my photos a timeless feel when I took nakey bakey pics. I also like that they aren't harsh on a baby's skin--in fact they are the ONLY diaper on the market with an unbleached core. Believe it or not, I actually care deeply about what I put on my kids and into the earth.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1E33IREXXN4/VahUb2yTZBI/AAAAAAAAY_4/15KPwZOuQTw/s1600/IMG_0453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1E33IREXXN4/VahUb2yTZBI/AAAAAAAAY_4/15KPwZOuQTw/s400/IMG_0453.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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And the best part? From May through September, for every pack of Seventh Generation Free & Clear Diapers you purchase at Whole Foods, Seventh Generation will donate a pack of diapers to nonprofit organizations that provide services to families in need across the United States. Win-win!<br />
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This post is sponsored by <a href="http://bit.ly/1Nfz9qY">Seventh Generation</a>, but I proud to be partnering with a company that cares as much about what goes into their products as I do about the ones that I choose to use on my children. <br />
<br />ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-64778885376713997542015-06-10T10:00:00.000-05:002015-06-10T18:01:33.434-05:00Fatty has diabeetusFatty has been sick lately. Really sick. We thought she had a UTI, but it just wasn't getting better after two rounds of antibiotics, so we took her in for more testing. $300 in blood tests later, we got a diagnosis:<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DlfX41o9FIU/VXdBbsdTgkI/AAAAAAAAWC8/j46WYo4g3-w/s1600/wilford-brimley-DIABEETUS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DlfX41o9FIU/VXdBbsdTgkI/AAAAAAAAWC8/j46WYo4g3-w/s400/wilford-brimley-DIABEETUS.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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So what does that mean, besides that Fatty is now only one Werther's Original away from officially becoming the curmudgeonly old man from Cocoon? Well, it means that I have to chase her geriatric ass around the house twice a day to dope her up with insulin. YAY! Because I needed one more thing to make getting the kids to school and me to work in the mornings any more difficult. It also means that we now have $200 in insulin, needles and special food to buy a month.<br />
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I am sure some of you are asking if all of this expense and hassle is worth it, to which I reply, "Of course it is you heartless fucking douche canoe." Because that cat is a part of my fucking soul and all of this crap is totally worth it to have her glare at me lovingly for however much time we can buy her.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S-5aEhAvRfU/VXdCE7RdWLI/AAAAAAAAWDE/BECW9ne7oOo/s1600/Fiona.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S-5aEhAvRfU/VXdCE7RdWLI/AAAAAAAAWDE/BECW9ne7oOo/s400/Fiona.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bitch, I will cut you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The other morning I literally had to comb through every damn room of the house for 45 minutes trying to give her her damn medicine so she won't DIE!<br />
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Damn you, Fatty. You awesome geriatric ball of fat, fur and love.<br />
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-89885059461981467072015-06-02T10:00:00.000-05:002015-06-02T10:00:07.746-05:00Father's Day on Fleek<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U1E2WqfFw_A/VWyPgyNQeWI/AAAAAAAAVWA/dCnV_AfXJJU/s1600/all-i-wanted-for-fathers-day-was-steak-and-a-bj-but-this-tie-and-macaroni-art-are-totally-just-as-good-not-6dc6f.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U1E2WqfFw_A/VWyPgyNQeWI/AAAAAAAAVWA/dCnV_AfXJJU/s400/all-i-wanted-for-fathers-day-was-steak-and-a-bj-but-this-tie-and-macaroni-art-are-totally-just-as-good-not-6dc6f.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Father’s Day is nearing and I usually try to get the hubs something I think he will actually like. This year, <a href="http://www.zazzle.com/fathers+day+gifts?rf=238990372579609538">Zazzle</a> sent me a gift card to buy him some goodies and I was totally stoked about what I found.<br />
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ADD Daddy loves Ralph Steadman’s art. We actually have a signed print by him in our dining room that I got him for our 5-year anniversary. So when I saw <a href="http://www.zazzle.com/st_louis_missouri_skyline_print-228881575407620690?size=%5B14.0000%2C11.0000%5D&ratio=1.27272727272727&rf=238990372579609538">this St. Louis print</a> on Zazzle’s site, it totally reminded me of Steadman’s work and I thought the hubby would like it. So, I ordered it up and put it in a frame I bought on clearance at Marshalls. Boom. Cheap, easy gift.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u0vMeFlm5rw/VWyQXOQXfUI/AAAAAAAAVWg/m0byKMS8qjw/s1600/IMG_8372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u0vMeFlm5rw/VWyQXOQXfUI/AAAAAAAAVWg/m0byKMS8qjw/s400/IMG_8372.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Damn, this pic makes us look classier than we are.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My husband also, like most people with a penis, likes to grill. So when I saw <a href="http://www.zazzle.com/i_like_pig_butts_and_i_cannot_lie_acrylic_tray-256264937573015544?size=xlarge&design.areas=%5BacrylicIdea_servingtray_rectangle_xlarge_front%5D&view=113427009842524547&rf=238990372579609538">this tray</a>, I had to have it. It does Sir Mix-a-Lot (and pig butts) proud. I figure the hubs can put his meat on this tray (HA!) and take it out to cook it. Win-win.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X6Gbn-YPr4A/VWyQXaHStYI/AAAAAAAAVWk/7XovQh13EdY/s1600/IMG_8365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X6Gbn-YPr4A/VWyQXaHStYI/AAAAAAAAVWk/7XovQh13EdY/s400/IMG_8365.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ha. They said butt...</td></tr>
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And, since my husband is a daddy to not only two humans but also an overweight and lazy cat, I wanted to be sure Fatty got something for him. He wears <a href="http://www.zazzle.com/mens_basic_dark_t_shirt_black-235830115769399843?rf=238990372579609538">this shirt </a>with pride.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qC197viN-ns/VWyQVMS3nBI/AAAAAAAAVWQ/dVkgh8chYPA/s1600/IMG_8360.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qC197viN-ns/VWyQVMS3nBI/AAAAAAAAVWQ/dVkgh8chYPA/s320/IMG_8360.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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To tie it all together, I made him <a href="http://www.zazzle.com/greeting_card-137089355741613672?view=113593432953444580&rf=238990372579609538">this card </a>from the kids to go with whatever crappy, I mean priceless art they make him for a gift. I love these card because they are so much cooler and more personal than the store-bought variety—usually cheaper too!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-94hhiudK9_M/VWyQVNvMvpI/AAAAAAAAVWM/QdmbpGQ2vRw/s1600/IMG_8350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-94hhiudK9_M/VWyQVNvMvpI/AAAAAAAAVWM/QdmbpGQ2vRw/s320/IMG_8350.JPG" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loads of cute.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_0LZmtGmnsI/VWyQVKMLErI/AAAAAAAAVWI/cjpwkueQoe4/s1600/IMG_8351.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_0LZmtGmnsI/VWyQVKMLErI/AAAAAAAAVWI/cjpwkueQoe4/s320/IMG_8351.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gross, I know.</td></tr>
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Overall, Zazzle had a great selection of personalized, art-driven and creative gifts to choose from. Plus, they always have great discount codes available so be sure to seek them out before you send your order. You can even apply multiply codes!<br />
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. <br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Vollkorn; font-size: x-small; line-height: 12.6000003814697px;">This post was sponsored by </span><a href="http://www.zazzle.com/?rf=238990372579609538" style="background-color: white; color: #88bb21; font-family: Vollkorn; font-size: small; line-height: 12.6000003814697px; text-decoration: none;">Zazzle</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Vollkorn; font-size: x-small; line-height: 12.6000003814697px;"> but they didn't make me the opinionated, feminist, she-beast that I am. My mama did and I am damn proud of it. </span></div>
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ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-8616529990591689722015-05-07T09:31:00.001-05:002015-05-07T09:35:00.524-05:00Happy Mothers' May!I think Mothers' Day is just swell. But I also think that getting just a single day to celebrate the things that we moms do all year to keep our families afloat is kind of a crock. Giving a mere 24 hours to recognize the women that are literally wiping the asses of and shaping the beliefs of our future generation is BS.<br />
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I vote that from now on, May is Mothers' Month. I mean, come on, even <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_commemorative_months">jazz and zombies</a> get a month. And let's face it, mommies are pretty much zombies most times, I mean, minus the whole surviving on human brains and all. I want all the moms of the world to have a whole month to embrace their awesomeness and be honored for the sometimes shitty job that they do 365 days a year.<br />
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Does that mean that Moms need to be worshiped and groveled at the feet of for the entire month of May? Fuck no. It just means that during May, maybe people can be a little kinder to Moms, give them a few kudos for a job well done, forgive them for their absentmindedness or just watch their damn kids for 10 minutes so they can play Dots and poop in peace for once this year. Just sayin'...<br />
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And while I'm at it, let's make June Fathers' Month. Because dads are just as damn important and deserve a month to honor all of the incredible work they do through the year, as well.<br />
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In honor of the first annual Mothers' Month, I let myself be a little selfish this week. I did things solely for me for once in the last 5 years. I bought <a href="https://www.grahambrown.com/us/product/31-159/fabulous">girly wallpaper</a> to redo our hallway because it made me happy. I went to a girls wine night and let the hubs hall the kids to his school play by himself. I took the entire giftcard <a href="http://www.zazzle.com/?rf=238990372579609538">Zazzle</a> sent me as a Mothers' Day gift and spent it on my damn self.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ruVur5UFhBk/VUtzmjIM-zI/AAAAAAAAUo8/qr2hJOOwTUw/s1600/IMG_8056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ruVur5UFhBk/VUtzmjIM-zI/AAAAAAAAUo8/qr2hJOOwTUw/s400/IMG_8056.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I bought <a href="http://www.zazzle.com/pink_lemonade_by_origami_prints_cutting_board-256657520492561528?rf=238990372579609538">this custom cutting board</a> that makes me smile.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-09sW_5KSw9M/VUtzrZ-cgqI/AAAAAAAAUpE/gMx_rMGV0N0/s1600/IMG_8052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-09sW_5KSw9M/VUtzrZ-cgqI/AAAAAAAAUpE/gMx_rMGV0N0/s400/IMG_8052.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And <a href="http://www.zazzle.com/monogram_quatrefoil_serving_tray-256846951035721645?rf=238990372579609538">this tray</a> that suits my type-A.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D6La1BzLhhY/VUtzhhSVX6I/AAAAAAAAUo0/Hi255MiQ4CY/s1600/IMG_8085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D6La1BzLhhY/VUtzhhSVX6I/AAAAAAAAUo0/Hi255MiQ4CY/s400/IMG_8085.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And <a href="http://www.zazzle.com/custom_12_x_12_canvas_canvas_print-192429994291513112?rf=238990372579609538">this canvas</a> that kills me.</td></tr>
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So let's get this Mothers' Month started, shall we. What are you going to do to make May all about Mama? Get a mani/pedi instead of shopping the Target clearance aisles for next year's school clothes? Call your mom to tell her you are sorry for watching her poop for the first few years of your life? Cook a dinner that you want to eat, not that the kids will tolerate? Buy the fancy $6.99 wine instead of the 30 dime? Share your ideas with me in the comments section or on social media with the hashtag #happymothersmay. And happy Mothers' May!<br />
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. <br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Vollkorn; font-size: x-small; line-height: 12.6000003814697px;">This post was sponsored by </span><a href="http://www.zazzle.com/?rf=238990372579609538" style="background-color: white; color: #88bb21; font-family: Vollkorn; font-size: small; line-height: 12.6000003814697px; text-decoration: none;">Zazzle</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Vollkorn; font-size: x-small; line-height: 12.6000003814697px;"> but they didn't make me the opinionated, feminist, she-beast that I am. My mama did and I am damn proud of it. </span>ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-30648004761820884362015-04-24T10:06:00.000-05:002015-04-24T10:06:08.034-05:00Flying your freak flag.When I was younger, I was awkward. OK, even more awkward than I am today. I was tall and skinny, but not in a supermodel way. More like in a newborn-giraffe-on-water skis kind of way. I was all knees, elbows and a bouffant of home-permed hair.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5O50y4NfTpw/VTpboR3MiYI/AAAAAAAAUnY/HV5S1IrHfW8/s1600/old%2Bschool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5O50y4NfTpw/VTpboR3MiYI/AAAAAAAAUnY/HV5S1IrHfW8/s1600/old%2Bschool.jpg" height="400" width="330" /></a></div>
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I was also a weird fish in a very traditional fish pond. I didn't understand why I was different from all of the people around me, I just knew that I was. I also understood that if I showed my true colors to anyone, things would be difficult. Even more difficult than the hell of being a weird kid in a town full of non-weird kids.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xI1Md5XsIMI/VTpbejBXx6I/AAAAAAAAUnQ/v6oTLELpADg/s1600/IMG_7754.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xI1Md5XsIMI/VTpbejBXx6I/AAAAAAAAUnQ/v6oTLELpADg/s1600/IMG_7754.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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I recently reached out to someone from high school to catch up. I wondered if she had changed and thought to myself, "It is kind of embarrassing how little I have changed." But then I realized that I have changed in a huge way: that little girl who was afraid to show her true colors now lets her freak flag fly on the daily. I have grown into my oddities and grown to love them. My diarrhea of the mouth and flamboyant style are no longer things I try to hide, they are things that I wear with pride.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dGNLvjA8U5g/VTpa8RgYNcI/AAAAAAAAUnA/vsYatzyXBcw/s1600/IMG_7897.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dGNLvjA8U5g/VTpa8RgYNcI/AAAAAAAAUnA/vsYatzyXBcw/s1600/IMG_7897.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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I hope to instill this willingness to embrace your weird into my children. I hope they don't end up hiding their quirks like I did and being paralyzed with fear over being different. I hope the wave their freak flags with wild abandon and use them to attract like-minded beings that love what makes them different.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9fXSXF3EuR0/VTpbLp28QqI/AAAAAAAAUnI/5G_Wwb3C0D8/s1600/IMG_7859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9fXSXF3EuR0/VTpbLp28QqI/AAAAAAAAUnI/5G_Wwb3C0D8/s1600/IMG_7859.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I wish the world promoted individuality instead of imitation. I wish we could all try less to conform and more to be unique. Because how boring is a world filled with beige carbon copies of one another?<br />
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If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-58986910466547647752015-04-23T09:00:00.000-05:002015-04-23T09:00:07.567-05:00Soaking it all in.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I have been pausing a lot in life lately. Giving myself a chance to soak in all of the goodness that I am surrounded by. Giving myself a minute to focus on the good instead of dwelling on the bad. Letting myself feel OK with just being in the moment and breathing. </div>
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So I don't miss all of the special little moments that surround me. Or overlook the wonder of the experiences that we have the privilege of being part of on a daily basis.</div>
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Like instead of focusing on being in the hospital and all that recovery will entail when we leave, I focused on my son getting the awesome opportunity to meet Yadi the touch therapy dog. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-09AVKlR_mk8/VTfBsRTXoYI/AAAAAAAAUL4/Q62tu6qkA74/s1600/IMG_7708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-09AVKlR_mk8/VTfBsRTXoYI/AAAAAAAAUL4/Q62tu6qkA74/s1600/IMG_7708.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Or instead of being annoyed by all of the work that it took to make it, I stopped to enjoy the beauty of the home-cooked meal that I had created.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cBei0qlHuN4/VTfB47ytg8I/AAAAAAAAUPE/20bgNHSloEA/s1600/IMG_7756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cBei0qlHuN4/VTfB47ytg8I/AAAAAAAAUPE/20bgNHSloEA/s1600/IMG_7756.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Instead of asking my kids to get off the kitchen floor and out of my way, I stopped to notice that they looked like cats chasing the sun.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3p4tcTBU4lU/VTfB2pQGoiI/AAAAAAAAUOQ/ixRKC7W7Ohg/s1600/IMG_7744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3p4tcTBU4lU/VTfB2pQGoiI/AAAAAAAAUOQ/ixRKC7W7Ohg/s1600/IMG_7744.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Instead of rushing off to do one thing or another when my son was finally asleep, I sat and stared at his perfect little face while he quietly slumbered.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cvOa8-RdHPY/VTfB32CBd1I/AAAAAAAAUOo/nHhiOUpUtfw/s1600/IMG_7751.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cvOa8-RdHPY/VTfB32CBd1I/AAAAAAAAUOo/nHhiOUpUtfw/s1600/IMG_7751.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Instead of fearing for my ankles and the ankles of all of the other unlucky shoppers my son was about to maim, I took the time to see how happy he was to be in charge of the grocery shopping.<br />
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I soaked in the beauty of a day out with my son with no interruptions.<br />
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I realized how small my daughter still is even though she is the "big girl".<br />
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I stopped to see joy and happiness in my children's faces, instead of hurrying on to the next attraction.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rCHIGZqmn74/VTfCrpHmXkI/AAAAAAAAUUM/tyOQVWuQICk/s1600/IMG_7825.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rCHIGZqmn74/VTfCrpHmXkI/AAAAAAAAUUM/tyOQVWuQICk/s1600/IMG_7825.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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I let myself actually feel pretty and happy with who I am. No waiting until I changed this or that. Just being happy with the now.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nYzzKSc9hW4/VTfDFjA8uTI/AAAAAAAAUXw/joId6vgX8Oc/s1600/IMG_7861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nYzzKSc9hW4/VTfDFjA8uTI/AAAAAAAAUXw/joId6vgX8Oc/s1600/IMG_7861.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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I realized that the relationship my children share is special. And amazing.<br />
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I stopped to see how absolutely beautiful this face was when it is deep in concentration.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Z1Diw6eZ5ss/VTfDTe4mHRI/AAAAAAAAUZU/BvbugrLup38/s1600/IMG_7875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Z1Diw6eZ5ss/VTfDTe4mHRI/AAAAAAAAUZU/BvbugrLup38/s1600/IMG_7875.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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I let loose and let llama.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L_LyvuOiUak/VTfDXNm5MJI/AAAAAAAAUaE/Pvsm2xdKBVo/s1600/IMG_7880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L_LyvuOiUak/VTfDXNm5MJI/AAAAAAAAUaE/Pvsm2xdKBVo/s1600/IMG_7880.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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I took a moment to breathe in the deep love that my children have for each other. Even when they are fighting.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rfSFRXzzzZs/VTfDeI0qQXI/AAAAAAAAUb8/lw9di3mmtHw/s1600/IMG_7899.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rfSFRXzzzZs/VTfDeI0qQXI/AAAAAAAAUb8/lw9di3mmtHw/s1600/IMG_7899.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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I even stopped to smell the clydesdales on a run (maybe a bit of a mistake...).<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iQruqcQo3H8/VTfDkgy_MtI/AAAAAAAAUdY/5AchalS22LU/s1600/IMG_7560.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iQruqcQo3H8/VTfDkgy_MtI/AAAAAAAAUdY/5AchalS22LU/s1600/IMG_7560.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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These small moments have been life-changing for me. None of them are newsworthy, but they have shaped who I have become over the few months: mindful. Of who I am and all that I have. Of the ability I have to change things for the better. How smalls changes can have big impacts. They are reminders that even when it seems like nothing is good in this world anymore, that maybe all you have to do is dig a little deeper. Or be a little more still.</div>
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What about you? What small things have been big moments for you lately?</div>
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I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-50069453895819627972015-04-22T10:14:00.000-05:002015-04-22T10:14:20.627-05:00Tonsils, and adenoids, and tubes...oh my!So the Cool Cucumber finally had his tonsils and adenoids removed and a second set of tubes put back in. Overall, it was a great experience and I am so happy that we went through with it. I am also glad that we waited until he was 3 to have it done. Here is a little photo rundown of how everything went.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X9tkksly7CM/VTesL3JFtaI/AAAAAAAATyM/Z6zPp9XtB58/s1600/IMG_7648.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X9tkksly7CM/VTesL3JFtaI/AAAAAAAATyM/Z6zPp9XtB58/s1600/IMG_7648.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Playing at the hospital before getting admitted.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YxKG1Q78DTU/VTesPIoqvOI/AAAAAAAATy8/O8s4F12u--M/s1600/IMG_7656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YxKG1Q78DTU/VTesPIoqvOI/AAAAAAAATy8/O8s4F12u--M/s1600/IMG_7656.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The big weigh in.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QSd7wZTzcY4/VTesPky1R3I/AAAAAAAATzI/F3iYBkzsTQk/s1600/IMG_7658.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QSd7wZTzcY4/VTesPky1R3I/AAAAAAAATzI/F3iYBkzsTQk/s1600/IMG_7658.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting measured.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g44Pp1lM6_Y/VTesRr6n_3I/AAAAAAAATzc/-Hem-Us9p1w/s1600/IMG_7660.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g44Pp1lM6_Y/VTesRr6n_3I/AAAAAAAATzc/-Hem-Us9p1w/s1600/IMG_7660.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blood pressured checked: check.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QgJH7_ewuks/VTesSDzMsyI/AAAAAAAATzg/ONRx4NU2eZ0/s1600/IMG_7661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QgJH7_ewuks/VTesSDzMsyI/AAAAAAAATzg/ONRx4NU2eZ0/s1600/IMG_7661.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pulse ox monitoring was one of his least faves.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r999NscmxZg/VTesT1lxnDI/AAAAAAAATz0/drv-e6diZ3Y/s1600/IMG_7663.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r999NscmxZg/VTesT1lxnDI/AAAAAAAATz0/drv-e6diZ3Y/s1600/IMG_7663.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then it was time to play until we got called up to the big room.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eKzcM7i3gnQ/VTesZPv1mdI/AAAAAAAAT0k/BLUh_FRkwAA/s1600/IMG_7669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eKzcM7i3gnQ/VTesZPv1mdI/AAAAAAAAT0k/BLUh_FRkwAA/s1600/IMG_7669.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Again, I asked to take him back for surgery so I had to suit up.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jbXSbjqHtP0/VTescYdDM5I/AAAAAAAAT1I/1fQTJ4gWSgY/s1600/IMG_7674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jbXSbjqHtP0/VTescYdDM5I/AAAAAAAAT1I/1fQTJ4gWSgY/s1600/IMG_7674.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then he was in surgery and we waited. I was so worried I didn't notice I forgot to take a bootie off for over an hour.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dXG4ZNcLQpo/VTescKnFCII/AAAAAAAAT1E/ZtTzHdrw-Bk/s1600/IMG_7676.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dXG4ZNcLQpo/VTescKnFCII/AAAAAAAAT1E/ZtTzHdrw-Bk/s1600/IMG_7676.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Once he got out, we has sort of a mess. This is very usual. He was upset and cry/coughing a lot. He was still very out of it but in a lot of pain. They don't give them pain meds until after surgery so when they wake up, they still haven't really taken effect. That sucks, but it is just the way it goes. After about 20 minutes we were wheeled up to our room.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aS9pm-Qasrk/VTescyredgI/AAAAAAAAT1U/osPTDTBEgv8/s1600/IMG_7678.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aS9pm-Qasrk/VTescyredgI/AAAAAAAAT1U/osPTDTBEgv8/s1600/IMG_7678.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There he finally fell asleep...for about 10 minutes.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eG2A1ZUCX68/VTeseDo1AVI/AAAAAAAAT1w/1rlhqf6EYYk/s1600/IMG_7679.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eG2A1ZUCX68/VTeseDo1AVI/AAAAAAAAT1w/1rlhqf6EYYk/s1600/IMG_7679.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then he was up and not doing too bad, mostly thanks to <a href="http://www.netflix.com/">Netflix</a>. <br />
Thank the sweet lord baby Jesus for free wifi and Netflix streaming.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VNnis_AhktU/VTesdtF8c6I/AAAAAAAAT1k/XR0_MkhE5hE/s1600/IMG_7680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VNnis_AhktU/VTesdtF8c6I/AAAAAAAAT1k/XR0_MkhE5hE/s1600/IMG_7680.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Next it was time for popsicles. He ate three. Then downed two waffles, jello and juice... </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ox1Qf2A0A_s/VTeshHMtN2I/AAAAAAAAT28/-VGDABAM4Eg/s1600/IMG_7687.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ox1Qf2A0A_s/VTeshHMtN2I/AAAAAAAAT28/-VGDABAM4Eg/s1600/IMG_7687.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That evening he was ready for laps around the hospital wing and rides on his IV pole.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hvZuqL3cDe0/VTeshtdsBfI/AAAAAAAAT24/XVf30LGYJSg/s1600/IMG_7690.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hvZuqL3cDe0/VTeshtdsBfI/AAAAAAAAT24/XVf30LGYJSg/s1600/IMG_7690.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And some goofing off with mom.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hZNsuRDZWzs/VTesjstFdLI/AAAAAAAAT3k/at4gPa5IdQA/s1600/IMG_7697.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hZNsuRDZWzs/VTesjstFdLI/AAAAAAAAT3k/at4gPa5IdQA/s1600/IMG_7697.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then, he slept. Like the dead.</td></tr>
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Let me give you a little info on sleeping in a hospital: you won't. At all. Between his pulse ox monitor going off every 10 minutes and our roommate's going off every five, I think I got about 3 hours of sleep that night. But the boy slept like a champ, and that was all that mattered.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w2F75sn3sqI/VTesj3VSu9I/AAAAAAAAT3g/vthrz1uDQEs/s1600/IMG_7698.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w2F75sn3sqI/VTesj3VSu9I/AAAAAAAAT3g/vthrz1uDQEs/s1600/IMG_7698.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me when the cute, young Dr. woke me up. HOT!</td></tr>
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The next morning our Dr. woke me up RIGHT as I had just fallen asleep to tell me we were getting released for good behavior. Of the five kids on the floor that had had the same surgery, the Cucumber was the youngest and still had the best overnight oxygen saturation and had drank the most. They were amazed at his recovery. So were we. He was literally dancing a jig around the wing that morning making all of the nurses swoon.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_gGsjF_ZRG0/VTeslnCI0VI/AAAAAAAAT38/4iYAXQ_PCSo/s1600/IMG_7700.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_gGsjF_ZRG0/VTeslnCI0VI/AAAAAAAAT38/4iYAXQ_PCSo/s1600/IMG_7700.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before we left we got to meet Yadi the touch therapy dog. I may have tried to sneak him into my suitcase.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bscoTV5c5Cw/VTesobK41yI/AAAAAAAAT4c/0qCnetNSugw/s1600/IMG_7705.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bscoTV5c5Cw/VTesobK41yI/AAAAAAAAT4c/0qCnetNSugw/s1600/IMG_7705.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yadi love.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ggA64lKVtGU/VTesrNhQNZI/AAAAAAAAT5A/FRIwSEBihsc/s1600/IMG_7709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ggA64lKVtGU/VTesrNhQNZI/AAAAAAAAT5A/FRIwSEBihsc/s1600/IMG_7709.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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The hardest part of recovery is making sure you stay on top of the pain meds after. The hospital doesn't give you any prescriptions to take, just orders for alternating acetaminophen and ibuprofen. We stayed on it like a hawk for a week. Every time it came time where both meds were given at the same time and they both got close to wearing off, the boy would lose it. I felt horrible for him. We even set alarms to be up to give them to him in the middle of the night. Very important! Also, if you can, steal the hospital syringes with the caps. Not that I did that or anything...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jf33cqy0dqc/VTesuCmee6I/AAAAAAAAT5g/lSwEk2KsDs4/s1600/IMG_7717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jf33cqy0dqc/VTesuCmee6I/AAAAAAAAT5g/lSwEk2KsDs4/s1600/IMG_7717.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Over the week, the boy was a bit down, but not out.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1334WOfv6PY/VTes1XSLBmI/AAAAAAAAT7E/Dpvm3u_KiPI/s1600/IMG_7736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1334WOfv6PY/VTes1XSLBmI/AAAAAAAAT7E/Dpvm3u_KiPI/s1600/IMG_7736.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He enjoyed cuddle time with his sister.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-leXT7GUuKCM/VTes4eTdylI/AAAAAAAAT7s/YCO-1NT3x_4/s1600/IMG_7752.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-leXT7GUuKCM/VTes4eTdylI/AAAAAAAAT7s/YCO-1NT3x_4/s1600/IMG_7752.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But would get in pain when the meds were close to wearing off.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EZpiitBWbV8/VTes7k1lGvI/AAAAAAAAT8c/Dkf6ZQAtfJg/s1600/IMG_7761.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EZpiitBWbV8/VTes7k1lGvI/AAAAAAAAT8c/Dkf6ZQAtfJg/s1600/IMG_7761.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But he was a cart boss at Trader Joe's.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jfc7AG4PTB4/VTetJr-4N7I/AAAAAAAAT9w/BywXSgnbV8M/s1600/IMG_7776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jfc7AG4PTB4/VTetJr-4N7I/AAAAAAAAT9w/BywXSgnbV8M/s1600/IMG_7776.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And enjoyed a trip the the botanical garden.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DSbTWIZakyM/VTetbqM_78I/AAAAAAAAT_Q/4Lzv_fwkrl0/s1600/IMG_7793.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DSbTWIZakyM/VTetbqM_78I/AAAAAAAAT_Q/4Lzv_fwkrl0/s1600/IMG_7793.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And time with mommy even when he felt pukey.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ob53EsuKroY/VTeuTdLAXLI/AAAAAAAAUBM/zf9d129_ZjI/s1600/IMG_7823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ob53EsuKroY/VTeuTdLAXLI/AAAAAAAAUBM/zf9d129_ZjI/s1600/IMG_7823.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And a trip to the zoo.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C3W7cO5SNIE/VTeukXcbGeI/AAAAAAAAUDA/kUZ4StSl4wY/s1600/IMG_7846.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C3W7cO5SNIE/VTeukXcbGeI/AAAAAAAAUDA/kUZ4StSl4wY/s1600/IMG_7846.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And time at the park.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rPdLXIWGGzc/VTeu5f54KCI/AAAAAAAAUE4/1ATqTmCZmmI/s1600/IMG_7859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rPdLXIWGGzc/VTeu5f54KCI/AAAAAAAAUE4/1ATqTmCZmmI/s1600/IMG_7859.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soon he was back to his superhero self.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KawwAa2mZBg/VTeu_q-RQcI/AAAAAAAAUFU/QOHu4M4RaS4/s1600/IMG_7866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KawwAa2mZBg/VTeu_q-RQcI/AAAAAAAAUFU/QOHu4M4RaS4/s1600/IMG_7866.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sAiFkHW5DWk/VTevQAt_Q8I/AAAAAAAAUGM/3hMPiwMcm4E/s1600/IMG_7873.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sAiFkHW5DWk/VTevQAt_Q8I/AAAAAAAAUGM/3hMPiwMcm4E/s1600/IMG_7873.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These two.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-asoy6ZqoWYQ/VTevgiKleJI/AAAAAAAAUHM/BfjqA-LjtLE/s1600/IMG_7881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-asoy6ZqoWYQ/VTevgiKleJI/AAAAAAAAUHM/BfjqA-LjtLE/s1600/IMG_7881.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I die.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X7uSznXeETk/VTevnCp1CGI/AAAAAAAAUHk/0XQVIJvFO6E/s1600/IMG_7886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X7uSznXeETk/VTevnCp1CGI/AAAAAAAAUHk/0XQVIJvFO6E/s1600/IMG_7886.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hhb3Vym1TrQ/VTev33Mgs3I/AAAAAAAAUKE/WcnXoKUckeY/s1600/IMG_7912.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hhb3Vym1TrQ/VTev33Mgs3I/AAAAAAAAUKE/WcnXoKUckeY/s1600/IMG_7912.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now we are all back to our happy place.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Overall, the surgery was way easier than we thought and has helped a ton already. The other night I listened to the boy sleep for an hour, mostly because there was nothing to listen to. He went from Darth Vader to a silent little mouse. And it is a wonderful silence.<br />
<br />
<br />
If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-58413117784391757162015-04-01T08:43:00.002-05:002015-04-01T08:43:47.408-05:00Mommy juice truth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3raeBSRq90s/VRv16iEhK0I/AAAAAAAATxo/9JvN8RCx6-g/s1600/there's%2Bonly%2Bone%2Bkind%2Bof%2Bwine%2Bthat%2Bmommy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3raeBSRq90s/VRv16iEhK0I/AAAAAAAATxo/9JvN8RCx6-g/s1600/there's%2Bonly%2Bone%2Bkind%2Bof%2Bwine%2Bthat%2Bmommy.png" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-74462194261040858172015-03-31T14:31:00.000-05:002015-03-31T15:55:32.477-05:00Sexism: not just an old-timey myth.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k0rMkvFK5lc/VRr0TfJ8-YI/AAAAAAAATxM/UoaaDOWvh9c/s1600/Mess%2Bwith%C2%A0Oprah%2Band%2Byou%2Bmess%2Bwith%2Bme!.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k0rMkvFK5lc/VRr0TfJ8-YI/AAAAAAAATxM/UoaaDOWvh9c/s1600/Mess%2Bwith%C2%A0Oprah%2Band%2Byou%2Bmess%2Bwith%2Bme!.png" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
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<div class="p1">
The other day, I was watching mindless TV when Family Feud came on. I usually love Family Feud because Steve Harvey is my spirit animal. Or at least I thought he was. Turns out, Steve Harvey is a fat shaming, sexist asshole. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. I thought Steve was a TV personality for the people. A man who used humor and a great sense of timing to lighten the world up a bit and give us a laugh when we needed it. Well, I am not sure I feel that way anymore...</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
So what did Steve do that has my panties in such a bunch? Well, you see, Steve dissed my homegirl, Oprah. The question on the Family Feud board was, “Name something you don’t want to see Oprah wear?” Um, what the fuck, Steve? Seriously? What did you think the answers to that were going to be? A parka? Roller skates? Anything other than sexist, fat shaming bullshit? I think not. </div>
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<div class="p1">
Here are the top answers that the wonderful people polled came up with:</div>
<div class="p1">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r0R3kVYxs2Y/VRr0s0BuX4I/AAAAAAAATxU/RZoMe3geK0Y/s1600/family%2Bfeud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r0R3kVYxs2Y/VRr0s0BuX4I/AAAAAAAATxU/RZoMe3geK0Y/s1600/family%2Bfeud.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="p1" style="text-align: start;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sorry, I had a rage stroke before I could take a picture of the last two but don’t worry, they were equally offensive.</span></div>
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</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<b>Let’s go over the amazingly offensive answers, shall we?</b></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<b>1. Bikini/swimsuit</b>: </div>
<div class="p1">
Um, yeah. People tend to wear these things. When swimming. Hence the name SWIMsuit. It isn’t like Oprah was going to be running around Whole Foods in a string bikini. Sorry, O. We're going to need you to swim in a scuba suit from now on, apparently. </div>
<div class="p1">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="p1">
<b>2. Lingerie/thong: </b></div>
<div class="p1">
I imagine the only person that would be seeing Ms. Winfrey in these types of garments would be that stud, Stedman. So no worries there, either.</div>
<div class="p1">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="p1">
<b>3. Nothing</b>: </div>
<div class="p1">
Again, for Stedman’s eyes only, y’all. Unless Oprah is going to start her own nudie beach. If so, I am <i>so in</i>!</div>
<div class="p1">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="p1">
<b>4. Catsuit/leopard: </b></div>
<div class="p1">
What. The. Fuck? Is O going to take up hooking or something? I mean, I am pretty sure she is doing OK financially and all…</div>
<div class="p1">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="p1">
<b>5. Tank/haltertop:</b> </div>
<div class="p1">
This is the year 2015. Who the fuck says haltertop still?</div>
<div class="p1">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="p1">
<b>6. Miniskirt:</b> I think the Divine Ms. O could straight rock a mini and some Jimmy’s. Just sayin’.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
Why on earth is this question OK? Would you say, “Name something you don’t want to see Dr. Phil wear?” No, because fat shaming a man isn’t “funny”. Also, Oprah is about 1% away from being a saint in most people’s book. Why do we have to talk about what we don’t want to see her wearing? Is it all of the charity she does? What a bitch. Is it all of the positive self esteem she creates in women, no matter how they look? The nerve! Is it that she is one of the most powerful people in the world and she happens to have a vagina? No. It couldn’t be!<br />
<br />
Want to even the playing field? How about we ask the same question only insert “Steve Harvey” where “Oprah” is. Because I REALLY don’t want to see your ass in any of those things either, Steve.<br />
<br />
If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-982236895134441993.post-39244371813943052502015-03-23T11:28:00.000-05:002015-03-23T11:28:13.953-05:00I think my cat needs an intervention.We got our carpets professionally cleaned last week. Which, of course, means our cat spent the entire weekend throwing up all over them.<br />
<div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tp6QSLEUHMs/VRA-AG_KYwI/AAAAAAAATwI/FV5MNiymVC0/s1600/Fiona.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tp6QSLEUHMs/VRA-AG_KYwI/AAAAAAAATwI/FV5MNiymVC0/s1600/Fiona.jpeg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fatty: It was the dog. Me: We don't have a dog. Fatty: Then it was the boy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Lately, I have been coming to the realization that Fatty might have an eating disorder. You see, Fatty is always either binging or purging. The second the food slides through the shoot on her automatic feeder, she wolfs it down faster than a T Rex taking down a pteranodon. Then, 20 minutes later, the guilt of her actions overcomes her and she throws it up all over the carpet. Or the couch. Or my pillow...<br />
<br />
We keep telling her that she is not fat, that she is just fluffy. And that all kitties are shaped differently and that is what makes them special, but she won't listen.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sGo34_ppDg4/VRA-ADOI-8I/AAAAAAAATwM/qbYIvpxWUlU/s1600/fat%2Bcat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sGo34_ppDg4/VRA-ADOI-8I/AAAAAAAATwM/qbYIvpxWUlU/s1600/fat%2Bcat.jpg" height="235" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OK, maybe she's not just fluffy, but purging isn't the answer...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Though it may be a bit unorthodox to plan an intervention for an animal that spends half of its time sleeping and the other half licking its own butthole, I think it is time.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4haPRdqQlSY/VRA-Ady5AcI/AAAAAAAATwY/5tiGTgPdlmg/s1600/P6190083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4haPRdqQlSY/VRA-Ady5AcI/AAAAAAAATwY/5tiGTgPdlmg/s1600/P6190083.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fuck your intervention, bitch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Catbulimirexia is a real thing. It's an epidemic. If your cat is exhibiting any of these symptoms, get help immediately. Because we don't need to lose one more ball of fur to this terrible disease.<br />
<br />
If you share this post, I will buy you a pony.
I suck at <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandbabies">Twitter</a>. I am OK at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-like-beer-and-babies/144129635671649?ref=hl">Facebook</a>. <a href="http://pinterest.com/beerandbabies/">Pinterest</a> is my bitch. I am also on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3128803/i-like-beer-and-babies">Bloglovin'</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/ilikebeerandbabies">Instagram</a>. ilikebeerandbabies.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641425510744950355noreply@blogger.com0