Saturday, May 30, 2009Regurgitated: Kinda Sappy, but I Want to Remember It All
In honor of the Pens reaching the Stanley Cup Finals (and the fact that I'm too lazy to write something right now), here's a little repost from December 2008. It pretty much explains why the Pens REALLY need to bring Lord Stanley back home to Pittsburgh.
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It's been quite some time now since Alexis made up her mind that she wanted Santa to make the appropriate arrangements for her to attend a Penguins game. Forget the toys, the clothes, the books, all she wanted for Christmas was Pens tickets. Well, Santa is magical and all, but he doesn't have the power to alter the Pens schedule, so he had to work a little of his mojo and make things happen for the kid a wee bit before Christmas. In fact, with a thud and a clank, he somehow maneuvered through Alexis' bedroom window yesterday and left a little something under her tree.
We quickly ushered the surprised little Pens freak to the floor and urged her to open her present. (And, yes, Santa did manage to use the fugliest blue Dora paper anyone has ever seen.)
To be honest, I was a little worried that giving a kid paper for Christmas (albeit ridiculously expensive paper) was going to go over about as well as a couple of neck ties do with Mr. Husband.
Yet, she seemed to know instantly what the pieces of paper represented. Maybe that's because Santa and Sidney Crosby were allegedly in her room the night before and told her she was going to a game. I'm not even kidding, that was her story all morning long. Before she knew about the tickets. Or that there was a game.
She was excited about those pieces of paper.
She was nearly as excited about the new baby blue jersey Santa snuck in as she was those tickets.
She clutched those tickets in her chubby little hands and held them tight for hours after Santa dropped by. It was next to impossible to wrestle them from her, but she was more than willing to show them to anyone who asked.
When finally it came time to leave for the game, Alexis donned her new blue jersey and insisted on pairing it with a jean skirt and the stuffed Penguin she got at a game last year. She clutched that Penguin tight all through the game.
She grinned with glee every time she spotted Sidney Crosby on the ice, who was kind enough to wear his blue jersey so he would perfectly match Alexis.
Alexis' excitement all through the game was the kind of thing you wish you could toss in a bottle, seal up tight, and set on a shelf to cherish for years to come. It was the sort of warm fuzzy night that makes parenting a kid (who today yelled for over an hour, with shrieks that were drenched in misery, because she wanted some waffles but then refused to eat them) all worth while.
Better than worth while.
Perfect.
There's no feeling better than the one you get when you realize you have made your kid very, very happy.
Alexis had a fun little moment with her good bud Iceburgh, who was kind enough to come stand near us for a while. Alexis waved to him, smiled at him, and blew him kisses then promptly buried her face and cried fear-filled tears when he tried to shake her hand. Iceburgh is a classy mascot, though, and gave her a little distance before blowing her a kiss goodbye and heading to another part of the arena.
The Pens lost the game in Epic Fail style.
But a little two-year old didn't care about the final score because Santa made her dream come true.
It's the Nice Things that Get Me
Yeah. So. The whole thing about people being in our house while we're not here is seriously getting to me. It's not so much about the being here part, it's the fact that they are touching our stuff. It is driving me NUTS. I know it's just part of the home selling process, but still. IT'S OUR STUFF. Keep your paws to yourself, people.
Karen had commented that she didn't think I seemed the type to get my panties in a wad over something silly like a stranger pulling back a shower curtain. I thought about it for a while, and she was right. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what my problem was. It's SILLY. Then, suddenly, Captain Obvious swooped down out of the sky, punched me in the face, and screamed, "YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO ACT BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT USED TO HAVING NICE THINGS."
Oh. Yeah. That.
It turns out that when you grow up wearing KMart jeans and living in a beat-down trailer house, you end up with a complex. An epic, possessive complex. It doesn't help that any time I've ever managed to get something nice, somebody just had to go and screw it up.
Example #1: My Honda CRX. It was the first decent car I ever bought. I didn't get it new, but I did get it in muy excellent condition. Then, while I was working at Walt Disney World, some poopface who lived in my apartment complex backed out of the parking space next to my precious car when they didn't have enough space. They left a $2000 dent alllllll down the side, but not so much as a note to say sorry. My insurance deductible was $1000 at the time, so I couldn't afford to fix it for over a year. My poor, poor car.
Example #2: My wedding dress. I had a GORGEOUS wedding dress. I found it online for an insanely good price, but it was still a crazy perfect dress. I made it all through our wedding day without messing it up, despite an outdoor wedding. When we returned to our house, I hung it from a hanger on the outside of the closet door. When we came back from our honeymoon, I found that it had fallen to the floor. And a jerkwad cat had pissed on it. Cat pee? Is DISGUSTING. My poor, poor dress.
Example #3: My dishes. Please note, I said "my" dishes, not our. They are MINE. I lurve them and I picked them and I lurve them so, so much. Mr. Husband and Alexis are allowed to use them, but only with extreme care. Too bad they are both born of the breed Klutzwad. I don't think there is a single piece that doesn't have a chip or crack or something. They don't mean to be evil to my dishes, but they are. My poor, poor dishes.
I could go on and on. It's a fact that no matter what it is, if I get something nice, it will get destroyed. Period.
I need mousetraps. Lots and lots of mousetraps. I'm sure nobody will hesitate to buy a house right after they get their fingers smashed for touching our stuff.
(More dorkbutts, this time trashing my couch. Seriously. They have TRASHED it, especially the middle one. She's a four-legged, drooling, farting, furniture-destroying machine.)
