Weird Science

I have a strange addiction to at-home chemistry.

Last weekend I finally broke down and decided that I couldn’t stand the sight of my dirty dishwater blonde roots and I bought this:


I knew that I was taking a huge risk. I swore off box dye a long time ago and I have been hitting the salon every three months for years. I have had way too many bad home hair color experiences.

But this time I just couldn’t wait until I had the extra money or time for a salon visit and with the way that I have been feeling lately, I knew that my stomach would not endure four hours in a hairdresser’s chair.

So, I convinced myself that I could do this and get it to come out right for a change. I’m a smart girl and it is just a matter of finding the right color. Right?

Oh, no. It’s not that easy.

Like Frenchie, I am a beauty-school dropout.

I picked out a box of blonde color instead of choosing straight-up hair bleach, because I was afraid that the bleach would wreak havoc on my poor baby-fine locks.

I forgot, however, that my stylist always uses bleach when she highlights my hair so I will get a pretty platinum shade, not a yellow-brass one.

Stupid me.

I turned my hair a lovely shade of Lisa Simpson yellow.

I figured that I would get it wrong though, so when I bought the box of color I also bought a bleach highlighting kit.

I started trying to highlight, but I gave that crap up pretty quick and just put the highlighting bleach all over like a dye.

It helped, a little.

So, the next day I went back to the store and bought the one box of bleach that I should have bought in the beginning. Turns out, it didn’t wreck my hair and it changed my color to the correct shade of blonde. Holly Madison Blonde.

Woo-hoo. Now if only I could get fake boobs and a job in Vegas.

And if you think three boxes of hair color is crazy, you should know that I like anything that turns my bathroom into an makeshift science lab.


This was the aftermath of the “Am I Really Pregnant?” experiment that I conducted last month.

Obviously, I have some sort of problem.

And this is why I keep debating about whether or not I should buy one of those IntelliGender kits.

IntelliGender-new-box-Image-on-whiteYep. It’s an at-home test that allegedly can predict what your unborn child’s sex is just by mixing your urine with whatever is in the box.

At best, I am a skeptic. At worst, I think this may be just a box of bogus.

But I am still so intrigued.

And I would really like to know if I am finally getting my dos equis.

It’s just that I really don’t know if I want to spend thirty bucks on something that sounds like it’s based on nothing but junk science. The company doesn’t really explain how the test is able to do what it says it does, claiming that they can’t divulge specific details because of the product’s patent-pending status.

Sounds like a load of b.s. to me.

Plus, I can just wait and find out for sure when we get our 20 week ultrasound.  I’d have to wait until then to find out if the IntelliGender test worked anyway. Using that logic alone makes the whole idea seem like a waste of time, money and emotion.

Still, it would be fun to have another chemistry experiment in my bathroom…and it did work on The Doctors.

I know that handsome fox, Travis Stork, would not steer me wrong.

I think I’ll be on the fence about this for awhile.

Expect Delays

I have some updates.

I finally did get that parking permit and it not only allows me to park in the student lots, it also gives me free reign over any and all faculty spots. This is even better than the permit I had when I was actually attending classes there. The $10 and all that hassle over a ticket was worth it considering how awesome I feel pulling my minivan into one of those sacred staff spaces.

It’s probably the same feeling that some people get when they “borrow” their grandma’s handicapped placard.

Or when you’re pregnant and you are lucky enough to find one of those “expectant mother” parking stalls.


I’m really going to take advantage of those this time around.

In other news, I am still feeling absolutely dreadful. The medication I am on isn’t working very well and it has some pretty nasty side effects. Unfortunately, I probably should have expected this based on previous experience. I had hyper emesis when I was pregnant with Bronx and I was on home nursing care. Just to give you an idea of how much fun that was, imagine trying to keep a climbing toddler off of your I.V. pole.

I’m hoping that I will start feeling better once I clear that first trimester hurdle.

Speaking of baby, we had our first ultrasound last week and the little seahorse (hey, that’s what it looks like to me and the hubs) is looking good.


And one more thing…that MTV show, you know, the one that people sometimes think I am from… it’s follow-up show, Teen Mom is coming back this month.

I watched the preview and I am so excited that someone finally punches Farrah in the face for me.

Wishes really do come true.

Roughing it.

Despite reader speculation that I haven’t posted in a few days because I have been camped out in front of a theater waiting for the new Twilight movie, I actually have an alibi for my short disappearance from the blogging world and it has nothing to do with the war between control-freak vampires and ‘roid-raging werewolves.

Pathetically enough, I have spent the better part of this week camped out on my couch, trying to cope with pregnancy-induced hormones.

One look at my narcoleptic, nauseous and vomiting self, complete with the skin of a teenager that just hit some serious puberty, and it is crystal clear that all this HCG and progesterone is seriously kicking my butt.

If you need more evidence, all you need to do is look at my recent behavior and you will see an emotional wreck of a woman.

I cried through Toy Story 3. We took my son to his first movie at the theater and in a dark room full of preschoolers, I bawled my eyes out. Not once. Three times.

Those darn toys just make me so sentimental.

I also almost had a complete mental breakdown yesterday after I took my oldest to his new summer gym class at the university. It was his first day and when we got there I mentioned to his teacher that we still hadn’t received the parking permit that we had paid for. (You need a permit to park anywhere on that campus – and I am well aware of this because my husband and I used to attend school there back when we first met. Yes, we are college sweethearts. Barf.)

Anyways, the instructor explained to me that she would have the permit for me at the next class. At first, I accepted that as a reasonable solution. His class is only 90 minutes long, and the parking lot rent-a-cops couldn’t possibly go through that often. Right?

Well, as Murphy’s Law would have it, guess what I found waiting on my windshield an hour and a half later?


That’s right. A freaking bright-ass pink parking ticket.

I loaded up the kids in the van and then got out my cell phone and dialed the number on the ticket.

I explained to the woman who answered that I was issued a ticket but that I had paid for a permit and it had not been given to me by the instructor.

She said I would have to appeal the ticket and that it still might not get overturned.

That’s when I lost it. It was a flipping $40 parking ticket and I wasn’t about to go through an appeal process when I had done exactly what I was supposed to do. I paid for a stupid permit weeks ago so that those power-junkie a-holes would leave my windshield wipers alone.

I would also like to point out that I have never been issued a parking ticket in my entire life. I always park where I am supposed to, not where I want to. I even find it amusing to make fun of the idiots on that show Parking Wars. I mean, how dumb do you have to be to park your car unlawfully enough times to get your tire booted? Read the signs, people.

So, I was infuriated. I unloaded the kids (and wrestling with those car seats is a time-consuming pain in the ass) and I dragged them back to the class to speak with my son’s teacher about the situation.

Here’s the problem, when I am on hormone overload, my anger manifests itself as overwhelming panic and I turn into a shaking, crying mess. I managed to hold it together as I explained to Kamryn’s teacher how the lady at the parking department was “really, really mean” and that I didn’t think that this ticket was my responsibility since I had paid for a permit.

She explained to me that she had went to the parking department to pick up the permits for the parents of her students and that the parking department told her they would not be ready until Thursday.

In case you didn’t catch that, that means that the parking department is fining me $40 because they didn’t have my permit ready in time for the first day of class.

What a bunch of douche bags.

The good news is Kamryn’s teacher was really apologetic about the whole thing. She took the ticket and assured me that she would take care of it when she went to go pick up the permits.

So there. Take that Parking Services.

If they try and give me another ticket before I get that all-powerful permit, I am going to take that stupid pink waste of paper directly to their office. While there, I will take advantage of this horrendous, non-stop morning sickness and upchuck all over their lovely floor.

Uncontrollable vomit has to be good for something.

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