Category Archives: Brinkley + Sheldon

Potential audio records of the truth, wrecking notebooks, and I deleted a whole long thing about breast milk.

I think that the next time I want to tell you how wrong Phil is, a la many of the Settle This posts, I am just going to sit us down in front of the computer and record the whole conversation. That way, he can tell you how wrong he is in his own words. When I write those posts, I feel like I need to cut him some slack and soften his wrongness a bit, because we’re married and that’s my job as a wife – to prove him wrong constantly, but gently. If he digs his OWN hole, I have no such obligation. And then you will see. You will see what I live with, when you’re all so busy heaping him with praise for dealing with me.

You two assclowns deserve each other.


Speaking of times Phil is wrong, I want to recount the argument in rhyme Phil and I had last night, but I am pretty sure he won, so that has no place here on my blog. Also, I have a suspicion that you wouldn’t be so much awed by our verbal skills as you would be kind of repulsed.

Though, while he may technically have gotten the last word, I do think that rhyming “socks” with “fart box” was slightly more brilliant than his pairing of “face” with “cock mace.” Because a cock mace isn’t even a thing.

My first word is going to be “emancipation.”


You know what’s terrible? When you get a new notebook (of course you not only have plenty of half-used notebooks and also don’t have a specific purpose in mind for a new notebook) and it gets ruined.

You take it home and decide on its specific purpose, and how it will only be used for that purpose. And how you will use the new pens you bought, because of course you got new pens for your brand new notebook. Nice pens.

And for a couple of days you use it for that purpose, and then you have to SCRIBBLE SOMETHING OUT, because of course you were writing in pen – you got NEW PENS. So you rip that page out and write the whole thing over, EVEN IF it was 3/4 of a page and only one tiny mistake.

And then you’re on the phone or something and accidentally jot something down on one of the pages, and you can’t rip it out, because there’s other stuff on the page, the stuff that is supposed to be in your new notebook. So you rip out that corner.

But then you have to write a shopping list, because there is suddenly NO OTHER PAPER IN THE WHOLE DAMN HOUSE, and you flip to some random blank page in the notebook to write it. And then a couple of days later, you flip to some random blank page and write another list. Maybe a to do list.

And then you have another HALF USED, RUINED NOTEBOOK littering up your house, and they’re EVERYWHERE, except none of them will be anywhere close at hand when you need to jot something down while you’re on the phone or write a new shopping list, and you will ruin your NEXT brand new notebook.

Yep. That’s terrible.

Let’s be honest – a headband on me is like tits on a bull.


I’m tapped out on content right now, because Sheldon is standing at the back door and YELLING, I am not even kidding you, and I can’t even think of any words that aren’t “Goddamnit Sheldon!,” but I do have one last picture of Penny and no unrelated block of text to pair it with, so here it is.


Things I did this weekend: camp applications, Harry Potter, argued about toilet paper.

Let me tell you a little bit about what I did this weekend, but first, you should know this – AS I TYPE, Penny is having her first real nap. You know, the kind of nap where I deliberately PUT HER DOWN for a nap. Not in her little baby chair when she feels like sleeping, not in her swing because she’s been crying and crying and I don’t know what else to do. In her little Penny bed, swaddled up, at a time decided upon BY ME. For the first time.


After taking, watermarking, and uploading that picture, I realize that you probably would have taken my word for it. I should have let you take my word for it, because I waited until two hours in to said nap to start writing this post. I spent the rest of the time tiptoeing down the hall and peering around the door frame. Baby naps are such an unproductive waste of my time.

Also, have I said enough times yet that Penny’s blanket was sent to her by Rhy?

Or that it has seen her through a lot? Or that Rhy has a yarn store right here? (Which I was just looking at and realized that we probably lived, like, 8 minutes apart before I came out here to AZ.) Or that we call it Special Blanket? As in, “Where’s Special Blanket? She needs Special Blanket.”

Anyway, all of those things.

So. This weekend.


Decided to start the process of getting the dogs interviewed and approved to hang out at Camp Bow Wow.

Guess who apparently was not impressed with our plans?

Well, too bad, Sheldon, because you are going to the freaking camp and YOU WILL PLAY, because any weekend that sees me shrieking at the top of my lungs,


is pretty much a come to Jesus moment about the dogs and their need for exercise or at least TIME AWAY FROM ME.


Packed up to scale Everest.

I KID. Obviously. Because, HA.

That’s all the stuff we packed to take Penny to her first movie – Harry Potter at the drive in!

She clearly loved it, as you can tell. Do we count that as her first movie, or is her first “official” movie one where we take a small yet conscious child to sit in a seat for an hour and a half and shush her through a stupid movie we don’t even want to see in the first place?

Not important. What’s important? I loved it. It went so fast, though, didn’t it? I mean, I know there was a lot to cover in the last book, but man. It just blew by. Like any other fan, I would have been pleased as all hell for them to go into all kinds of crazy detail and gone to part 3, part 4, part one jillion. Seriously, I could happily watch Harry Potter for as long as they want to draw it out. Except, they aren’t drawing it out. So. It’s over.

BUT, back to the movie. Snape, you guys. Right? RIGHT?


This is where Penny finally woke up, I went and got her, fed her, changed her, dressed her, put her in her baby chair, went to the kitchen, stood in front of the stove where a diet soda cake is hanging out, and ate some cake with a fork right out of the pan.

Like you’ve never.

Don’t worry, I’m cancelling it out with some frozen grapes.

That reminds me, though, of my first real experience with the SO SO SO SO SO HUNGRY phase of pregnancy, when one morning, AFTER I ate a granola bar and a banana, and WHILE my waffle was in the toaster, I stood in front of the same stove, where some brownies were hanging out, and ate some. By fist. I was so frantically, panic-ly hungry that I ate brownies by the fistful during the seemingly unending Eggo toasting process.

I don’t have pregnancy as an excuse right now, but I do have a serious case of don’t feel like getting a plate.


I did not buy another adorable pirate-themed fitted diaper this weekend.

But I did get the one I bought last weekend in the mail.


Penny learned to stick out her tongue and hasn’t stopped since, which is adorable, until you are the one returning her pacifier to her mouth every 5 minutes between 10pm and 2am.

In case it wasn’t clear, I am the one. I am the one who is returning the pacifier to her mouth every 5 minutes between 10pm and 2am.


Lastly, the toilet paper argument was once again rehashed.

The toilet paper issue, you see, is two-fold.

First, we can’t seem to agree who is at fault for the fact that we go through nearly an entire roll of toilet paper per day.

Maybe if you didn’t need to roll a 3 inch thick catcher’s mitt of toilet paper around your hand every time you used the bathroom, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“First, I don’t make a poo-mitt. Second, YOU PEE FIFTY TIMES A DAY.”

Second, we can’t agree on when it is time to change the roll. I’m here alone, and I keep the toilet paper supply at an adequate level for my anticipated needs. Even if that means just leaving one or two rotations of paper on the roll until my next visit. (WHICH IS SO NOT FIFTY TIMES A DAY.) Phil doesn’t like this, though. He thinks that I should ANTICIPATE that he might arrive home sometime between the last time I went and the next time I’ll go. Therefore, since he MIGHT arrive, toilet paper levels should be keep adequate for HIS NEEDS at all times.

This has lead to a lot of him coming home, grabbing PC Gamer, heading into his lair, and huffing back out mere moments later to glower at me as he grabs a fresh roll. I inevitably bellow back at him, “THERE IS PLENTY OF TOILET PAPER IN THERE.”

I know what you’re thinking. Men and women have different toilet paper needs (Phil did not, at first, know that even if a diaper is only wet, areas must still be wiped down well, though who would really expect him to), and I should maybe go ahead and change the roll if there are only a few inches left, even if those few inches are adequate for me. You’re siding with Phil.

Except, no. Because this is what PHIL considers to be an inadequate amount of toilet paper left on the roll, necessitating a roll change as soon as I become aware, by all of the lights and sirens, that we have reached DEF CON LEVEL toilet paper emergency situations:


Anyway, we’ve made no progress on this argument since the last time I told you about it over a year ago, so there’s really no reason for me to include it here, except that I feel like you guys deserve updates on things you’ve taken the time to read. Just a service I like to provide.

So, to sum up:

UpdatePhil still ridiculous about toilet paper.

Sudden assumptions of special powers, Etsy, and I’m sweatier than I wanted to be today. Or ever.

You know what’s the worst? When you have a dream where someone you know dies. I don’t necessarily mean a dream where some ridiculous chain of events that could only take place in a dream lead to someone dying, but like one of those dreams where someone says to you, “Steve died,” or you go to Steve’s funeral or something like that. I’m saying something like a realistic death, one that could happen in real life, and it’s one of those dreams where you wake up and have to take a second to sort out what was real and what was a dream.

Here’s why it’s the worst – because even if in your WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE you have never exhibited anything even slightly resembling a super power or special skill, you will suddenly become convinced that you have ESP or some kind of predictive power or the ability to make things HAPPEN.

So you have this dream and you wake up, and you (okay, me) are convinced – just CONVINCED – that one of three things is now true.

1. The person died for real and you were made aware of it in a dream. Because you have magical brain powers that let you know what’s happening on the other side of the country.

2. The person is ABOUT TO DIE and you can see the future. So you know it’s coming. And there’s nothing you can do. Because you suddenly developed a way to see the future by, I don’t know, standing too close to the microwave?

3. The person is about to die and it will be YOUR FAULT because you DREAMED IT INTO LIFE. Way to go.

Yeah. Those dreams are just the freaking worst.


Can I show you some Etsy shops I found lately that I like? My PayPal account is empty at the moment, and I try to restrict certain kinds of purchases to PayPal funds only, because it’s basically pretend money, so I’m perfectly okay being a little frivolous with it. Because it’s pretend. Never mind that I usually get paid through PayPal and that money represents hours of work on some of the most mind-numbing things possible (in a boring way, or in a self-protective way, because I was once asked to write an article for a company and instructed to use a certain keyword repeatedly and I had to numb my brain to be able to do it with any sense of professionalism and seriousness. That keyword phrase was “the ropes.” I can’t bring myself to explain further than that. I wrote about “the ropes.” And then considered the money I earned to be “pretend.”)

Moving on, my PayPal account is empty of pretend funds at the moment, largely because of purchases like this:

Yes, it’s a pirate diaper, but I already TOLD YOU – pretend money.

Just because my PayPal account is empty, though, doesn’t mean I can’t encourage/enable you to spend some money on Etsy. And also to remind you that my birthday is in December. And I’m going to be 30. So it’s kind of a big deal.

First? This shop called seworiginal. I’m not super girly myself – I don’t mean that in the way that women say when they’re telling you how much better they get along with guys because they’re not the typical girl oh my god, we all started seeing through that shit by the end of high school – but I’m girly enough. I like to wear make up. I enjoy wearing pretty clothes. I am mostly lazy, though, and enjoy casual bum looks. However, I am ALL ABOUT girling up Penny. I always prefer to put her in a dress or something extra frilly. And this shop? FULL OF DRESSES.

(picture from seworiginal)

This dress is even CALLED the PENELOPE DRESS.

There’s a couple of different dress styles, all in different patterns. I could make Penny an entire wardrobe of Penelope dresses. Or, you know, you could make one for your kid.

Or? Or? How about some throw pillows? For your nerd house? You can get some at Craftsquatch.


I’ve actually just found myself in the market for some throw pillows, because get this – I hate my couch SO GODDAMN HARD that I am throwing it away and replacing it with my bed.

Not me and Phil’s bed. I have my own bed. Not that I sleep in, but that belongs to me, because I existed before I moved in with Phil. It’s in the guest room, which is actually Penny’s room now. I need the bed gone so it can be Penny’s room, and I need the couch gone because it can go RIGHT TO HELL, so. Win-win. Bed-couch. Whatever. I’m putting my bed in the living room, don’t sit on it if it bothers you so damn much.

I know I first heard of this one through Miss Zoot’s blog – EvieTees. I can’t even pick a favorite to show you, but you should look at these things:

– I was going to make a list here, but found myself listing EVERYTHING IN THE STORE. Seriously. Next time I have some pretend money, I’m buying myself something from that store, which is SAYING SOMETHING, because I hardly ever buy myself things. I just carry them around stores for a while and eventually talk myself out of buying them. This is probably why I still own and wear t-shirts I got at Goodwill in the 10th grade and items that proudly proclaim me to be a member of the Class of 2000. If I didn’t, I’d be naked. Phil was blown away the first time we went to Carter’s and I marched to the counter with an armload of clothes for Penny, because I NEVER ACTUALLY BUY anything. But I will. From this shop.

It’s so funny to go back through my Etsy favorites. Mostly baby stuff, then a ton of wedding stuff, then a ton of super cute stuff I never bought back before I was even with Phil, back when I thought I was the type of person who could actually pull off adorable clothes and home decor, not the type of person in an “I EAT NOOBS” hoodie who is about to put a bed in her living room.


There was going to be another thing here, but Sheldon jumped the fence (SEE? TOLD YOU HE DOES THAT.) and I had to get him from the neighbor’s yard and I’m wearing an “I EAT NOOBS” hoodie because it’s 68 degrees in here but it’s over 100 out there.

Even though I was about to say something unbelievably touching, insightful and brilliant, something that would stick with you all day and well into the rest of the week, something you’d find yourself reflecting on over and over throughout your life, long after you’ve stopped reading this blog because you’re just fucking sick of me, I’m too sweaty and pissed off and covered in leash burn to deal with it, so here’s a picture of Penny.

And then here’s a bonus picture of Penny, for your trouble:

Chocolate Chewbacca credit, my mom on Facebook, and the only picture of me and Penny you’ve ever seen.

My mom sent Phil a chocolate Chewbacca on a stick for Easter and it’s sitting in a bowl on our kitchen counter.

I’ve been over and over it in my mind, and the only way I can think to demonstrate to Phil just how LONG I’ve refrained from eating HIS chocolate Chewbacca is to eat it and then, when he notices, demand credit for holding out as long as I did. I’m not getting any praise with it just sitting there.

You’re not getting any praise for this outfit, either.


Last night, Penny and I went to bed, as we do, and waited for Phil to join us. It got later and later and eventually I realized that he was going to be REALLY annoyed in the morning if he didn’t come to bed soon, so I went to find him. He was sacked out on half of the couch (because baby stuff takes up the other half), and it took a ridiculous amount of convincing to get him up and moving to bed. He just kept looking at me and going, “I quit!” and falling back asleep. Totally out of it.

He did get up, though, and let the dogs out and came to bed. I said to him, “Did you remember to let the dogs in?” He said he did, just as Brinkley came lumbering into the room. I’m obviously including that detail for a reason.

Three or so hours later, Penny woke up to eat. I got up to go to the bathroom and realized I only stepped over Brinkley. I scanned the rest of the bedroom – no Sheldon. Came out to the living room, hoping he’d be asleep on the love seat – no Sheldon.

At that point, I immediately freaked out, because Sheldon is known to jump our fence and he’s a black dog and it was night time – a combination for awful disaster. I saw that the back light was still on and ran towards the back door. I spotted a big black lump leaning against the sliding door and was so relieved. I opened the door and was hit in the face with the still almost 100 degree heat and let him in. He almost knocked me over getting to the dog water fountain (yes) and completely drained it, then flopped down on his stomach on the floor while I refilled it for him to drain again.

I stormed into the bedroom and starting railing at Phil, because COME ON. You KNOW he escapes. You KNOW it’s hot out there. He was too asleep to respond in a way that I felt was appropriate, though, so I waited until this morning to demand that he apologize to Sheldon and check on him.

Phil says, “It was an accident. Oops.”

And I say, “It was hot! He could have escaped! He was SO THIRSTY.”

Phil says, “He seems fine.”

And I say, “He was almost dehydrated! He could have gotten VERY SICK. Or? Escaped and gotten hit by a car! There was a TERRIBLE thunderstorm after I let him in.”

Phil says, “Accidents happen, and he’s fine.”

I get that he’s fine and I get that accidents happen, and I kind of get that there’s no reason to dwell, but I feel like I need Phil to mull over each and every possible disaster scenario that could have occurred before I can get over the situation.

Kind of like how when I’m showering, I think about being negligent in my soap removal and then accidentally not drying my soapy arms well and picking up Penny and she slips right out of my slippery arms. I feel like these things need to be acknowledged. As stuff that COULD HAVE HAPPENED.

Basically, Phil is not fretting over things that didn’t happen enough for my comfort.

This is awful! I hate this! Pick me up, you assholes!


I can always tell when my mom has made her once weekly visit to Facebook by the two page list of notifications alerting me to the fact that she has “liked” everything I’ve posted in the last 7 days. Except for the status updates that contain foul language, and a complete refusal to acknowledge any captions on pictures of Penny that contain the F-bomb or the asshole-bomb.

Example: Picture of Penny, captioned: “I hate you, get the fuck out of my face!”

My mom’s comment: She looks so happy! She must be looking at her mama!

She also comments on old status updates, which is especially funny in the case of my brother, who would post something like, “Tired” during his college finals. There’d be a little back and forth between his friends in the comments, then three days of nothing, then my mom posts, “Why?”

It’s weird, because my mom has a completely fine grasp of technology (except for prevention of the ass dial – you have NEVER been pocket dialed as many times as this woman is capable of. If you get a call Saturday morning and hear the inside of my mom’s purse, prepare to spend the next 45 minutes picking up the phone nearly constantly, bellowing, “MOM! MOOOOOOOM! STOOOOOOOP” and hoping she hears the disembodied voice of her child coming from inside of her purse. Things, admittedly, did get a little better when she got a touch screen phone, but mindbogglingly, it STILL HAPPENS reasonably regularly.)

AS I WAS SAYING, she has a completely fine grasp of technology, she just puts her own mom twist on it. Like replying to Facebook statuses as if she’s in a personal conversation with the poster. Or? OR? When I text her pictures of Penny? She calls me to discuss the picture.


Penny, right after that whole tummy time business:

Not cool, guys. Not cool.


I wanted to roll a new toon in WoW last weekend, but whenever I try to do it myself, no combination of class and race really appeals to me. While I was feeding Penny, I told Phil to just go ahead and create something for me.

I came back to find a warlock named Lwaxana. Er, no. Delete. I should have known he’d make a warlock, considering he has 75 warlocks himself, but I just wasn’t feeling it. Plus, Lwaxana? No.

He asked for another chance, though, so, fine. I was out of the room for a bit and came back to find myself standing in the human starting area as a paladin named Sumki.

“What the shit is a Sumki?”

“I used Google Translate! I thought you’d get it…”

(Years of Russian come back to me.)

“Sumki? As in, the plural of sumka? Like, purse? Purses?”

“It’s supposed to be bags.”

… you’re an asshole!


You know what is a serious boner killer? When you’re in the car and the Proclaimers come on, and you’re listening to I’m Gonna Be, and you think that you and the other person in the car are on the same page.

You think that, at least, until you bellow out the first “DA DA DA!” at the top of your lungs, and he DOES NOT DO the echo back “DA DA DA!”

I swear, nothing has ever made me question my marriage more.


These are your parents, Penny.

Too bad.

Haunted pants, the Giant Voice, and childhood compared to puzzle books.

You know those stories where a guy hangs out with a girl and they really hit it off and they go their separate ways and the next day, he goes to her house and a lady answers, and she’s all, “My daughter’s been dead for teeeen yeeeeaaars?” (You have to read that line in the Joey Tribiani inflection.)

Well, I had a serious moment reminiscent of those stories yesterday – I felt that exact same creepy, tingly feeling that you probably felt the first time you heard one of any of a million variations on that story. I was in the bathroom digging through the massive pile of laundry we like to throw on the floor until we can barely open and close the door in our wee water closet. I can’t remember what I was looking for (oh, wait, yes I can – my VolunTEEN t-shirt, which I have had for  a long time, like many of my t-shirts – so long, even, that when my sister was here a few weeks ago, she asked me, “How long have you had that shirt?” and I said, “A while, why?” and she said, “Because I remember you wearing it. IN HIGH SCHOOL.”)

Ok, so I do remember what I was looking for, but I didn’t find it. I did notice one of my pairs of jeans laying there, though. Then I went to the laundry room to look in the dryer for my shirt. I didn’t take any of the clothes from the bathroom to the laundry room. That’s not part of the story, I’m just trying to give you an open and accurate depiction of my life, because I figure the more background information you have about ME, the more interesting and lifelike and vivid my stories might be, and let’s face it, they need all the help they can get.

So, there you have it – I’m a person with a shit ton of laundry on the bathroom floor, which is a bad place to keep your laundry, especially if you’re the type that one, likes to wear the same jeans more than once before washing; and/or two, leaves the house so rarely and so briefly that shirts also merit rewearing as it’s hard to get especially dirty on a trip through the Sonic drive thru for a Route 44 Diet Sprite with cranberry and pineapple; AND you have a husband who puts his BIG WET FEET on the clothes you totally intended to wear again. That you were keeping on the bathroom floor until such time. How dare he.

I went to the laundry room, without any of that laundry, to look for the shirt I wanted in the dryer. As I was rummaging through the dryer (because of course I intended to only pull out exactly what I wanted to wear and leave the rest, because emptying the dryer would open the door for things like sorting and folding, which, actually, I don’t ever do – can I refer you back to “If you give a shit, it’s your job?” – so I guess I just didn’t want to carry it all back to the bedroom to fling on the floor in the corner), I did find my shirt, but also? I saw the SAME JEANS that I had seen on the bathroom floor. And I got that FEELING. The “my daughter’s been dead for teeeeeen yeeeeaaars” feeling.

I know what you’re thinking, come on, it’s jeans and my house isn’t haunted, but it’s not like I consciously stood there, half in and half out of the dryer, thinking, “OH SHIT, MY HOUSE IS INFESTED WITH DENIM GHOSTS!” It was just a FEELING that happened really quickly. I didn’t give it any deep thought or anything. I felt it and it was fleeting and then I was like, “heh.” Because it was kind of funny, to have and be able to name THAT EXACT FEELING, except in relation to your pants.

“But those jeans have been on the bathroom floor for teeeen daaaays!”


I live on a military base, and every once in a while, there are various exercises for preparedness for various situations and whatnots that could happen. The first time one of these exercises took place while we live here, Phil didn’t think to warn me, and I was taken by surprise by the Giant Voice. Instructions and warnings and information are all bellowed out over a loudspeaker that booms over the whole base, and if you’re not prepared for it, you may think someone is in your backyard, about to bust into your house, and panic about getting murdered and the fact that you don’t have a bra on, but in opposite order.

I’ve gotten a bit more used to the Giant Voice, partially because I suppose one just becomes used to Giant Voices and also because both Phil and signs around the base sometimes warn me that they’re going to happen. Today happens to be a Giant Voice day, and while I usually just ignore it anymore, it is making Sheldon INSANE. So, I let him outside to fulfill his need to protect us all from the invisible shouting men and women in the yard and checked in with Phil.

Me: What’s up with the Giant Voice?

Phil: Weather exercise. A tornado is killing us all right now.

Sheldon, ignoring the obvious imminent danger and refusing to take cover in direct defiance of the Giant Voice.


I have said to a couple of people that while I do really like my kid, I don’t care for this phase at all. I don’t think I’ll ever look back on early babyhood and miss it. It’s not just the crying and the night feeding and all of that. I’m just not really especially into babies, as a group. To me, this phase is just a trial to get through and would NOT be something I would look forward to if there was ever to be a second child. In fact, it could very well be a major factor in PREVENTING a second child from ever, ever, EVER happening.

What I’m really looking forward to is toddlerhood. When she’s walking and talking and doing things and being interesting and having conversations and expressing her needs in words and all of that.

The thing is, though, whenever I say that – that I don’t really enjoy this early babyhood and am really looking forward to having a toddler – there is ALWAYS SOMEONE who pipes up with, “Oh, ho ho, JUST WAIT. Having a toddler is hard, TOO, you know.”

You know what? Crossword puzzles and sudoku can both be really hard, but I still like one WAY MORE than I like the other.

I know I’ve talked about this before, but what IS IT with people and needed to tell or remind other people that misery upon misery is still coming? Even when I express that I am LOOKING FORWARD to something, someone needs to tell me how foolish I am, BECAUSE IT WILL BE TERRIBLE. Why, WHY do people need to make sure that other people know that nothing good is ever going to happen again? Even the things you thought would be good will be awful, and even things that you KNOW will be good, nope, you’re wrong, everything is WOE AND GNASHING AND RENDING.

And then? The worst part? People who tell you, “actually, it’s terrible!” sometimes do that thing where they pretend to duck and cover, or indicate, IN TEXT FORM, that they’re pretending to adopt a “don’t hit me” stance, as if they assume they’re delivering information that will make you angry. Except one, they’re never saying anything you don’t know, even if it isn’t applicable and two, why are you even saying something to someone that you even jokingly think would make them angry enough to take a swing at you? Because, come on. Shut up.