Happy?

I'm not sure how I feel about being home.  I am happy that I don't have to get up at the crack every morning and leave my house sometimes before my daughter even wakes up, but it's taking me some time to be okay with that.  Believe me, not working is way better than working.  But for someone who's worked consistently for 14 years, save for 10 weeks around Leah's birth, it's strange that I'm not working.

1-I feel lazy.  I guess because I am such a big proponent for working.  I see people complaining about not having money or not feeling important, and I'm like, Duh, then get a job.  Problem solved. I don't know why I judge value by whether one works or not, but for some reason I feel like I'm lazy or less of a person right now because I'm not working.  And not actively looking for work.  And have pretty much made up my mind that I won't be working again until November.

2-I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing.  Clearly I shouldn't have free time, right?  I should pack my days with laundry, dusting, and vacuuming, and then I should pack my afternoons with bike rides, park visits, and playdates, and I should know what I'm making for dinner at 9 a.m. so that the meat can defrost, and I should always be in a good mood because hey, the stress of working is now gone, and, well, is this right?  Am I on the right track here?  Because if so, then staying home is sorta just as stressful as not staying home.  Clearly, I've missed something...huh?

3-I am very concerned about us paying our bills for the next five months.  We've never lived without my salary, and I'm pretty much putting our near future in Greg's hands and I am an enormous control freak.  So, this is very hard.  When I am bringing home the money, I know how much is coming in and when and where it's going to go.  And now there's significantly less than that, and I am nervous.

4-If there is not enough money to pay the bills, we are pretty much SOL since there's a very good chance that I couldn't even get a job if I wanted one since I'm 6.5 months pregnant.  So, there's that.

Ok, so other than that, I think I like being home.  I already feel a lot more laid back and I can already see a difference in my relationship with Leah.  I am looking forward to the summer and the time we'll be together. 

And I'm feeling a lot more grateful towards Greg.  I know not every woman has this opportunity, and I would like to really take advantage of it. 

So, for now, I'm using May to get the baby's room ready, declutter my house, and clean every nook and cranny, since Leah's still in school full time. 

And as for the rest of the summer?  Who knows...

My Little Baby, No More

I purchased some bathing suits on sale for Leah for next year.  I bought a size 4T.  They might as well have come from that Justice store because they look enormous.  I can't imagine, that next summer, in 12 short months, Leah will be wearing those bathing suits.  They are just so damn big and I don't want her to fit into them.  I mourn for the baby she once was and attempt to remain optimistic for the girl she is turning into.



.

Listen

Please listen to me, you need to listen to me.

No whining, no throwing, no crying,

I'm tired and I have a migraine,

and you need to listen the hell to me.

When I ask you to clean up your room,

or to come and set the table.

All I want you to do, is to eventually stop what you're doing,

and just listen the hell to me.

Your father and I have a feeling,

you might be an alien.

You scream for no reason and freak out all the time.

Oh, and you never listen the hell to me.

I like that you make your bed,

and it's great that you can dress yourself.

Now stop hitting the dog with your shoe,

and just listen the hell to me.

.

Hair Come The Tears

She had to put every clip in her hair.  Wouldn't let me touch one, help out, or make any suggestions.

And then, like a mini Paris Hilton, threw a huge fit when I told her it looked nice.

And forget when I told her that she should wear it out.  FOR. GET. IT.

It's times like these that make me very scared for the future. 

Jeez, I didn't do anything wrong!  Unless you count complimenting you!  For the love of god, lighten up!

.

Whatever She Wants To Be

I often look at Leah and wonder what will come of her.  What kind of woman will she grow to be?  What will she do for a living?  Will she marry?  Will she have children?  Will she move to another state or country?  Will she never move out of my house?  Will she be headstrong and independent?  Will she be kind?  Will she own her own business?  Will she be an ant marching to work each day?  Will she be open with her feelings?  Will we be good friends? 

The list goes on and on...

.

Today,

she would have been 58.

she would have known her two granddaughters.

she would have been helping Adriana get ready for the purchase of her first home.

she would have witnessed Marco marry.

she would have been dancing to her heart's content.

she would have been able to prove to this girl how wonderful she was, rather than just have me tell her.

Today would have been a good day.

 
 
.

Three Whole Years

Four months and seven days after the anniversary of my mother's death, which goes down as the worst day of my life, we celebrate Leah's birth, which goes down as the best day of my life.

In my 34 years of living on this planet, I have a few accomplishments.  But NOTHING makes me prouder than when I look at what Greg and I brought into this world on March 26, 2008.

Happy Birthday, Leah.  I've said it before, and I'll say it forever, you truly saved my life.

Now, go pick up your shoes and fortheloveofgod stop throwing your crayons.

A Smallish Heart Attack

What is it with children and their need to hide in racks in stores?  This is a new thing with Leah.  It entertains her to no end and gives me heart palpatations.  She's too old and nosey to sit in a stroller.  She will follow the, "one hand on the cart" rule for about 35 seconds.  But, as soon as I stop to take a look at something, we get this:

.

Just Sit On The Toilet Already

Oh, has it been that long?  Sorry about that.  Let's just jump into some lamenting about my life, shall we?

We've been working on discipline with Leah.  I've mentioned before how I am trying to teach her cause and effect, especially with regards to her behavior at daily tasks.  I expect everyday common situations to go effortlessly--teeth brushing, bed time, meals--I mean, we've done these things hundreds if not thousands of times, and I shouldn't still have deal with whining and fooling around and general assy-ness when it comes to those tasks.  I expect a lot from her, but she's almost three, and she should be able to figure out that when I've said not less than forty nights in a row that failure to sit on the toilet before bed will result in no bedtime gels and ointments, that I really mean that. 

Up until recently, she wasn't getting it.  I was dealing with the nightly, "but I don't hafta go pee" lament, and I was following it up with, "if you don't at least try then you don't get teeth medicine" and this was happening every night.  But, last night was wine night, and I needed to get Leah into bed as fast as possible, so that I could get back to my ladies in the dining room (and my wine) as fast as possible, and, since I didn't want Joan and Gab to hear just how loud my voice could really get to, I vowed that I was going to keep it together.

She brushed her teeth.  Refused to sit on the toilet.  I didn't say a thing.  We walked to her room and she said, "So, uh, I can have teeth medicine?" and I said, "No, you can't and you know why." And she said, "Oh, yeah, I hafta go pee!" and she ran back to the bathroom.

I nearly fainted but kept my cool and the rest of bedtime went smoothly.

A similar thing happened on Wednesday night when she kicked me and was forced to go to bed early.  The next morning she apologized, without being prompted, for kicking me and making me sad.

We don't spank, so we are forced to come up with different ways of disciplining her, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit to sometimes wanting to kick in the face whoever invented the Time Out.  I spend an inordinate amount of time talking to Leah and explaining, and I have no qualms about painting the picture of life exactly how it is: sometimes unfair and not always roses.  So, when she picks up on a lesson like Post-Teeth Brushing Pee Effort=Hand Lotion In Bed, it makes me feel like I'm getting my point across.  That my parenting choices might just be pretty good ones.  That I'm not messing up this kid too much.




.

God Said Ha

Today was such a cruddy day.  It started off with me leaving my house 15 minutes earlier than usual, but hitting major traffic and getting to work 15 minutes late.  This is not fair.  People should not be judged by when they get to work, but rather when they leave for it.  My boss should know that I left 15 minutes earlier than usual.  NOT that I was running into the office like a lunatic at 8:15.

Then, I stood up to a co-worker who treated me poorly.  It was incredibly difficult to do because this co-worker is nasty and mean and doesn't care who he's treating badly.  But we work very closely together and I can't be disrepected and I won't tolerate inappropriate or unprofessional behavior.  I also knew this this person would fight back, rather than most who are just stunned that you stood up to them and sit there and take it, so I braced myself for that too. 

He didn't disappoint.  And it wasn't pretty.  But in the end he apologized and we moved on. 

Then I received the text from Greg that Leah had thrown up at home.  When I picked her up after work and we proceeded to Thursdays with Michael, she threw up fruit loops all over Michael's bathroom.

And then in her car seat as I drove home on a long and windy road with no shoulder to pull over to.

I bet only a few of us can boast "scooping vomit off my child in the Dairy Queen parking lot" on our list of accomplishments.

And then I couldn't get the car seat cover off to wash it so I just threw the whole foccaca thing in the garage and decided to let Greg deal with it.

And then she wouldn't get into the bath, so everyone, everything, all of us, smell like vomit. 

Oh, and for the third time this week I ate dinner standing up in the kitchen in between catering to my child and her demands for various blankets, toys, liquids, and THE PURPLE SLIPPERS MY GOD THE PURPLE ONES, MOM, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, THOSE ARE NOT PURPLE! YOU SUCK!!!!!

I think that's all for now. 

.

Testing One, Two, Three

Leah is known for testing my patience to the point that I have to leave the room sometimes and scream it out at the dog.  She'll ask for something, let's say, for me to rub her back at night, and then I'll say, okay, lie down, and then she'll just sit there staring at me.  NOT lying down.  So, I'll say, you have until the count of three to lie down or no back rub, and then she'll just sit there staring at me.  Not slowly lying down.  Not waiting until I get to three and throwing herself down.  Just not doing it.  So, I'll go to walk away, and then she'll scream I NEED MY BACK RUBBED!  MOMMY COME BACK!  BACK!   NOW!!!   BWAAHHHH  BOOOO OOOOHHHH WWAAAHHHH!!!!

Now, if you can understand what the hell she is trying to do other than bury me early then kudos to you.  Because I can't for the life of me figure out why she will ASK for something then purposely take the steps that keep her from getting it. 

And finally yesterday, it clicked.  Not what she's thinking, because honestly?  I think that at these times she was put on earth to get me back for every single thing I did to my parents growing up.  I will never fully understand my child.  She's incomprehensible and unbelievable.  Like the shelf life of a Twinkie.  And Sarah Palin. 

No, what clicked was how I was going to handle it.

Now, brace yourself, because I am about to let you in on some genius-speak.  From now on when Leah asks for something, like say a snack, and I ask her to sit down at the table to eat said snack, and then she gives me the Carol-Ann stare, I walk away.  That's it.  Snack's over.  So sorry.  Cab's are here.  Gotta go.

And that's it.  She hates it, blows a gasket, has a fit, but then eventually gets over it.  And me?  I don't hate it, blow gaskets, or have fits, and I'm over it before it's even begun.

Lately, we've been working on cause and effect.  You throw something, you get it taken away.  You want me to give you something, you ask in a big kid voice.  You want lotion, then you don't jump off your changing table.  You want to take a 30 minute shower, then you get your own apartment.  I'm tired of treating her like some special-rainbow-cuddle-bunny, when I suspect she's old enough to know that she's getting special treatment and taking advantage of me.  She's a human being and life isn't always barbies and ponies.  Believe me, for Leah, life is quite often barbies and ponies, but occasionally, it's not, and it's best she start realizing this early on.

Last night, there were some shenanigans when I announced bed time.  Honestly, I don't even remember exactly what it was.  But on the nights that Greg works late, there are usually shenanigans at bedtime.  I did that warn/threat thing, (If you don't stop jumping off your bed, you will not get your teeth medicine*) and I watched her proceed to jump off the bed.  Twice.  And I had it.  So, I took the teeth medicine, put it on a shelf where she could see it**, and her told that she wouldn't be getting any that night.  She should try harder and listen better and perhaps tomorrow would be a teeth medicine night. 

Which she did.  And it was.  However, tonight we had the back rubbing issue.  There's always an issue.  We'll try again tomorrow.

*It's Orajel.  And she's not teething.  But she got it into her head over a year ago that she needs teeth medicine nightly.  I don't fight it.  I choose my battles.

**I learned this from an old co-worker Jon, who told me that when his wife Janine needed to take something away from their daughter due to naughty behavior, she made sure that she put the toy in a spot where their daughter would be sure to see it and be reminded of naughty behavior/punishment.  I've never forgotten it.



.

Baby Jessica

Leah received a doll for Christmas, whom she named Baby Jessica.  Jessica has a bottle, and when you put the bottle near (or, in Leah's case crammed in) her lips, her face moves as she "sucks" the bottle.  Her eyes also blink, and she makes this exaggerated sucking sound.  After she drinks for a few seconds (which at times feel like a few decades) she falls sleep (I guess, her eyes only close half-way) and then she snores for a minute or so.

Baby Jessica is interesting, to say the least, and it should surprise no one that Baby Jessica ran out of batteries two days ago.  Baby Jessica takes triple A batteries which no one keeps in the house because double A is the new triple A.  In order to avoid worldwide catastrophe, my friend Gabrielle handed me 5 triple As and when I place three of them in Baby Jessica's back last night, Baby Jessica did not start her loud and freaky eating routine.  Baby Jessica appeared to be broken.

So, off I went to Target today (twice) and ran through the aisles in search of a new Baby Jessica.  Of the five Baby Jessica's I found, the only one that worked had brown eyes, and Leah's BJ had blue, so that wouldn't do.  I took a blue-eyed BJ off the shelf, hoped it was just her batteries that were dead, and exchanged broken BJ for maybe-broken-maybe-just-in-need-of-batteries BJ and headed home.  As I was leaving Guest Services I heard the cashier say, "Throw this one in the garbage; she's dead."  I assume she was speaking of Baby Jessica, Part One.

Upon arriving home later on that night, I placed the new batteries in Baby Jessica, Part Two, and...nothing.  Being the quick thinker that I am, I ran around the house looking for something, anything, that had triple As and finally found a few in my PTouch.  And, of course, when I placed the batteries in BJ, she worked.  Which means that all five batteries that Gabrielle gave me were dead, I went to Target (twice) for no reason, and poor Baby Jessica Part One was thrown away for no reason whatsoever.

After watching Toy Story 3 678 times this past weekend, I am a little sad for Baby Jessica Part One.  And, a little sad for me, who can currently hear Baby Jessica Part Two's familiar (translated: annoying) bottle sucking coming from the baby monitor. 

.
.
.

The Life I Signed Up For

If my mother had died before I was pregnant, I probably wouldn't have had a child.  I wanted a baby, and my mother was going to help me raise it.  Package deal.

If my mother hadn't died, Greg and I would have probably taken several weekend trips by now, and maybe even one that lasted five days.  Instead of no weekend trips, and nothing close to five days.  I don't trust anyone to watch Leah; there's nothing like the trust you have in your mom.   We would have been able to do more things with each other, without Leah.  Maybe go out to eat more...Christmas shop together...take more trips into NYC.

If my mother was still alive, I probably would have had more children by now.  She would have been my house every day in the summer, when she wasn't working, and probably would have used up more of her sick and personal days to spend time with her grandchildren.  My nights wouldn't have been parenting solo while Greg worked, and my weekends would not have been attempting to run an errand with a toddler and feeling like I got nothing accomplished.

There would have been more gifts and treats and a lot more spoiling.  My children would have run to her when they saw her, got excited when she arrived, and threw fits when she left.  They might have even liked spending time with her more than with me.

I never would have been stuck with no sitter.  Never would have had to say no to something that I wanted to do because I felt guilty leaving Leah.  Never would have felt that all-too-familiar hesitation when I dial a number to request some babysitting. 

I never wanted to be a mother if I didn't have my mother with me.  I never would have entered into what is the most difficult job I've ever held without her.  Never would have created this situation while living 40 minutes away from my closest family, with only one parent who's my dad, while my in-laws live several states away.

And I would have never written this post.

If I seem different to you, uncomfortable, unhappy, and unsettled, you must forgive me.  I'm not living the life I signed up for.



.

Big Girl, Sad Mommy

We moved Leah to a twin bed on Friday night, and she's been doing great.  She whines a bit before nap and bed time, but she doesn't get out of the bed, which is my only rule--I don't mind if she doesn't lie down immediately, or even if she wants to read a book, just no getting out of bed--and we are so proud of her.

But, on the flip side, I'm so sad!  Being in the crib was one of her last ties to being a toddler, and now that there's a bed in its place, I'm being forced to realize that I have a little girl--not a baby--anymore! 

She will still occasionally snuggle with me, if I pretend that I'm a big monster eating her, so I can still treat her like she's a little baby who likes to cuddle.

Where It's At

We've got a lot of anatomic talk these days.  Lots of "penis", "gina" and "butt" and who's got what and who doesn't have what.  There's a bunch of "I see you naked!" and there's the self-taught "butt dance."

There's music requests: Soul Sister, Like a G6, and Muffin Man are most frequently asked for.  She dances in slow motion during the slow parts on Dog Days are Over and then speeds it up on the fast parts.

There's a lot of blowing drying hair, and applying lip gloss, and "I need eye shadow" and "Let me go do my hair before we leave."  There are attempts to put hair ties and barrettes in.  There's a lot of hair brushing.

There are requests for showers, not baths.  There are requests for the blue shirt and the crocs, NOT that purple dress!  No, the blue one.  And maybe with the rain boots.  Definitely not the winter coat!  But, perhaps the vest.  NOT that vest, god, mom.

Oh, yes, there's a lot of MOM.  Not Mommy, but MOM.  But, there's also "What's that, Mama?"  And when she wakes up in the morning, it's always "Mommy." 

"Oh my goodness!" never gets old.  And "yes please" when the answer only needs to be yes.  

~Leah, are you in your bedroom?
~Yes, please.

~Leah, do you think I should wear my black flats with these jeans?
~Yes, please.

There's drama.  ALWAYS so much drama.  Everything is so cool! Or so sad! Or so nice! Everything is such a big deal!

There's a lot going on.  Lots of changes.  Lots of baby, but lots of big girl.  Lots and lots of big girl.

.

A Metaphor

I spend a lot of time cleaning Leah's play room.  I organize all of her toys--and there are lots of them--making sure that her sushi set contains all of its parts, and her doctor kit is not missing a wayward bandaid.  I gather all of the baby bottles and collect them in one bin, and I make sure that her crayons are not broken and that their wrappers are not peeling.  I arrange all of the dolls so that each has a diaper and clothes on and is placed in a stroller, high chair, or bed.  I spray the white board and wipe it clean and I make sure I remove all of the chalk remnants from the chalk board.

I spend a lot of time cleaning up messes in Leah's play room, but not a lot of time making them.  I want to make messes with her; I need to make messes with her.  I just don't have the time.  Or sometimes, I'm just too tired to make messes.  I am letting those messes happen without me taking part in creating them and I am having a hard time dealing with it.

.
.
.

They Say It's...just another day. Please.

Tomorrow I turn 34. 

I hate the way that sounds.  THIRTY FOUR.  THHHHIIIIIIRRRRTTTTYYYY  FFFFFOOOOUUUURRRR.  Ugh.

It sounds so mom-jeans, sensible flats, short-hair cut, right?  I'm a 34 year old mom.  I wear spanx.  I have random grays .  I have to pluck a chin hair that shows up inexplicably every three weeks.

When I was young I never really thought about my 30s.  They were old years--years that I didn't need to worry about--because they were so far off into the future.  And, now, I'm planted firmly in the middle of them, and, strangely enough, I spend a lot of time worrying these days.

I spent the day I turned 30 alone.  By choice.  I took the day off and spent it hanging around in my house.  Probably doing laundry.  I had told Greg that I didn't want any fanfare; I just wanted to quietly coast into the decade.  And then in November of that year, he totally ignored my wishes and threw me a surprise party.  The following June, we were married, and then in July, found out I was pregnant. 

30 was a good year.

I was 4 months pregnant when I turned 31.  My family took me out to dinner a few weeks later when we could all free our schedules on the same day.  We ate at an Italian restaurant on the boardwalk in town that didn't have fried calamari.  (Can you believe?)  Greg's mom was up visiting from Myrtle Beach.  Later on, back at my house, she took a picture of my parents sitting on my couch.  The last one.

My mom died a month later; I was in a car accident in January of '08, and then Leah was born in March.  I rallied through what I now know was a slight case of post pardum depression mixed with mourning that would just not go away.  I tried to be the best mom I could be, but there were some days that I didn't think I would make it.

32 was more of same.  I finally came to grips with the fact that my mom was NEVER going to meet Leah.  Despite the fact that I don't think of myself as all that dumb, I had the hardest time processing that my mom would never meet Leah, even though she was, you know, DEAD.  I don't know why.  I mean, I knew my mom had died before Leah was born, but I just couldn't accept that she would never see what I made.  Never meet this kid. 

I realized in year 32 that life was going to be very different now that we had a child.  We would have to, you know, always care for her and spend a lot of time and money on her and she was going to be here for a while.  And we didn't want it any other way, but it was a reality check of the kid kind.

33 was sort of a reality check of the adult kind.  The economy was uncertain and so were our salaries.  Greg's field was no longer a sure thing while mine was growing.  So we tried something new: he would spend more time at home with Leah with his flexible work schedule while I would continue to work full time, putting in long days, and attempting (sometimes badly) to not resent him for getting to spend more time with our daughter. 

I still thought a lot about my mom and couldn't understand why I wasn't getting over her death.  I started this blog; I joined Facebook; I found support and kind words from more people than I could ever imagine.

And now, 34. 

34.

I feel like I'm this work in progress and I'm never going to finish. 

My goal for 34 is to find some balance and contentment and a little more happiness. 

My goal for right now is to find some potato chips.

.
.
.

Trance

I'd love to tell you that she is currently entranced by a Scientist that I have come to the house every Wednesday night to go over the teachings of Einstein, the music of Beethoven, and the musings of Confucius.

But, actually, she's watching The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, and it's the episode where Goofy rides his bike upside down, and that's pretty mesmerizing to a two year old.

We're keeping it real here.

.
.

Big Girl

My little baby is no longer a little baby. 

She doesn't want to cuddle, doesn't want to sit on my lap, doesn't want kisses.  In fact, today when I picked her up at daycare, she didn't want me!  She actually wanted to stay longer at daycare to continue playing.  That sort of broke my heart.  

So, I've created a new game.  I call it "Playing Baby."  Leah's into pretend play these days, so I tell her that we're going to pretend she's a little baby.  She runs and gets a baby bottle and some blankets, I wrap her up, and then pretend to give her a bottle.  She pretends to sleep, then pretends to wake up and cry, and then I pretend to rock her back to sleep.

It's all a ruse to get her to lie in my arms and cuddle.  She gets to play and I get my cuddle-fix.  Please don't tell her of my ulterior motives.  Thanks. 

Here is my big girl practicing her twirling in my sandals. 

Dance class starts on Saturday, so she's been practicing. 

.

.

.

BACON

We interrupt our regularly scheduled “Myrtle Beach, Part 456” update to bring you the following.




To all the women out there (woman to Danielle) who not only make the bacon, but bring it home too, this post is for you.



My child gets kisses, hugs, attention and love. I may not be able to do it in person all day long, but she knows that when we are apart, I still love her more than anything in this world.



My child goes to zoos, parks, classes, and activities with me. We do them after 5 p.m. on weekdays and on weekends. And, that’s ok. It’s all right that I don’t take her to Gyminee Crickets on Tuesdays at 10:30 a.m., because I’ll just take her to Music Together on Sundays at 4:15 p.m. And we are fine.



My house is clean, my meals are home cooked, my rugs are vacuumed.

My toes are pedicured, my hair is cut, and my briefcase is full.

I am a housewife and a working mother. I stress, I hurry, and I rush, just like every woman in this world. I multitask, and I get it all done. Eventually.



My child has friends and a social life. She likes to go to playdates and understands that Mom will be back later. She makes friends easily. She’s confident and independent.



And I have friends and a social life. I go to work and I make the best of it. Even if it’s tough to leave in the mornings, I know I’ll be back later on. I run when I can. I enjoy Thursday Wine Nights.



I refuse to feel guilty for this. I refuse to listen to people who tell me that on my deathbed I’ll never say, “Gee I wish I worked more,” because, at this point in the game, if I gave up my career, my salary, and everything that I would have to sacrifice as a result of that, I think I might just utter those words on my deathbed. And every time I found myself mopping the floors on a random Wednesday, screaming at my kids to stop fighting, checking on the crock pot of whatever I am serving for dinner. Not all women are hardwired to be the same type of mother. Not all women want to quit their jobs to stay home with their children. It doesn’t make us bad people. It doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t have had children. I spent the two thirds of my life learning and educating so that I could use those skills to live. I spent my 20s paying off school loans. I break my back each month to add to a college fund for my daughter so that she will get an education.


And why should it mean that because I want to use my education and have a career that I can't also have a family?  Why must I choose? 

I want to do it all. I want to be a mom, and I want to have a career. I want to be a woman and have friends and a social life.  I want to be a wife to my husband.  I want to wipe tears and write reports. And I can do that. I may have to work with a tighter schedule but I can still do it. And just because I may employ outside childcare, and she may spend more time with my husband than she does with me, it doesn’t mean that I love her less than a stay at home mom or that I am doing her any disservice.



I make that bacon. I bring home that bacon.  I cook it, serve it, wrap up leftovers, and clean up that bacon pan. I do it all, and I do it well. And I’m not going to let those who do it different affect the way that I do it.



I kick that bacon’s ass.
.
.
.