Believe it or not, I’ve been asked a few times for a status report on our 100 pack of condoms.

I’m happy to report that we’re down about 10-15 condoms since they arrived back in June. That number may be a little skewed since Babboo got a hold of the giant bag we keep them in. He likes to carry the bag around with him. He’ll carry it into the front room, and then put it in the back of his little truck and push it around and then carry it over to the kitchen and put it in the cupboards.

It’s a good thing we don’t get any house apartment guests.

I mean how do you explain your kid running around the house with a bag full of 100 85 condoms? Especially now that he can open the bag and pull the darned things out? I guess they are move fun to play with in their natural form.

And also easier to lose.

Last night The King brought home another delivery. Yet again it was an array of items for our enjoyment. While not the kind of items you may be thinking, still pretty fun.

Nothing like seeing your two favorite guys mulling over carpet samples.

Our last house had all wood floors. With this new house, I wanted some carpet. But only in the upstairs bedrooms. The King hasn’t been too hip on the idea. He doesn’t think that carpet will add to the ultra modern feel of the house. Dude, I just want something cozy on my toes and a soft place for Babboo to play.

We decided to let Babboo make the choice. And choose, he did.

I would like this indoor/outdoor commercial grade glue-down carpet in “Castle Gray”, please.

And so while looking over piles of carpet isn’t as fun as looking over piles of condoms, it’s still necessary.

We’ll be moving in no time.*

*and by “no time”, of course I mean “before I’m dead”.

Remember last year when I decided to change my clothes after work everyday? This awesome conclusion was decided after months of walking far too much in my fancy work clothes and high heels. while this enabled me to be more comfortable, it is not very stylish.

During the summer I’ve taken to changing into different bottoms and slipping on my favorite flip-flops. It truly does make my walk home with Babboo so pleasurable. I don’t have to fear the crappy hills of downtown Seattle. Instead I look at it as my daily workout. (And let’s be honest, this mile walk is the only workout I’m getting these days.)

Every morning I pack up my work bag with my frozen pizza for lunch, my flip-flops, and a different pair of pants. I never take into account what I’m wearing to work that day. It’s never really mattered.

That is until last week when I realized I looked even more horrible then usual. After I changed in the bathroom I realized my yoga pants might not have been the best choice for my top half.

I felt like a mullet, you know, business in the front and party in the back.

Sweet outfit, NERD!

I tried to ignore my cat-hair-covered black yoga pants mixed with my lovely blue blazer on the walk home. I tried to just own it and be all, “yeah, I planned to look this awesome today. You gotta a problem with it?”

Yesterday after changing out of my nice work slacks and heels, I walked out of the bathroom stall, I looked at myself in the full length mirror and realized that this outfit was even worse then my walking-mullet-outfit from last week.

This time I was Denim Vest from that episode of Seinfeld. You know, the one where Elaine gives her fake phone number on her punch card from the subway shop to that dork wearing the all-denim-outfit.

There was no hiding this outfit. I couldn’t take the jacket off because I was only wearing a little red cami underneath. And dude, it was cold outside.

It’s a good thing I didn’t run into anyone I knew. How would I have explained this? Although, now that I think about it, it would have been better to have been given the chance to explain it instead of having people think that I meant to wear this.

So instead of just being embarrassed of someone in Seattle seeing me dressed like a fool, I decide to take pictures of myself dressed like an idiot, further mock myself with photoshop, and then plaster it on the interweb.

Classy Isabel, classy.

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And because there is so many other things happening on the interweb today, may I please divert your attention for a moment:

• I no longer have to keep THIS SECRET!! And let me tell you, it was hard to keep it. Especially at BlogHer. What’s the secret? Well, you’ll have to go visit the lovely Mrs. Squirrel and read about it yourself. And then give her a hug.
• Today I can also be seen over at a new website Seattle Mom Blogs. This post was originally posted here at my blog, but today I’m sharing the love. I plan to do some original writing over there in the future. So have a look around and check back often.
• I also posted over at one of my other blogs. You know, the one about TV. So click over there and read about the new show that The King and I are mad over.

We were poor when I was growing up. Not only were my parents raising their four kids, they were also raising my dad’s siblings, with no help from anyone. Oh yeah, and my parents both decided to go back to college. All of this equals no money.

When you have this many mouths to feed and no money to buy food, you begin to get a little creative with your food preparations. My mom made powdered milk, baked her own bread, made noodles from scratch and never feed us junk food. Ever. Do I even have to tell you that I never ate at a fast food joint until I could pay for it myself?

While drinking powder milk and baking your own bread isn’t that creative, making noodles from scratch is. But it isn’t the most creative thing my parents did in order to feed us.

That would be reserved for the cages full of rabbits that just appeared one day in our backyard.

If you’re thinking my dad brought home the little furry rabbits for us to play with to take our minds away from the hunger pangs, you’d be dead wrong.

The rabbits were dinner.

That’s right, we raised rabbits in our backyard. We would breed them. We would name them. We would play with them. And then we would eat them. I have no idea when they would die, or how it all happened. We never knew. My dad was very good about keeping that part away from us kids. Seriously, I wonder when that part would happen? Maybe my dad would do it at night while we were in bed. Or at school. No matter when it happened, I’m glad I wasn’t around to witness.

During my younger years, maybe up until 6th grade when my dad got a better job teaching high school and my mom started working as a R.N., we would eat rabbit for dinner. And as much as you don’t want to hear it, the rabbit was good.

Our favorite was rabbit enchiladas.

Of course we didn’t eat rabbit for every meal. Rabbit was reserved for meals like Sunday Dinner. Our freezer was full of ziploc baggies of shredded meat. All my Mom had to do was thaw it out and whip up something fabulous and tasty.

Eventually our relatives found out about our penchant for rabbit meals. Anytime my aunt would be over for dinner she’d ask what the meat on her plate was. Of course we’d be silly and say something like, “don’t worry, it’s only Floppy. You’ll like him.” Even if it wasn’t rabbit meat, we’d always calls it Floppy. Us kids thought that was hilarious, but my aunt probably didn’t. (Although, and I’m just being honest here, we did have a floppy-eared rabbit named Floppy.)

As I recall, the rabbit always tasted good. You know, like chicken, only a little darker. Maybe. It’s been so long I really couldn’t tell you what it tasted like. I just remember that we didn’t hate it. And really, we were happy to have some tasty food in our bellies.
Eventually we stopped raising rabbits. This might have been because we moved into a new house and just didn’t take the rabbit cages with us. The fact that I’ve eating so much rabbit meat never seemed that odd to me. That is until I shared the information with The King and he started to tease me about it. Mostly it’s when we see a cute little bunny rabbit off to the side of the road and he asks me if I’m salivating.

Which I’m not. But whatever.

So tell me, did your mom ever feed you rabbit enchiladas? And if not, was there anyone odd that you did eat when you were growing up?

(Also, please tell me I’m not the only one who has eaten rabbit. Please.)

My family and I moved to Corvaillis, Oregon when I was a kid. My dad had hurt his back working at a printing press and therefore needed to go back to school to find a different career.

We moved into the house that will forever be known as The House on 13th Street. I guess because we lived on 13th Street. My family is muy clever like that. We all look back at this house with fond memories. It was, by far, the nicest house we ever lived in. It was newly built and was big enough to fit all of us. I even had my own bedroom.

The thing I have always remembered and loved most about The House on 13th Street is the stairs. It was the 70’s and the stairs represented that era. They were covered in dark brown shag and went from the upstairs into the dining room. Oh and the best part; they were floating stairs.

My older brother and I used to go under the stairs and hang from them. As I recall, my mom even let us. Come on, it was the 70’s. A less complicated time. A time when it was okay to let you kids ride their bikes on the freeway and hang from the rafters.

While this isn’t an actual picture of our stairs, it’s one I found online and it’s perfect. Nothing says the 70’s like fake plants and a puffy leather couch.

Bow-chica-bow-wow.

When The King started drawing up the plans for our new house, he asked me what things I wanted in the house. That was easy. There were only two things I knew were must-haves.

1. A window above the kitchen sink
2. Floating stairs

Of course these weren’t the only things I wanted. I wanted a shower and a flushing toilet. Maybe even 4 of them. As well as plenty of closet space and a laundry room. But those are considered goes-without-saying items in my book.

The window above the kitchen sink was easy. The King had no problem putting that into the house design. Granted the view of the neighbor’s driveway isn’t ideal, it’s better then nothing, which is what I have now.

He had a harder time with the design for the floating stairs. During the design phase he would keep me updated on the floating stair research. I would just nod and thank him for his efforts. All the while fully expecting to have floating stairs upon the completion of the new house.

I remember him telling me he had figured out how to do them and where to find the needed equipment to fasten the risers to the walls. I remember when he told me they had been delivered and then the actual installation of the brackets began. Which, I think, posed their own problems.

Eventually it has all worked out.

I never doubted him.

(Okay, maybe a little. But still, I knew he’d come through.)

We went over to the new house on Sunday after church. Drywall had begun that week and I was itching to see the progress. I was extra excited to see the installed floating stair brackets.

I just realized I’m boring myself with this post. Let’s take this up a notch.

Last night The King asked me what was the first thing I wanted to do in the new house once we moved in. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, so I responded by (jokingly) saying; “have sex in every room.”

“But wait, shouldn’t we have sex in every room of our apartment first?”

“It’s a one bedroom apartment, so I’m pretty sure we’ve accomplished that by now.”

“We haven’t done it in the kitchen.”

“And we’re not going to either. I’ve seen the floor in there and it’s gross.”

“Did we do it in every room in the last house?”

And then we both paused and tried to remember if we had, in fact, done it in every room of our last house.

We came to the conclusion that we’d done it in all the bedrooms, but not the office or the bathrooms. Does that count?

So tell me, does anyone else have lofty goals like this?

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Don’t forget to check out my latest New Thing, in which I will impress you with my awesome photoshop skillz. Word.

Like most girls, I had a few years of bad boyfriends. You know the kind, they borrow $20 and never pay you back, or they conveniently forget to bring their wallet when you’re out on a date.

The summer I turned 21 I met Josh. Or rather I was reintroduced to him. We had gone to high school together but had never paid any attention to the other. Mostly because I was a few years younger then he was. In the time since Josh had been in high school he had managed to get married, run away to Iowa with his teenage bride, had a kid, and then got divorced.

He did all of this while I was busy in college and working as a waitress at a truck stop.

(Hey wait, isn’t that a song? I was working as a waitress at a truck stop. Oh, maybe not. Back to my story.)

Josh was on probation, he drove a crappy car, listened to bad music, had horrible friends and wasn’t even good looking. Let’s be honest, if he would have been some hott guy it might have made sense why I was dating him.

I guess I dated him because his family hated me and I had to convince them otherwise. I could never figure out why they hated me. Between the two of us, I was the better person.

Hey, I’m just being honest here.

Josh didn’t have a job. He never had any money, so I’m pretty sure he wasn’t dealing drugs on the side. Josh’s dad owned his own construction company. His parents were wealthy, so he lived with them at their house. He had a roof over his head and food to eat, but no spending money. Hid dad would get him construction jobs here and there. Josh usually only lasted a few days at them.

He would say, “why bother with a job when I do just fine without one?”

As crappy as it sounded, I could totally see his point. While I was getting up and going to my summer job everyday, Josh was sleeping in and roller blading with friends in the afternoon. He didn’t have a schedule he had to adhere to. He did whatever, whenever.

Sure, he never had money. But he didn’t need it. He was being taken care of by his parents. And since they loved his daughter, he could usually get just enough money from his folks if his kid was around.

(I know what you’re thinking, “why didn’t you marry this guy Isabel? He sounds perfect.” Hey, I told you I had some bad boyfriend years.)

Plus it was the summer, so most of our dating activities could take place outside, where life is free.

Josh had it made in the shade.

Eventually Josh and I broke up. I have no idea what ever happened to him. He’s one of the few boyfriends that seemed to have literally fell off the face of the planet.

Sometimes when I’ve had a hard day at work I think about Josh’s and his work ethic. I think about what it must feel like to not have have a job. And more importantly, to be okay with not having a job. What would it feel like to wake up every morning and not have to think about if you have a shirt ironed, or remember where your laptop case is, or what’s going on at your kids daycare.

What if you could just stay home all day and just hang out?

On my way into work this morning I walked by a group of teenagers sleeping at the park. I don’t think these are homeless kids who are down on their luck. I think these kids are simply like Josh. They don’t feel the need to work.

And while my gut reaction is to want to yell out “wake up and get a job, you losers!”, I wonder if maybe they know something that I don’t.

Maybe, with their dirty clothes, messy hair, backpacks and no time schedules, they’re the smart ones.

My dad is a school teacher, which means he gets the summers off. As a kid this meant we usually spent the summers living in our camping trailer up in the mountains with some of my extended family.

We’d come back down the mountain every few weeks to do laundry, grocery shopping, and for my mom to go into work for a few days. But other then that, we were on the move and it was great.

This all began to change the summer after I graduated from high school.

I remember waking up one morning and going into the kitchen, as usual, to see what everyone was up to and what the plans for the rest of the week was.

All I found was this note:

Going up in a hot air balloon was something my Mom had always wanted to do. I imagine this trip had been planned for months and months.

All behind my back.

Jerks.

I imagine my mom told my younger siblings about this trip and swore them to secrecy. I can just imagine how that went. “Don’t forget to get your bags all packed tonight, for tomorrow we go to Park City. Be sure that Isabel doesn’t see you packing because she is not invited!!”

Jerks.

I survived while they were gone. My hurt quickly faded when I had all my friends over for a party.

I baked pies.

The next summer I was back at home on break from college. It all happened again. I woke up and they were gone. This time they went on a road trip to Oregon to visit where we used to live when I was a kid, before my younger siblings were even born. They hadn’t even been alive to have lived in the houses they visited.

I stayed at home and worked.

Jerks.

Eventually I got married and moved far, far away. You know, in a house down the street from them.

When my first husband and I split up I moved back home again. It was the summer time and life went on as planned. For them.

Which means I woke up one day and they had all flown back east to visit Washington DC. After their stay at our nations capital they were renting an RV and driving around for a few weeks to visit Civil War sites. And this time they even took my grandma with them, while I stayed at home nursing my broken heart.

Jerks.

Of course they were nice enough to send me some postcards of their trip. And they brought me home a few t-shirts. They also allowed me to feed their horses and chickens while they were gone.

(I just remember that one of their horses had a freaking baby colt while they were away. So yeah, I got to deal with that also. You realize I know nothing about horses, right? That story may be a post all in it’s own.)

Washington DC is a place I’ve always wanted to go. So it makes sense that they would go and leave me home. Haa. In their defense I was an adult. A married adult that didn’t live at home. So of course they hadn’t planned the trip thinking that I would be getting a divorce and living back with them during their actual scheduled trip.

But still.

Next month The King and I will be going to Washington DC. It’s my first time there. We’re taking Babboo and we’re both pretty excited. As payback to my folks for all the years they deserted me during the summer time, I’m making them pay for my plane ticket to fly and visit them in October.

It’s a small price to pay.

So tell me, am I the only one that was left out of family trips once I became of age?