random ramblings

I started writing random ramblings awhile ago to talk about a bunch of, well, random things all at once.  They typically have no rhyme or reason and reflect whatever I’m thinking about that week.   Sometimes they’re long, sometimes they’re short (uh hem, that’s what she said), but they are always fun to write and hopefully read.   So sit back, grab your cup ‘o coffee and let’s chat.


First up:  Taylor Swift.

I’ll be damned if that little pop star isn’t keeping me up at night.   Seriously.  It’s 11:30 p.m. and all I can think is:  “players gunna play play play play play…..haters gunna hate hate hate hate hate.”

{here, dad}:

I can’t explain it.  Maybe I like the cross-over version of Taylor Swift?  Maybe it’s the Oula dance?  Who knows.  All I know is that I can’t shake it off.   (see what I did right there?)


I come from a long line of clean-car freaks fanatics.  Growing up I was never allowed to eat in the car.  Ever.  No gas-station-treat-stops on road trips.  No snacks around town (although I wonder if my mom secretly let us when my dad wasn’t there, because HELLO.  How can you have THREE kids and NOT let them eat in the car?!).  As teenagers we were required to keep the cars clean, and wash them or vacuum them if we made a mess.  To this day, I bet my dad washes his cars once a week, if not more (you know if they maybe it sprinkled rain or they accidently drove down a dirt road).   I still notice my dad picking crumbs or little specs of debris out of the car after we’ve ridden with him.   His cars are immaculate and he keeps them forever (because why wouldn’t you keep a car forever if it looked brand new?).

Anyways, a small portion of the clean-car gene definitely got passed on to me.  I prefer to wash my vehicle by-hand (although I can’t tell you the last time I’ve had that luxury).   I like the inside dust, crumb, dirt and dog-hair free.  I don’t like any items left in my car after we go somewhere…even if it’s just around town.  That stuff needs to exit the vehicle.  Pre-child I could spend a good 2 hours cleaning my car to perfection.  Post-child, I get as much time as it takes Abby to eat a sucker.  It’s not perfect, but I’ll take it.  I’ve learned to live with a few cheddar bunnies here or there, and I’ve resigned to the fact that my car won’t always shine like the top of the Chrysler building.  But I have my limits, which I’ll get to in a minute.

Let’s talk about the Hubs.   I’m pretttttty sure the last time his truck was cleaned out was in 2011 when I cleaned it out for his birthday.   He drives his truck like a truck should be driven:  mostly on dirt, in puddles, through bushes….basically wherever he wants.   He’s got a good collection of Montana Racing Stripes (scratches) along the side of it.  The inside has dirt, rocks, gear, dust, stains and garbage.  All of this used to bother me but I acknowledge the fact that not everyone cares about that stuff.  And that’s cool.  Now I just climb on up in the cab, sit indian-style and don’t sweat it.  But what does drive me nuts?  Is how he uses the passenger floor as his garbage.  Done with that wrapper?  Sweet, just crinkle it up and toss it on the floor.   Water gone?  Crush that bottle and throw it on over.  And, nope, it doesn’t matter if I’m sitting right there in that seat or not.  Seriously.

So last week when Abby inhaled a juice box, crushed it, and threw it on the floor of MY car?  ohhellno.

I pulled the car over.

She looked at me like I was crazy but I knew I had to nip that in the bud right then and there.   We don’t have too many rules; I’m a pretty laid back parent.  But that sh&t ain’t gunna fly in momma’s car.


I don’t care how big of a diva you are, kid.  You won’t throw trash in my car!


So, we’ve been looking for a house.  And looking, and looking and looking.

Turns out house hunting isn’t as much fun as I thought it might be.  I was convinced that Missoula just didn’t have the type of house that I needed wanted.  Then one day I got a little frisky and searched for houses that were almost twice our budget.

Yep.  Missoula has those houses.


In other news, I’ve started playing the lottery.

Just kidding.


I think I need an intervention because I actually had this thought today:

“You know, it’d be really cool if I built a fridge to go with Abby’s play kitchen for her Christmas present this year.”

Am I nuts?  Have I blocked out the chaos of last year?  I think I need to re-read this post, or someone, please talk some sense into me.  The sanding…my god the sanding….

Ok, so Abby has been watching Daniel Tiger (which I actually think is pretty cute because it’s like the “new” Mr. Rogers).   Any clue what I’m talking about?  No?  Ok.

Well Daniel Tiger does this thing where he rubs noses with his mom/dad/the screen/whoever, while saying ugga mugga.  Just as a way to show affection or hug I guess.  Anyways…..Abby has been saying, “Momma, Ugga Mugga!” and then getting really close, rubbing our noses, while saying really softly, “ugga mugga.”  It is THE.  SWEETEST.  THING.  It melts my heart every single time.

Kinda like this (without all of the really weird stuff edited in):


And with that clip, my friends, we may have hit an all-time low here on twsst.  (I hope you didn’t watch the whole thing, it was extremely weird….but it was the only thing I could find with an ugga mugga in it!).

Thanks for reading all of this nonsense, I’m always amazed that anyone reads this blog, but I’m so grateful that you do.

Ugga Mugga,


(shake it off, shake it off!)


  1. I died! Seriously, my bus mates officially think I’m crazy. It’s the maniacal laughing. All thanks to you, Abby, and a juice box.

  2. Holy moly, I am laughing and crying (the good kind) right now. The car. The juice box. The garbage. I am not alone! HA! But then again, I already knew that. :) FYI if you take it too far, a-hem, as someone I know has done, the child will not alow any garbage in their vacinity. Ie. Cup holder etc. Consequently the parent will have to reach around and collect the garbage EVERY TIME. Maybe not as convenient as I had hoped. ;)

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