No…YOU suck

Went to the mall a couple of weeks ago with Soph, bought way too much at Old Navy (damn you, tempting sales). The parking lot was (always is, really) packed so we drove around from section to section looking for a spot. We found one but it was one of those parallel deals, but I thought I did a pretty good job of putting myself in between a sedan and a small pickup truck.

At some point during the drive home I turned the wipers on and noticed there was a card inserted under the right wiper. “Ah, I’ll check it later,” I thought to myself.

Later turned out to be about 2 weeks later. When I finally looked at it I was shocked. Appalled. Dumbfounded. Nay, incensed! Check it out:

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WHAT?! Me? Suck at parking? Nobody’s ever told me that! Sure I don’t parallel that often but I really thought there was enough room for either car to get out. Huh!

Then I wondered, what kind of card-carrying a-hole needs to walk around carrying cards to tell people they suck at parking? I think they’re the one that sucks. Maybe I should feel sorry for him because he’s such a huge ass (yes, I’m going to go ahead and assume it’s a guy)? Jerk.

“If I see you do this again I will key your shit” it says. So does that mean he also bought a You Suck at Parking Log Book to match the cards he hands out and now he has a roster of cars to damage because he thinks he’s so entitled?

People like this guy need to realize they suck at life and the reason they’re such an a-hole is because nobody likes them. Or maybe it’s his way of trying to reach out to people and make friends and he’s such an a-hole that he doesn’t realize that’s not the way to do it. Nah, he’s just an a-hole.

Expanding the family tree

budThere are some things I’ve got experience with being a mom/parent, some things I don’t. I missed some of Soph’s developmental stages (22 months worth, actually). And for our new daughter G, we haven’t been able to spend her first two years together as a family. That’s what comes along with adoption.

Trying to conceive: yes, been there, didn’t do that, even after trials of various methods. Sure, it was difficult at the time, but I’m more than over it. Oh, and one useless (IMHO) fertility doc and one much better one later who told me I had premature ovarian failure (POF), we had two options: IVF or adoption. Right away I knew…

Adoption: was absolutely right for us.

Gestation: though physically irrelevant for me, people going through the adoption process, there is definitely a mental thought process centered around nesting, prepping, paperwork, and the idea of meeting a fully-formed little being with its own habits and personality traits already developed.

There’s the curve ball that gets thrown at you when you think you’ve still got another whole year to get your poop together and pick away at those nasty forms that have to be filled out for immigration.

Then there’s the phone call you get from the adoption agency asking you if you’ve filled out that nasty immigration form because you are matched with a baby and you may travel within 4 – 6 weeks to bring her home.

Pardon?

We were matched? With a girl? WOOHOO! Soph gets her sister after all. There was a time when we said she might be getting a brother, but maybe somehow she knew what would turn out in the end and insisted it would be a girl.

Travel overseas: immanent. Days away. A handful of sleeps, really. Soph’s spending her first night in her newly-decorated bedroom (that was once the guestroom). And at 9:55pm, she’s still not asleep. I just had to lure a cat out of her room with treats.

After many trips looking for curtains at more than one store and back again to make returns for those curtains, tomorrow I have to move all of her clothes, books and toys into the new space and get the other room set up for G. Plus Soph still needs a hamper, pictures put on the wall, etc.

Tomorrow after I take Soph to school, I’ll have fun doing a little bedroom decor shopping.