Scentsy Giveaway, you know you want a piece of this

Who doesn't love a yummy smelling home? You know I do. There's nothing quite like opening my bathroom to a glorious perfectly pomegranate, or blueberry cheesecake. (Okay, actually I only do that one in the kitchen... cause that'd be confusing.) But seriously. I have these all over my apartment. They smell divine, and the mom in me feels safe since they're wickless.

I'm hosting a Scentsy giveaway this week! 

Hatteras

Capri

Lenore

Charity

You can win one of these fabulous warmers and any scent of your choosing! (Just let me know if your snozz needs a recommendation, and we'll hook you up.) I promise you, you're gonna get addicted. These badmamajammas are amazing.

To Enter:

1. Follow Recently Roached, right here! 

For extra entries:

1. You can follow me on twitter @JenaMRoach over here.

2. Tweet about the giveaway! Extra points if you're funny. 

"I hope I win the Scentsy giveaway @JenaMRoach is hosting so I can hide the stench of the massive dump my husband just dropped." (Although it doesn't have to be nearly that crude! I'm just gross.)

3. Comment on one of our blogs and tell us which warmer and 

scent you would like to win!

This giveaway ends this Sunday, May 6. So hurry and enter!

Mom's in town!

My mom is one of my favorite people to be around. I'm the fruit of her loins, and we're both a good time. So what's not to love? She lives in Tennessee, and since we (basically) live in Mexico, I haven't seen her since Christmas Day. I'm pretty sure that's the longest we've ever gone. Butttt she's visiting this week! So we are having all kinds of fun catching up (as much as we can since we talk every day), shopping, and laying out by the pool. She's also our first house guest since we've been married, (we basically have no friends.) which is perfect cause she isn't going to get her panties in a wad over my ineptness at being a hostess. (Oh, you need towels? And a pillow?)

Last night we went a fancy-go-schmancy restaurant called the Tower of the Americas. It's essentially like a space needle. Like a gazillion stories up, and you're spinning the whole time. (A very weird feeling.) The view was incredible. And the food... well, I don't know if my taste buds will ever be satisfied again. We all kinda felt like we didn't belong there. I kept talking in a hick accent to egg on the white-trash look we were pulling. It was a great time.

 

    

    

    

    

   

  

Never leave, mommy!

Nose Rape

Does your husband do weird things to you? 
Okay, that was a weird sentence. Let me try again.

Do you and your husband have bizarre little games you play? (Is it bad that I always win our farting competitions?) Grahm and I like to try our snozzes at a family friendly game of nose rape (a lovely name, yes?). 

My husband, God love him, was blessed with some mammoth nostrils. Honkers, man. I swear you could fit an entire third-world country up in those badmamajammas. (That's where Osama should have camped out. Probably would have ended better for him.) Don't worry, Grahm doesn't look like a gorilla (unless you're a strange duck and think gorillas are stinkin' adorable). His nose isn't exactly giving me a bird's eye view on his brain. When he flares them (a task I've never been able to have, I always just look really confused), however, look out.

Because of this, he likes to try to put my nose in his nose. (Are you judging us yet?)

Sometimes we'll be sitting on the couch, my head is oh so innocently on his chest... and before I know it, he's trying to force my nose up his giant honker.

It's disgusting, yes.
But somehow hilarious? I always lose.

The worst part of a new city is finding a new hairdresser

Imagine a large woman with cave-man teeth, a ginormous round nose, and a butch haircut. Her chest alone could crush you with the force of a thousand dragons. Two watermelons on a downhill race doesn't even begin to cover it. Her hair is coarse and jagged, just grazing her chin. She's easily ten inches taller than you (okay, just me). She has fake, hot pink nails longer than her fingers. You can only assume this an attempt to feminize her large man knuckles. You keep wondering if she is actually a he.

This was my hair dresser on Friday. 

(I decided asking her/him for a picture would have been too weird.)

Normally, I really don't like judging people based on how they look. I mean, they can't exactly help it. However, when it comes to someone who is going to be stylin' my fine hairs, you can bet your bottom dollar that I'm gonna give her locks the good once over. And probably the rest of her fashion choices.

So when this gender-questionable person approached me, my first instinct was to run. Rude, yes. But if girlfriend (Boyfriend?) can't do her own hair, what kind of mayhem is she going to cause with mine?

But what could I do?

I couldn't walk away after deciding she didn't know her way around a hairbrush or that we didn't exactly share similar anatomy. I had made the appointment over the phone, and I'm new to San Antonio. How could I have known? Not to mention, I desperately needed someone to fix my Cruella Devile-roots.

For the next three hours, I proceeded to have my fears confirmed. This person had no idea what they were doing. She jerked my hair around like I was a rag doll, and I'm pretty hard headed (no pun implied). She turned my chair back and forth, back and forth so much that I've got a bad case of the whiplash. Bleach got on my forehead, on my ear, on my neck. She used a clipboard to flatten my foils. A CLIPBOARD, people. She combed my hair with her mammoth nails instead of a brush. She spoke in hurried Spanish to her friend across the salon, obviously asking her what to do next. She pushed her unnaturally large breasts in my face several times. She made crude jokes about having hair on her chest (thus confirming my other suspicions). She attempted to sing Adele, over and over and over. 

A police officer came into the building near the end. Apparently, he just sticks around until the salon closes. It wasn't even a bad area! At this point, I was convinced there were dead bodies hidden in the bathroom. I wondered if the she-man would chop me to bits after cruelly ruining my hair. The policeman loved telling me stories of current murders going on in town. (Impossible to know how to respond to that.)  

Well, I survived. My hair, however, did not. I am now a platinum, splotchy blonde. I practically glow in the dark. Lovely. Grahm had to give me lots of hugs as I cried a few (okay, several) vain tears. Let's hope nothing bad actually happens to me in this lifetime. I obviously handle things super well.

Honeymoon Link-Up

I was creeping on myself on Facebook yesterday (yes, possible), and I realized... I never posted any pictures of our honeymoon. I think it took 8.7 years off of my life to upload all of the wedding pictures, so the last thing I wanted to do was upload more. Gross. So what to do? Honeymoon link-up party. Go ahead, get on it. We all wanna see pictures of your bad self in a bikini.

Grahm and I spent a week in Wakiki Beach, Hawaii -- aka the perfect way to relax after the ogre monkey of wedding stress. Man, I loved every second of it. I would have come back with a coconut bra, but they didn't have one small enough.

We stayed in the Hyatt Regency right on the beach, thanks to Grahm's wonderful parents. Funny story. The hotel workers went on strike while we were there. What the what? However, we were fine with it because we got lots of free stuff since our room wasn't cleaned for two days. Score.

We went snorkeling/dolphin watching. We both kinda suck at snorkeling. The whole going-under-water-to-stare-at-fish thing is fun, don't get my wrong, but somehow I always scared them away... this made me feel like a fat, hungry whale. "Look ouuuut! She's coming!!"

This fetus just got married, y'all.

The deck off of our room. We were on the 17th floor. The view was out-of-this-world.

Gift basket from the Roaches!

We kayaked four miles to a teensy tiny island. My arms still hurt. I was also paranoid about getting the camera wet the entire time.

We made it to the island!

Quite the scandal, I know. Our hilarious tour guide made all the honeymooners pose this way. I couldn't stop laughing. Does anyone need a cover for their romantic novel? 

Our only mistake of the whole trip. If you go, don't take a tour. Holy moly. Three hours is too much Pearl Harbor and not enough Josh Hartnett. Am I right?

We were so blessed to have such a wonderful honeymoon. I mean, for real. Laying on the beach, soakin' up some sun with my wonderful, perfect husband... can we go back now please? My thighs need some tan. (Tan fat is prettier than pasty flub.)

Link-up and tell me your honeymoon story!

Fake sick

Grahm is sick. Therefore, I am as well. Or at least I'm pretending. 

I may or may not have downed a shot of Nyquil before bed last night. 

Best decision ever.

I'm also in my PJ's, still.

Nothing says moral support than crawling into bed with your 

snot-infested husband all day.

Today's agenda includes watching reruns of our favorite shows: 

Modern Family and New Girl.

Also, we will be inhaling exorbitant amounts of bad things for us. 

I swear my entire left thigh is made of ice cream. One day it'll melt on me.

Fake sick is the best.

But feel bad for Grahm. He's actually sickly, and it's snot fun.

(Annnd now you know why mascara is mandatory.)

Laundry? No thanks.

Screw you, Adam and Eve. You ruined everything.

If you two hadn't gotten all greedy-McStevey over a juicy apple (Really? A chocolate eclair I would have understood), we would all be following our true destinies of frolicking around in our naked, pasty  splendor. No one would even be able to judge the excess elbow fat I've accrued lately. Talk about a good, birthday-suit time.

Forget laundry. Forget folding. Forget hangers. Forget encrypted, highly complex instructions. Wash warm for fifteen seconds. Then cold. Then lukewarm. Then boiling hot. Tumble low or high or gentle. Better yet, don't tumble. It's all so complicated. I fail to get it right, just about every time.

Poor Grahm.

The kid keeps losing clothes, left and right. And let me tell you, that has quite the impact on his two- jeans-and-six-T-shirts wardrobe. I've shrunk, soiled, permanently stained with detergent (How in the crapola is that possible?) more clothes than I can count. (Technically, I can count them. Four. Five if you include our no longer Queen-size sheets.)

I typically avoid things I'm not amazing at (basically everything). But this is a double whammy. I not only suck at laundry, I hate it. All that confusion, washing, folding, putting away. Repeat repeat repeat. It's never stinkin' ending. Because I have an ungodly amount of clothes, I could probably last a solid two months before actually needing to do laundry. (Did you do the math? That's like 62 pairs of panties.)

I'm pretty good at putting crap in the washer, but I usually forget it's in there. A stench as ripe as my dad's armpit will slowly grow over the next few days. Mildew has infested our "clean" clothes, so I've got to wash them again... and then I forget, again. It's a never-ending cycle of terribleness. Gain is really gaining from my lack of domesticity.

If all of Grahm's clothes were cute and tiny and looked like this, I would have no problem doing laundry. (That is completely false. However, I'd have a better chance at not shrinking teeny onesies.) But man oh man, this is one of the (many) wifely duties absolutely loathe. 

Mom-sters, a club I never want to join

Let's face it. I kind of have the best job ever. I get to take care of two adorable twins... aaaaand I get to pass them off to their parents for night time. Chaaa ching. Nothing says "I wanna see that baby again" like having a full eight hours of Zzzs. Grahm (usually) doesn't require me to rock him back to sleep.

That being said, I still have to/get to deal with not so fun parts of babies. Today I got pooped on, peed on, spit on, and screamed at with an incredible force for someone who weighs a whoppin' nine pounds. Literally. I didn't know it was possible to pee through your diaper and your onesie onto my shirt. But dear Lord, it definitely is... especially when your diaper is loaded for bear(s). That was more poop than one should ever have to deal with...

Today Nicola (the twins' wonderful mother) and I went to Mommy and Me Yoga. Yes, these things really do exist. Anna was a little cranky for it, so we didn't get to fully enjoy all the different warrior poses. (Talk about ruining the "meditation" circle.) It's kind of scary/intimidating/crazy when a bunch of new mothers get together in one room with their little ones. My friend, Blayne, even warned me of this. You should read her hilarious post here.

Judge-freakin-city. Everyone is examining everyone. Their babies. Cute, well-behaved, well dressed? How the mother is doing weight wise? (Oooo I've lost sooo much more pounds than her, and my baby is younger. Clearly, I'm the better mother.) They also (my personal favorite) like to judge you based on your baby's capabilities (like they have anything to do with it). (Ooooo my baby can roll over AND sit up. Ha! Yours is sooo incompetent. Clearly, I'm an all-star mom.)

Also, we all have to love the birth stories. "I had an all natural birth. No epidural, no C-section. I even had a midwife. Hospitals are just sooooo bad for the baby." Obviously your vagina, Mrs. Mom, is lined with gold. Excuse the rest of us for being so weak that we may have done things a teensy bit differently than you. Why is this a trump card? Get over yourself, cause we all are. 

If that wasn't enough, there's also (what I've lovingly named) the boob buffet. 

Come on, ladies. We know your kid needs to eat, and I wholeheartedly want you to feed your infant. However, I do not (under ANY circumstances) want to see your boobs flying every which way. Good grief, I just ate lunch. The last thing I want to see is your kid going to Chow Town on your chest. Yeah, yeah it's a beautiful picture of motherhood. Yeah, yeah it's good for them. But do we, the unsuspecting strangers who just so happen to be in the same space as you, need to SEE all the itty gritties involved?

No ma'am. We do not.

So thankful the twins' mother is as far from a mom-ster as possible. We get a kick out of watching fellow mommies make complete arsinators out of themselves though. If anything, Nicola had all the women beat simply because she had TWO. That's like one zillion times harder, dontcha know. She could have easily gloated, but she didn't. She's classy, unlike most of the mom population.

When Grahm and I have kids (long, long way away), remind me not to turn into a mom-ster. They're annoying and a little bit frightening.

I love Easter. It's a beautiful, fun weekend filled with joy, family, and as many caddeberry eggs as I can stuff into my mouth. This year was the first time in umpteen years that I didn't get a new Easter dress, which made me feel depressingly old.

We had a blast with Grahm's family. We played LaserTag. (I'm pretty sure my mother-in-law and I just hid upstairs shooting each other, but somehow I managed to get fifth place!) And we had an intense Nertz battle. My husband somehow beat us all (although some shady business may or may not have gone down in the cheating department). Good thing the Lord died for his sins.

(I thought an intense Katniss side braid was entirely appropriate for a round of LaserTag. It'd be amazing to see what I could do with a bow and arrow.)

The Roaches ever so kindly introduced us to Cascarones, a southern Texas tradition. These colorful eggs look and feel like actual eggs (besides their rainbow-like appearance). However, on the inside they're filled with confetti. Needless to say Mama and Papa Roach did a surprise sneak attack on Grahm, Austin, and me. Confetti was everywhereeee. Don't worry, we had our revenge.

We all went to Zios after church on Sunday, where I continued to stuff my face with goodness (shocker).  I'm pretty sure I looked like a small child who'd never seen a warm meal. 

Hope everyone had a Hoppy Easter!

Friday, the best one of the year

Dear Jesus: Today you changed the world. You were bruised and beaten, ridiculed and despised when the only words from our lips were "Crucify." We did nothing, but You, in your unfailing love and never-ending mercies, did everything. You died today that we might live.

Dear Grahm: Nothing says "We're a fun married couple" like going to bed at 930. Oh man, it was all kinds of glorious. My buns are still rejoicing. Thanks babe for having such a great idea this week. Move over, Jamba Juice. I'm wondering what our outfits will look like? Coconut bra for you, skirt of banana peels for me?

Dear "book" I edited this week: What the what? It's called a plot. Get one. Here's a tip. Books shouldn't make you want to pluck your eyes out and hurl them across the room. Despite your sheer awfulness, you actually gave me an idea for my own book. So I guess I don't regret reading your nothing-happens-in-360-page story. I do, however, regret pulling an all nighter to finish you (hence our 930 bed time last night). I don't give up my precious REM for just anything, especially not a tear-off-my-toe-so-I-can-gouge-my-eye-with-it book. You know it's going to be a bad day when you chug a 5-hour energy at 830 in the morning; so thanks for making my yesterday all kinds of painful.

Dear Anna and Griffin: I love being your nanny, but man do I need to start pumping some iron. Lifting your car seat into your mamma's Escalade is like heaving half of my body weight on the top of Mount Kilimanjaro. I wish I was taller, or stronger. Ideally both. Mommy and me classes were so fun, even if we did ruin the " baby's meditation time" because you were super hungry and screaming your little beanies off. You both have brought me so much joy already... even when we have exploding-out-of-your-diaper stink sessions in the morning. Thanks for that. Next week your mommy officially goes back to work, so we're gonna be on our own. Go easy on me, little ones.

My biggest fears, apparently

I realized something this morning when I was blow drying my hair (the first time in a week, feel sorry for Grahm). As I was looking around our bathroom, I noticed some of my bad habits screaming at me. I like to elbow up in 409 and Comet (I mean, hello? You do all kinds of grizz things in there, AND it's where you go to get clean... something's wrong with this), so I'm not exactly talking about hygiene. I'm talking about spending (my middle name) on frivolous things (basically the only thing I'm good at in life).

Do you ever buy something like every time you're out of the house, not because you need it? Well, I do. And I'm not even talking about Forever-21 sprees (that's an entirely different beast of pocketbook). Almost every time I'm out, I buy one, two, or (okay, okay) ALL of these products. 

Conditioner. I literally have eight different kinds in my shower right now. And yes, I did arrange them according to height. (I obviously don't have enough free times on my hands.) I don't know what it is. I love squirting different goops on my head. With every dollop, I always pray my fine pansy strands will magically transform into a thick voluminous mane with one short lathering cycle. 


I also love the different smells. Some I keep around just to add coconut to my hair. Who doesn't like to remind people of Hawaii freakin' goodness and sunshine? Some of the healthy ones I have to mask with my good smelling ones, which I'm sure totally defeats the purpose. For every one bottle of shampoo, I go through like four of conditioner.

Nail polish. While my collection isn't exactly huge, it's still in an infant stage. I recently threw away all of my nail polish, because it was older than my neighbor's varicose veins (lovely). During this "clean out" process, I decided to become a snob and only buy OPI or China Glaze colors. Like there's any real difference... except in price. Holy Aunt Jemima, it's like $10 bucks a pop.

The funny part is, I don't even like to paint my nails. It draws attention to my little-smokey fingers and my fetus fingernails that I like to bite off. I also chip away at the paint like there's no tomorrow. I don't know what it is, man. It's like therapy or something. Instant gratification. Chip, chip, chip.

Moisturizer. Whenever an 18-year-old-smoother-than-a-baby's-butt troll comes on my TV screen trying to sell me some kind of cream I can use to have amazing skin, I automatically feel the need to buy it. I'm so optimistic in products, it's unbelievable. In my little brain I know the girl on the screen hasn't even sprouted her first zit let alone her first wrinkle. But that doesn't stop me from needing a new, better eye cream, face mask, night goop, primer, moisturizer, suntan lotion, etc. Out of control. I've got cream coming out of my arm pits over here.

And that crap ain't cheap, my friends. Darn you baby trolls telling me "Im worth it" and all that, pretending like you eliminated the lines that zigzagged across you perfect almond-shaped eyes. You got me thinking my bathroom drawer holds the secret fountain of youth... when you and I both know a change gonna come on my noggin' no matter what preemptive measures I take.


So there you have it.
My deepest fears in life revealed, apparently. Split ends, cheap nail polish , and future crow's feet.

make your own sunshine

Why is this so hard sometimes?

I'm not exactly solving E=MC squared (who would want to anyway?), or curing cancer. It's simply a choice. Be glad. Choosing to be happy in spite of the circumstances. Don't get me wrong, I have absolutely nothing to complain about. Blessed doesn't even begin to cover it. So many people have "tougher than toenails" situations to deal with, and they're handling it so much better than I am. All I am is lonely.

But you know those days where you just don't feel like it? You see the wonderfulness of your life, yet you still feel still want to curl up in a ball, listen to depressing music (Bon Iver), and eat your weight in fudge? 

My mom used to have this phrase she would say to us every day before school: Make your own sunshine.

I haven't been listening to dear old mom the past few days. Instead I've been living in FeelSorryForMyselfville, population Me. It's a plethora of little things, really. I miss my family, my sweet friends, my home in Oklahoma. I guess I kinda thought that by now we would have new friends, a new church, and be pretty well acclimated in Texas. 

It's wonderful to have your best friend always with you. Grahm has this weird way of always being exactly what I need. Last night we had a lot of fun goofing around and making fun of people on The Voice. Despite the fun we always have together, we want company. Anyone really. We aren't picky.

It's hard finding friends outside of college. I almost find myself wanting to go back, so I can truly appreciate the community I had at OU.

I realize I'm being ridiculous. People deal with a lot of crap much better than me... but this is how I'm feeling. And sometimes it helps to write about it, no matter how absurd Im being. Today I don't feel like making my own sunshine, but maybe tomorrow I will.  

April 2, a much friendlier day

Who knew there would be such April Fool's Day animosity?

I like to kid around (duh), so obviously April Fool's Day is one of my favorites... at least, when I remember. This year I was excited because I'm married, and I could finally do the whole "I'm preggo" bit without some serious eyebrow raising. I didn't know babies were apparently off limits. Next year I'll pretend I'm in a coma (err someone else will have to pretend).

I'm sorry if you got your teeny smalls up! We aren't having a little baby. At least, not yet. (If Grahm had his way it wouldn't be for another five years.) But really, we definitely don't look like two people ready to rear a child.

Honestly, I got a bit of baby fever just from pretend telling everyone. It was so fun! Thank you for being excited for us, even if I was just yanking your gallbladder. Moral of the story: if you can't take a joke, maybe you should get you buns off this blog cause I'll be typing funnies (to me, anyway) all up in your grill.

Until pooping out a bundle of love, I will settle for loving on my nanny twinsies. This is Anna in her little swing (a very hard moment to capture). Precious much?

Big news!

I've been dying to share some BIG news on the blogosphere for quite some time now. Grahm has officially given me the "green light."

We're pregnant!

Yep. It's true. Coming November of 2012, a little Roach baby (ew) will be entering the world via my love canal. We are a little nervous and scared as all get out, but we can't wait to welcome a little person into the world!