nice try, mom

My dear mother, God bless her. She tried. She really, really did. But despite her best efforts to raise a lady, she got a farting, finger-licking, housework-inept daughter son (with the with the chest to match!). My failure as wife/female of the year isn't exactly new, unlike the Mount Vesuvius zit that erupted on my nose this morning. Maybe if dear ol' mom had bellied up and buckled down, I'd be able to dangle my lady fingers in the pool of feminitiy like the rest of y'all.

Here's a list of things mom should've taught me. (Read: She tried, but nothing stuck... unlike that bacon burger I jammed into the hole in my face yesterday. #Regrets)

1. How to walk down the stairs wearing heels. I swear I look like I'm a drunk penguin waddling down the steps, gripping the stair rail like I'm defying death. It's a freakin' Cirque du Soleil act. Crap is terrifying. My tombstone is gonna read: "Here's bo-legged Berthe. Hope there ain't a stairway to heaven like Zeppelin thought."

2. How to eat. . . or should I say, refrain from eating. Cramming food into my gut is my one true talent. But mom should've (she did) warned me that I wouldn't always be able to carry on with my pubescent eat-everything-in-sight-like-a-pregnant-lady-about-to-give-birth-to-octuplets diet. That no, in fact, I won't always be able to pound four bowls of cereal, a roll of cookie dough, Doritos, and a whole pizza every night without turning into the spawn of the Pillsbury Dough Girl and the Michelin Man. Damn metabolism.

3. How to apply makeup. She let me go all goth-tastic in 10th grade, literally giving myself two black and blue eyewinkers. (Blue eyeshadow is about as attractive as John Travolta's butt chin.) I looked like I was one depressing poem away from slitting my wrists. Suffice it to say, my capabilities have barely improved. I just no longer look like a dumpy clown who got a bad lip job.

4. How to refrain from belching and farting. I'm not sure if you're aware, but bodily functions don't exactly have an off switch--at least mine sure don't. They're always there, footloose and fancy free. Mom probably should've let me in on her secrets to camoflauging her heinous odors since I've literally heard her fart once in almost 24 years (she was laughing too hard). She's apparently a genius at stealth mode. She should work for the FBI or something.

Nice try, mother dear. Thanks for trying your best.

This n That Thursday

Guys, it happened. I ruined our new house.

I knew it was an inevitable as my future sag-n-bag boobs. Give this incompetent fetus something pretty and shiny, and it'll surely crumble to the ground in 80 pieces of despair. Ask my pet gerbil, Ginger.

I left my straightener on . . . and now, there's a giant burn mark on our bathroom counter. (Read: Praise Jesus the house didn't burn to the ground.) I would have taken a picture, but it was the my-fat-jeans-no-longer-fit kind of depressing.

You know what the real kicker in the tinkle taco is? I didn't even straighten my hair yesterday! Instead I sock-bunned the crap out of my unmanageable cloud of frizz that glooms and dooms every morning (especially when I sleep on it wet like the horribly lazy gal that I am).

Those orange lines haunted my slumber. I tossed and turned. Could this be a sign that God wants us to replace the counter tops sooner than we thought? (Grahm said negative, apparently his connection to the Lord's will is stronger than mine.)

During my restless night, I was on Pinterest trying to find the solution. Turns out, I'm not the only blonde bimbo who has done this! Tonight, I'm going to concoct a magical potion of baking soda, tooth paste, and the hair of a unicorn's bum in hopes that the new "decoration" has the staying power of the pimple I sometimes get on my inner thigh. Cross your lady fingers for me.

Grab a button, and link up with the sensational Katie and me today!

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Daily Double

Joining the zillions of others for...

1. Martin Luther King Day, 13 years ago, I got stuck in a baby swing. It involved jelly and the paramedics. Yes, this is real life. (You can read more about it here.)

2. If you give me a foot massage, I will give you my first born . . . or a hug.

3. I laugh and fart in my sleep. I also do these outside of REM. (I'm an over achiever like that.)

4. I'm terrified of bugs and the dark. (Yes, I'm 3 years old.) Bugs in the night? I might as well be on Fear Factor. Absolutely terrifying.

5. I'm obsessed with growing my hair out, which is a problem since it's as brittle as your grandmother's toenail. Since we've been married, I've only trimmed my hair and it's grown maybe three inches. (A year and a half people!) I spend an ungodly amount of money on conditioners and dry masks because one of them is bound to work, right?

6. I'm not a dog person. Crime, I know. Animals are fine and cute and whatever, but are they worth it? I mean, maybe some cute bundle of love will change my mind . . . one day. But until then, I refuse to allow a holy terror to poop in my house, jump on my guests, and demand all of my attention (Grahm does that enough!). Needy lil devils. And holy guacamole, they're expensive.

7. I've only kissed three boys. One of them is my husband. Am I boring grandma prude or what? (You're welcome, mom.) Maybe I should have been flapping my lips in the breeze willy nilly when I had the chance! Now these bad mammajammas are on lock down.

the coldies

I may have fetus hands and ET-ishly small feet, but my little extremities can produce more cold power than a witch's tit. Let's just say that if I had been Mrs. Freeze, Batman might have been a different story.

This is a problem, kids, because I like to snuggle. Or aggressive cuddle, as Grahm likes to call it. I mean sorry the good Lord didn't see fit to gird my loins with blubber to keep me warm in the night (and really, I'm not sorry). But I need to be warm! Hence, the snuggling.

Every night is the same.
We climb into bed, and I immediately stick my coldy metatarsals into the crevices of the hus-bun's strangely warm thighs and my hands into his armpits. It's like a cave of heaven enveloping my frostbitten toe-jangles and finger-dees. (Grahm produces a lot of heat for someone with .0005% body fat.)

He pretends that he doesn't like this ritual ("Babe! Get off, get off! You're freezing!"). But I know better. Really, he's saying "Where would my thighs be without your nuggets of goodness?"

. . . One day when we're in the middle of Ice Age 2040, he'll thank me for building up his tolerance to below-negative weather.

The has been (another) pointless tale from Mrs. Roach to inform you, as always, that you should feel incredibly sorry for Mr. Roach.

Linking up with Helene!

This and That Thursday!

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I'm tired THIS Thursday. I smell (sleeping is better than showers). And I may or may not have gray splotches all over my legs right now. I look like a baby whale with the chicken pox. (When I asked for my pasty skin to have some color, THAT wasn't what I had in mind.)

I think I have carpal tunnel from all the painting we did last night. Boy howdy, tie me down and hit me with THIS bag of ice cause my fingers are barking. We decided to coat the entire downstairs with the beautiful gray we picked out, even the kitchen. THAT's great. And not painstakingly not-so great. Because now, we have so much to do. It's never ending, I tell you, like Kim Kardashian's buns.

Just call me the boring, bland Picasso.

We did, however, break a mirror last night (on purpose), so I'm not sure THAT the next 7 years will be donuts and rainbows for the Roaches.

I'm so looking forward to THIS Monday, even though I will have terrifying memories. Praise the Lord for holidays. I plan to celebrate MLK day by expressing my freedom to eat whatever I want in my fridge (and then some) and, you guessed it, painting some more.

Paint party, anyone?

Link up with the beautiful Katie and me today!

Brake-ing down

Today I made Grahm and myself extremely late to work . . . which is impressive since we both woke up an hour earlier than normal. (Hooray for actually blow-drying the ol' frizz in this winter ick.)

Twenty minutes after Grahm leaves, I decide to head to work. I get in the truck (which I normally don't drive, midget behind the steering wheel, but I have the shorter commute now--San Antonio, look out!).

Two things you should know: 1) My driveway is incredibly steep like that line graph of our nation's debt since Obama took office (sorry, had to). I often sing "Climb every mountain" while I walk up it. 2) I am pathetically weak. Betty White could kick me on my pre-varicose-vein bum.

In order to set sail to work from my mountain of doom, I had to push the emergency brake down in the "monster" truck. The problem was, I could NOT do this. At all.

My process went something like:
Push the button. Force my scrawny arms backward. Heave ho, Heave ho. Push the button again. Hope my toothpick arms suddenly morph into Jillian Michael beasts. Realize that's not going to happen. Break a sweat by all the heaving. Look down the street to see if any burly men were out and about. Repeat till I feel like the most incompetent person on the planet, which took a whoppin' 30 seconds. God says your faith can move mountains, well, all I wanted was for the dumb brake to budge.

I eventually burst into tears (boob, I know) and called the ever-patient, ever-understanding husband. Breaking down over an e-brake--that's gotta be a new one, folks. Grahm had to drive all the way back home to undo the e-brake for me. And he did so with embarrassing ease.

This was some serious incentive to pump iron to strengthen these wet noodles of mine and to meet the neighbors ("Umm hi, I know we haven't met yet-- but I can't work the brake in my truck because I'm three years old.")

Needless to say, we will never be parking the truck in the driveway again.

Craigslist Crazies

We've all browsed Craigslist like crazy freakwads hoping against hope to find a steal of a deal on a Pottery Barn dining table . . . There's only one teensy problem with that: the people of Craigslist do not own Pottery Barn. It's more like a hodgepodge of animal figurines, velvet, dingy couches, loud colors, and jankity old dressers.

Since we have a couple empty rooms in our house and not a bank account with a golden duck (that'd be quack-tastic), I've been looking for pieces on Craigslist that I can redo. Key word: redo. Key word: mistake.

There are a few problems with that. For the most part, people on Craigslist are certifiably insane. (And I'm not even referring to the personal section where gals want to hurl their lady parts at some sleezy gentleman in the bathroom at the library. Grizz.) Their ads are hilarious, sad, and sometimes terrifying. I mean, HOW did you come into owning that horrific couch with Jesus's face etched in the cushions?

1. Overpriced: "We've only owned this piece for five years. Several scratches on the bottom, but still in excellent condition. Yours for only $8,000!"

Really? I can buy that for one zillion times cheaper, and it won't have your "broken in" man stench all over it. Get your buns off your greedy, porcelain pot. Be realistic.

2. Life stories: "We've only owned this piece for five years. Sweet Granny gave it to me on her death bed. She told me with her finally words to "take care of her china hutch." And we did. But with Jimmy in school now, and Suzie getting married--we need the extra cash. I know, I know. I can't help it though. I feel so torn, because I don't want Granny to be disappointed. But we've stored her ashes in the cabinets, so that wherever this hutch goes--she will too."

Just, no. 

3. Misspellings: "Wev oned this for 5 yrs. Scrats on bottom, but gud condishen. Yours for 5000"

Holy buckets. This wasn't an exaggeration. Gud greef. Maybe this gets my junipers in a jumble because of what I do for a living, but good gravy. If I can't read your ad, the chances that I'm going to buy your strange giraffe table have decreased even more.

4. Antique/Vintage: "We've owned this antique piece for five years. Because it is so vintage, there are a few scratches on the bottom. But this antique is in excellent condition. Yours for only $8,000!"

This is my favorite. Slapping the word "antique" or "vintage" on something that's been collecting dust in your garage for the last decade doesn't make it true. It makes your grandmother's plaid sofa sound a little more appealing, but let's be real--ain't nobody got time for that.

To sum it up, be careful when dealing with Craigslist crazies. And if you do find something (miracle of miracle), you best take your strongest friend to guard your unsuspecting buns.

50 Shades of Gray

 

Someone should tell you that buying a house is the easy part. The decisions afterward are the real killer in your crotch biscuits.

Like paint.
Just a color, right? Easiest/cheapiest way to dramatically change your house, yes? Wrong. It's the mother of all headaches. It smells. It's a clothes ruiner. It makes you cry. And it's tempermental--the simplest things set it off (Oh wait, that's just me).

Holy Aunt Jemima. Cover me in butter and call me a pancake, cause this gal is panned out on colored goop-- which is a problem seeing as we haven't even finished one room in our every-wall-needs-to-be-painted house.

We got one million samples (okay, four).
There are only 899 ways a paint color could go awry. That color on the fancy pants card at Home Depot? All lies, my friend. Check yourself before your wreck yo'self and your walls.

It was 50 Shades of Gray up in here. We slapped our gray paint samples on the walls, and I instantly had a moment of "Oh my goodness, I just ruined my house." Our walls weren't really bad to begin with, they just weren't my personal preference.

After my moment of hysteria, I let the paint dry. And waited a day. Then we painted a few walls to see how it would look. Eureka! We like it a lot, praise the Lord.

I've never been so much on the verge of happy tears and mass panic. I think my heart fell to my butt a few times (clearly, my life is sad). 

But at least we have a color now. Now to cover the rest of the downstairs with it! That's one decision down, one zillion to go. After pictures to come!

This n That Thursday

Link up with the lovely Katie and me!

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THIS is a warning: Nothing in here is blog worthy. It's about as useless a wart on a log.

Lately I feel like I need a two-hour nap every hour, on the hour. I'm not exactly THAT busy, just tired like an elderly lady trying to mask her boo-coos of vericose veins with a calamime cream.

It's a combo of going back to work, trying to organize my empty house, and starting to run again in THIS bunzippity-do-da cold (OK, cold for Mexico). Not to mention I stopped my absurd soda intake. THAT was probably a ginormous mistake. But who wants kidney stones? I'm petrified of birthing a little rock baby.

Somebody teach me how to like coffee. Please? The amount of sugar I slapped into my mug THIS morning reached diabolic diabetic levels. I have to go all Braveheart on the stuff if I actually want to put the bitter, grown-up drink in my mouth. Freeeeedoooomm!

The hus-bun is too much of a coffee snob to help this coffee noob. I want to like it; I really really do. But everything in my fetus taster-buds is crying out in pain. I mean, how many times do you have to force feed myself until I've acquired THAT seemingly acquirable taste?

My idea of coffee is this chocolately mocha chunk stuff, which is probably worse for me than a large Dr Pepper every day. Somebody help.

something new

January 1 is such a hopeful day for some. It's a chance to start over. A fresh start. A clean slate. For at least one day, we can all believe that we'll magically transform into the people we've always longed to be. Happier. Healthier. Kinder. Someone who finally has it all together.

Though I know the only real hope I have for improvement of any kind is through Jesus, my only good, I still enjoy making a few resolutions.

This year, I really only have one: Be thankful.

Try to ignore the blatant spelling error in this one. Ha.

I started a thankfulness journal. It's a simple concept, really. Write something your thankful for every day. Lately, I've been living in a whirlwind of Pinterest-surfing, baby-wanting, furniture-shopping modes. I'm a hot, unsatisfied mess. My life is beautiful, wonderful. And yet, all I can see is the next thing. The next goal. The next stage.

Well, it's a new year. And it's time for a new attitude. My prayer is that the act of writing something down every day will unclog my cluttered, unsatisfied brain and that Jesus will open my eyes to the already wonderful life that I am beyond blessed with.

My sweet friend Laura Piersall of Laura Loop wrote the above GK Chesterton quote on my journal. (Go check out her Facebook page. She's insanely talented. Your wedding inviatioins need her.)

Her exquisite calligraphy brought my bland moleskine to life. It's simple, yet beautiful and I can't wait to fill its pages.