Intro To Chuck Norris School of Communication

Well-Meaning Woman: How has your life changed since Griffin was born?
Me: In so many wonderful ways, I can't imagine my life without him.
WMW: How has your day to day life changed?
Me: Well, most of my day has to be reorganized into small bursts of activity around when he needs me.
WMW: Would you say you're still able to do a Suduko a day?
Me: (Commence roundhouse kicking to WMW's face).

In Stores Now

I don't know when it happened but all of a sudden I realize I am a conceited piece of poo, either that or just plain cheap. Why? You ask. Because this year for Christmas I am giving everyone a picture of myself. Nothing says holiday cheer like gifting someone your big dumb face smiling away at some ridiculous moment that they were not originally a part of. And it's like saying, "because you don't think of me enough, here's a picture to put in your house so that you must remember me often and think constantly of my face. Happy Birth of Jesus!"

If you are reading this right now and jealous that you are not in our inner circle and therefore will be missing out on the picture of my face for Christmas, here:

And don't say I never got you anything. And don't even look for the receipt because there isn't one.

Today in My Life: V.

In spirit of Christmas...

Today in my life I realized I haven't had a visit from the Red River in 14 months! A-Ma-Zing, this realization.

Merry Christmas, one and all!

Or He Could Be Swedish

I must say a recent development in my physical health is quite perplexing and not at all appreciated by yours truly. Every morning I wake up, or you could say, when I wake up for the third time in the night and it is somewhere between 7am and 9am, I have an excruciating headache. Now, I am not a complainer but I could think of a more pleasant way to wake up such as to a warm pot of coffee and baking cinnamon rolls, or to a crackling fire and piping hot apple cider, or even to a warm terrycloth robe and Hans - an Austrian masseuse. Hell, I would settle for waking up without this f-ing headache. This development is not exactly newsworthy, but when we started this relationship we agreed to tell each other everything so I won't hold out on you about this. And hopefully, like my lack of physical fitness, I can find humor in it and it won't suck so bad.

So in closing, I would like to ask Santa for several things: a headache-free morning, a slammin' bod, and Hans.

ON LOCATION

So, though I've promised many a time and never actually delivered, I am officially blogging on location. Allow the awe to wash over you. Do not deny it.

This writing is made possible because I am wall to wall relatives here in Columbus fighting over each other to watch, change, feed, cuddle, kiss, and whathaveyou my child to death. It is, as they say, a wonderful world.

Though I must preface this with the submission that if you allow said relatives to smother your child with attention when you want them to, they may also begin new and exciting habits like getting your little person up at 6AM to play with him even though he NEVER EVER gets up at 6AM and therefore forces you to get up at 6AM when you are ON VACATION PEOPLE.

Wow. Sorry about the yelling so early in the morning. Had to vent*.

* Seeing as how I'll be home with an offensive amount of relatives for approximately a month, I may be "venting" quite often. I will not apologize, you must bear the weight with me if you want to benefit from the hilarity of my prose. Amen and Hosana in the Highest.

Kind of Obsessed

I think it's the fact that I can watch someone else struggling with parenthood more than myself or the fact that I can find comfort in the fact that I only have 1 child while Kate and Jon have 8, or because by watching someone more bitchy than me I feel vindicated in my own bitchiness, but whatever it is, I'm kind of obsessed with Jon and Kate Plus 8. By "kind of" I mean totally.

I realized the extent of my obsession when I willingly watched Ultimate Fighting last night because Grant said I had to watch it if I ever wanted him to watch Jon and Kate again. So I watched the hell out of those crazy sons of b*tches bleeding all over each other, yes sir. And tonight!

JON AND KATE MARATHON.

The gods have rewarded my fortitude.

Ah sweet victory.

Happy Insanity Holidays

There are few certainties in life save for death, taxes, and the inevitable: every family has it's share of "crazy". So let's talk about the latter, shall we?

Haven't we all made the statement "but everyone's family's got issues" after railing for 30 minutes about how crazy your family is, or how annoyed you are at so-and-so, or how crazy that person's family is, etc, etc? Nod your head, it's okay, I laugh at the TV screen all the time.

My problem is, I am 520+ miles away from said family and so all of the things that should drive a person crazy just make me miss mine more. As dysfunctional as we all are, and trust me, we're dysfunctional with a capital Dys, I love those crazy sons of b*%^$es, I really do.

So hug your loved ones tight this Chrismas-Hanukkah season and whisper discreetly, "You know you're ass backwards insane, but I love you anyway. And if my present's another Roadside Emergency Kit, I'll kick you in the balls. Merry Chrismas".

Ex-caruuse Me? Oh, No You Di'nt.

Though there is an abominably large amount of information I need to share with you regarding the past few weeks of my boring life - this issue is pressing... (on my "BITCH MOMENT Processing Center").

After hauling ass to get the three of us on our flight home to Columbus for Thanksgiving, proceeding through the holiday with a smile and all of my bodily appendages intact, avoiding killing any next of kin, and flying home by myself with the Little Big Guy, I received this comment by the flight attendant of an unnamed airline that might rhyme with Smelta:
"Well, I guess the Little Guy doesn't need a coat in this weather!"

Listen here, Flight Attendant Devil Woman, if you had told me while we were waiting for 45 MINUTES in the gate area that we were going to have to go outside to board the rinky dink ass little plane you were flying us on to New York, I would have put his DAMN COAT ON. But seeing as how you were too busy trying to fit your gargantuan ass behind the ticket counter to notify us of this important detail, I have made the executive decision as the FANF*INGTASTIC mother that I am to subject my poor defenseless infant to the bitter cold for the sake of getting the plane out on time. Now, do you think you could go ahead and open a can of "SHUT THE HELL UP" so we can be airborne shortly?

Thank you and accept my birdie as a compliment to your airline.

FUUUUUUUUULL House

Issue 2 of my Whacked Out Dream sequence.
A few nights ago, I awoke in the middle of this scene of my dream:

I am in the office of one, John Stamos, and am finding myself quite embarrassed to have to "go #2" while he is working at his desk. No, not just have to "go #2", I'm "going #2", in a lavatory directly next to his desk. And to top out your weirdness factor, he's upset with me, not because I'm "going #2" next to his desk, but because I cannot "go #2" quickly enough for his liking.

WTF brain?

If this is a downward progression from Kate Hudson to this, I'm afraid to go to sleep tonight. And you should be too.

PS. If you see John, tell him he's a weird f$#%.

Yesterday In My Life

Yesterday I hosted a dinner party.

No, not earth shattering, but can you do that with a 3 month old TIME BOMB in tow?

I didn't think so. Now wipe your tears and bring your blood pressure down, you're not on trial here.

And it was kind of a success if I do say so my damn self. Pics will follow, you know, eventually. The menu, you ask?
Course 1: Salad with white cheddar, cranberries, walnuts, and balsamic vinaigrette
Drink 1: Frosty Hoegarden
Course 2: Roasted Portabello's with prosciutto and mozzarella
Drink 2: Cotes De Rhone
Course 3: Lasagna with whole wheat noodles and meat sauce
Drink 3: Water
Course 4: Nestle Toll House brownies with holiday chips
Drink 4: Milk in frosty glass

Yum.

[The take home message is this: I've had the displeasure of experiencing Nestle's Toll House ready to bake brownies twice now, thereby accrediting me as an expert witness, and I must say they are not excellent. The Toll House staff knows more about cookies than brownies evidently, and the cookie remains the hometown favorite. So if you still manage to purchase, bake and eat the brownie variety, I wash my hands of your disappointment. There, done.]

And for the Record, His Real Name is Marc Berkowitz

Have I told you about my whacked out dreams as of late? No? Well, have I got a doosie of a psychoanalysis puzzle for you, my friend! And we're off.

Several nights ago, it started with me waking in the middle of a dream wherein Alyssa was hosting/throwing a parade (of course) which was kind of Romper Room style and everyone ended up in a giant pit of large, multi-colored foam pieces which we were all jumping in (of course). But I was on cloud nine during the parade/Romper Room because at the beginning of the parade Alyssa announces via loudspeaker (of course) that Kate Hudson reads my blog (again, of course). So here I am, head as big as Nebraska because if Kate Hudson likes my blog then it must be good, right? And this realization was shored up throughout the dream by friends of Alyssa/old sorority sisters of hers kept coming up to me to worship my literary skills.

I awoke so happy only to quickly return to cold, dark reality and was sorely depressed that not only am I not 1 degree of separation from Kate Hudson but she also doesn't read my blog, nor would many many people be worshipping me anytime soon.

Marc Summers says "Double Damn".

Impressions of "Are You My Mother?"

Holy cow. This is really too easy.

The author of this book needs to be seeing a psychiatrist at least once a week, in addition to being highly medicated.

The mother bird leaves the nest just as her baby is hatching from the egg. I'm sorry, but let me speak for Mother Bird here when I say, if I've sat on that damn egg for what seemed like an eternity, I sure as hello dolly am not going to go flying off just when it's about to hatch. And why, praytell did she fly off? To get the food that she just now realized her baby will need upon it's hatching. CLEARLY, a man wrote this book because only a dumb cow of a man would wait until the last possible second to go get food for its starving baby. Clearly.

Moving on, only another dumb cow of a man would actually think that the baby bird would mistake a kitten, chicken, dog, cow, and large construction machinery for its mother. OF COURSE instinct would not steer the baby bird in the right direction toward it's mother. Of course.

And finally, my last literary gripe with "Are You My Mother?" where is the climax and where in the hell is my denouement? That bit about the construction machinery dropping the baby in the nest sure sucks as a climax. And dear old mommy returning sure bites a big one for the denouement. It's filthy I tell you. Filth.

I'd as soon have Grif watching Entourage than read this poopy diaper of a novel. Jeremy Piven can at least give him some education about being a walking weinerhead.

Sidebar: Warning BRC on GMA

I was getting ready to write today's post but noticed Billy Ray Cyrus on GMA and was completely dumbstruck for several hours thereby wasting my time dedicated to writing and now the baby, yes, he screams. Yet ye be forewarned, if you see Billy Ray on TV, swiftly hit Mute or Off.h

Today In My Life, IV.5

Karma, that little vindictive sprite that she is, thought I was a little to braggish about my mad skills as a breastfeeder earlier and so follows the last 3 hours of my life:

On my way home from Zabars, I had to stop at ATM to get tip money for Fresh Direct delivery guys but Grif decided he'd been in the car seat long enough and so began a complete emotional breakdown. Then I remembered we need C batteries like a crackfix because all of his toys take C batteries and are all laying in a pile not working right now which is no good for mommy's sanity, so I went from the ATM to the Hallmark store, screaming baby in tow. Finally, I returned home with two huge bags of food from Zabar's which I had to carry up the 18,000 stairs that lead to our apartment, while still ignoring the screaming baby (like hell I was going to let my cheese spoil and my pasta thaw in the car, I mean really?). I finally fed the hyena and he calmed down. I started cooking dinner, but Fresh Direct arrived right in the middle therefore causing me to stop everything to put away the groceries - ugh. Groceries away and dinner ready, I sit down to eat but the dog is digging a trench in the floor in front of the door pacing back and forth. So I think I'll just grab the baby, throw him in the sling, and take the dog out. Commence baby break down #16 for the day and here's me running down the steps, baby screaming in sling, dog in tow and NO SHOES ON. Because why wouldn't I want glass macerating my feet while walking down the sidewalk with a screaming child? Of course!

And cut to Grant walking in the door to find me slugging down the Grey Goose like Lindsey Lohan.

Today In My Life, IV

I managed to order snapfish prints, return all my emails, and send 3 birthday e-cards while breastfeeding. Though I was home alone, I felt an overwhelming need to scream, Ta-dah!

Me, the Lesbian, and Oprah

One of my first S.A.H.M. (Stay At Home Mom or Saucy And Hot Minx) realizations was how quiet and eerie it is to be home alone all day while everyone else is at work. I am, by nature and upbringing, used to continual chaos (have I told you about my 6 siblings, 4 in-laws, and 12 nieces and nephews?). Solitude and I are occasional friends, especially during cold winter evenings when you may find me nestled in the bosom of a bottle of red wine and a chocolate bar, but I prefer Chaos' mind-numbing company the majority of the time. Plus, I rarely afford myself a glass of wine these days what with the whole lactation dog and pony show. Therefore, the stark contrast between the first two weeks of SAHM-ness when my parents were staying in the next room, my husband was home every day, and my phone rang off the hook with friends and family constantly calling to check in versus the following 11 weeks of virtual house arrest was quite unsettling in a "Red Rum" sort of way.


As a means to holding tight to what sanity I have left, I decided early on that I would make it seem as if I had friends visiting the apartment every day... Via my television.


My first bestie arrived at 3pm Eastern time on NBC - hello Ellen. I literally laughed out loud during the entire first episode I watched and several times had to stop myself from answering her when she asked a rhetorical question to the audience. That was the most normal 50 minutes I'd had on a weekday in 3 weeks. After swiftly adding her show to my TiVo, I figured why stop there? There is a whole world of television entertainers out there just begging to be let into my inner circle, who am I to deny them?

The next addition to my cable friend list was the big O. I haven't ever had the chance or inclination to watch her show on a regular basis, but recently I've been very intrigued by her show topics. Mainly because I heart one of her co-producers (Mega) who is a good and dear friend of mine from college. Also, I sort of want to be Meghan, so I live vicariously through her exciting professional life and sort of pretend her work stories are my work stories. Feel free to let me know how weird that is. Now I know there are 3, possibly 4.5, loyal readers of this website who will be shocked to learn I may never make it as big as Oprah, but don't get your thongs in a bunch over it. I'm still prepared for the call from NBC, CBS, hell even TWC to begin talks of my own talkshow. I just refuse to sit by my phone waiting for those windbags to see real talent when it writes itself a blog. For now, I'll learn from the master, O-Town herself.

[Irritating events have occurred, in the form of my internet connection breaking yesterday and losing the entire rest of my post as well as my editing of the above material. I feel this has happened for a reason and therefore I will use it as a learning experience and not throw this piece o-shit laptop through the window to smash on the street 3 stories below my apartment right now.]

(Deep breath).

Anyway, Grant has vetoed me bombarding him with stories of my "friends" as soon as he comes through the door at the end of the day now. I know he's just jealous that I have famous friends and he does not, so I will humor him and refrain from rubbing it in his face. For now, I'll keep my Lesbian and my Oprah and occasionally my Martha and My Giada to myself, but it's gettin' kind of crowded in here, so if you want a seat you better call ahead.

I, the Halloweenie

It recently came to my attention that I have not been out on the town without my newborn sidekick stuck to my boob since his arrival in our lives. That's 3 months of solid parenting, people. It's enough to make Angie and Brad insane, okay? And they probably have 16 24-hour nannies, that which I do not have. So, after swiftly smacking myself across my face, I set out to engage in social activities again and to support the local economy in the best way that I know how (aka indulging in alcoholic beverages) and possibly revisiting my favorite old pasttime of getting so hammered I lose my purse, exhibit here and here.

Halloween was one of my first experiences with intoxication. We planned ahead and brought two major friends with us to Stacey and Alyssa's party. These friends must accompany me everywhere I go now if I plan on having a good time. They are Mr. Breastpump and his frosty sidekick, Mrs. Frozen Breastmilk. How hot am I walking into the party with my Medela Pump & Style backpack? Single men, beware! She's a minx!

Anyway, I have been looking forward to Halloween, oh since about a year ago when the mother of all Halloween partiers, Stacy Marie Hall, deflected from Chicago's party scene to grace NYC with her presence. She's kind of a big deal. She's been planning this bash for months and I have been making costumes and collecting party treats for almost that long. To say I was on a little high on my way to the party with Griffin dressed as the most ridiculously cute and adorable Harry Potter, Grant as Ron Weasley, and myself as Hermione is the understatement of the year. I very nearly passed out from sheer euphoria when we entered the party and showed off my homemade costumes to the group. Taking my first jell-o shot almost did me in as well, and the first few hours of Halloween mayhem flew by.

Griffin was having a tremendous time with Sarah Palin and the drinks were flowing. Guests came and came in droves and the fun multiplied with every drink and shot. The little guy petered out round about 8 o'clock and we put him to bed in Stacey's ultra-comfy down bed. Now the real partying could begin.

Only. Hold on. Something's happening.

After my 4th drink I could not for the life of me keep both of my eyelids open at the same time. And I should have been a f-ing Jack-o-lantern for as many times as I was yawning in a row. It was utterly embarrassing. I scrambled around for whatever caffeine and water I could inhale as quickly as possible while the inevitable loomed before me. Not too long later I was snuggled up to Grif, passed out cold for the next 2 hours in Stace's bed. I tried to deny it when the occasional person peeped in to check on us by prying my eyelids open for a brief second, but I was comatose. Party Animal.

In conclusion, I am the Halloweenie Mom I swore I would never be. I never thought I'd see the day when I preferred changing poopy diapers to throwing back several cold ones. The sky has fallen, Chicken Little, but I cannot complain. I have the most amazing little buzzkill you ever did see as my constant playmate. (My apologies if you just threw up in your mouth, single friends, it happens).

Who Are You and What Have You Done With My Vajay-Jay?

Apparently, (which I must start with because no one, not even my own sisters, my own flesh and blood, my closest of kin took the time to warn me of this ahead of time, therefore preparing me for the torment that awaited me) like I said, apparently, as if giving birth to an 8 pound bowling ball of a child is not enough, there are certain parts of you that will never be the same and therefore certain activities you once engaged in will never be the same as well. What's a little sex between friends, eh? Let's just call it "getting back in the game".

So to "get back in the game" you must pass through a gauntlet of obstacles arranged by nature to inhibit you from partaking in said "game". First, may all of God's good luck be with you as you try to occupy and/or quiet the child for 15 minutes of peace. Then, you must find the strength of ten men to decide you have enough energy to return to the game. Also, when numbers 1 and 2 are actually going for you, you must be prepared by actually giving a damn what you look like and therefore must return to the land of shaved legs and managing body odor. (Sidebar: you may realize number 3 is no longer important due to the length of time that has elapsed since the last game you and your partner engaged in). Next, how do I put this gently? You should have both of your life insurance policies up to date before engaging in "the game" because once you realize the magnitude with which your "parts" have changed, you may want to stop your husband from ever taking another breath. Was that harsh? My apologies, how about ...from ever feeling joy or happiness in his lifetime. Yes, that will work too. But in any case, you might as well cover your bases and make sure you're financially stable (since you have two mouths to feed now), and get the policy increased.

In summary: it ain't gonna be easy and it ain't gonna be pretty but at least your team is still on the field. [End of football analogy. Thank God.]

Full Disclosure

Good lord almighty in a handbasket, it's been a long time, Internet. So many things, so little time. Let me make some excuses real quick so for to make up for my literary absence in the past few weeks:

1. I cannot hold two thoughts in my head at any one time for longer than 20 seconds these days, thereby inhibiting my writing prowess as I usually plan out my posts for several hours before I write them for you.

2. Once I do begin the drafting process all hell breaks loose around here and I have to keep stopping to put out fires and return to the computer only to lose my jive.

3. My brain is overloaded with my attempt at returning to the workplace next Monday (!) - I know, holy shitcans in molasses Batman. So I've been neglecting my therapeutic writing as of late.

But alas, no more! There are posts that need writing like whores itching for a lay and I will refuse them no longer! Upcoming posts: "Who Are You and What Did You Do With My Vagina?", "I the Hall-oweenie", and "Me, the Lesbian, and Oprah".

Be afraid.

Stroll Up and Be Counted!

Hypothetical:
How would you handle this situation?

It's your birthday and to celebrate you make reservations at a new, hip restaurant with two of your closest friends. Since you endured the stress of 9 months of pregnancy and the pain of childbirth, you decide you'd like to bring your 10 week old child to dinner with you rather than leave him home alone to fend for himself for the evening. Besides, he's adorable, he's well behaved, and above all, he's cultured in the art of fine dining.

You arrive at the hypothetical new, hip restaurant on time and give your name to the hostess but not before she takes one long scathing look at your stroller whilst flames ignite out of her ears/ eyes, her head spins around 420 degrees, and she vomits green foam for 10 minutes. You are somewhat startled by this behavior, but continue to await a response that may signify where your table is located for the evening. Once the Hostess from Hell regains her composure, she mumbles something about "it being a busy evening" and "if it wasn't a busy evening they could accommodate a stroller" -yada, yada. You lose the last part of her speech whilst your head detaches from your body and explodes in a catastrophic display of anatomy all over the hip, new crowd at the restaurant.

Once the Snatch Face of a hostess realizes she has provoked the four corners of hell upon herself by inferring you leave the restaurant and a perfectly good reservation for 5 people because you have a perfectly well behaved child in a small and inconspicuous stroller with you (God forbid), she scurries off to get assistance from her manager. After a small army is assembled to deal with this evident fopah of the restaurant world, your patience and the patience of your party is wearing dangerously thin and bordering on death-spree rampage. By now the entire restaurant is staring at you and condemning your behavior amongst the worst things capable of a human being, not to mention your boobs are on fire, your hormones are flowing like the River Nile, and your feet are swollen to the size of watermelons thanks to the first time you've worn heels in a year.

Some sort of consensus is reached among the restaurant army and a small, beetle man escorts your husband away to assess a possible seating option. He returns a short while later motioning everyone over to finally be seated at your table. After running over as many high healed shoes and polished loafers as you can en route, you arrive at the table. It takes a good 10 minutes to figure out where to put the stroller and position yourselves before you can sit down and immediately you grab the wine menu and start ordering by the case. Dinner goes off without a hitch from there. The baby sleeps, the wine and food come and go, dessert is enjoyed, the bill is paid, and you take your exit, stopping only to run over as many loafers and toes as possible once again, this time for sport. You seek out the beetle man to give him a healthy tip on your way out but he is no where to be found. Upsetting, but you'll let the karma gods know where to find him now that he's redeemed himself.

Getting to the question: Would you have bowed to The Man, left the restaurant with your tail between your legs, and ate at McDonald's, or would you have stood your ground for procreating people everywhere and enjoyed the hell out of your birthday meal?

And that's a question for the delegates.

[In completely unrelated news, try Fig and Olive, a new great restaurant that's also kid-friendly.]

BFF's In The Making

Welcome Max!

Griffin's new best friend was born Wednesday at 3:29pm with be-a-utiful brown eyes and possibly red hair. I cannot wait to meet the little bugger at Thanksgiving and tell him all about his mommy and daddy and lots of fun stories about high school and college that he can blackmail them with later. Ah the joys of meeting your spouse at the tender young age of 15. And also meeting your friends for life then too that will remember everything you do to recount to your children some day. This poor generation to come. They're going to be in therapy for-ev-er.

Mickey and Minnie No Longer Cutie

Today is a great day. (Cue patriotic music). It is a day that changed history. It is a day people will talk about for weeks to come. I present October 18th, My Birthday. Wow 28 seems altogether too old. And in honor of this sacred day, yesterday I received two birthday cards, three presents and was completely happy. Until this morning...

When I received two mouse poop turds. Definitely not on my list. Nor did I circle them in the Sears Christmas Catalog.

Really? For real? Seriously? Just checking.

Because I'm pretty sure the last four days have been chock full of cleaning up mouse poop, canvassing every hardware store within a 16 mile radius for mouse traps, displaying said mouse traps all around the kitchen, plugging every hole I can find with steel wool (thank you Caitlin) and lying in wait for the creature to dare a move out in the open. I finally broke down and told our super even though he probably can't stand me b/c I'm on the phone with him every day about something or other*, and he came up to put a couple more traps out. So basically you cannot walk into, around, or through our kitchen without losing a toe or five to one of these traps. And yet...

Two mouse poop turd morning. Happy Birthday self!

*Did I tell you the joke about our heat, or lack there of, and the missing boiler debacle of 2008. No? Oh, it's a doosy. Methinks thou dost protesteth a whole shit ton about the missing boiler parts, Sir. Senior. Sensei.
**Besides, there are two poor souls who depend greatly on my ability to put food on the table, or in the boob, and heat in our house. I will not let them down.-Off to seek the Turd de Mouse.

Dear Rude Child Haters at all NYC Restaurants

Shove it. If I want to take my beautiful, smart, hilarious baby out to dinner with me I will do so whenever the hizzy I want and I don't give a rat's ass if that makes you uncomfortable in some way. It's probably because you're cold and heartless and eat small children for breakfast a la Grinch, or your panties are so far up your a-hole you can taste them. Either way, I'm not concerned for your health and happiness or freedom of religion.

That being said, the next time someone shoots me a dirty "get that stinking, breastmilk eating, poopy butted baby out of here" look I'm totally going Chuck Norris on their face until they resemble more a roadkilled opossum and less a human being while they beg for mercy out of their pointy little snout. Yeah, I'm talking to you Annoying German Guy with your rat-faced, mangey dogs pissing all over the sidewalk tables we're eating at. And yes this is possibly a hormone fueled rant but isn't it nice? And food for thought, if Senor Norris had these hormones on his side, he'd kick everyone's asses a WHOLE LOT FASTER.

Soon! Soon!

Boy oh boy oh boy, do I have some doosies of a picture for you! But alas, no time to upload now, the husband is yelling something about business school and assignment overdue, yada yada. He's always yapping. As if, that is more important than me showing you what I have to show you. Ugh, argh, and bleh.

Today In My Life, III

Today in my life part 3 actually happened 5 days ago, that's just the way things go sometimes, sue me. And that day in my life I left a restaurant, baby in tow, with my bra unstrapped and my jeans unbuttoned. It took me 4 blocks to realize it. Wow. What a stunning display of intellect that was.

On Some Serious Notes

As the second month of Griffin's existence comes to a close, I can't help looking back at these last 8 weeks with complete and utter disbelief. Gina, go grab your kleenex.

I cannot believe what an amazing ride this has been. I have a journal that I try to write in every day and rarely does that happen two days in a row, but still, I know this time is going to fly and I want to remember as much of it as I can. The problem is, I can't find words sometimes to describe how I'm feeling and how much love I have for this child. Now, I've never been one that has trouble communicating her feelings or anything else for that matter. But these feelings are so complex and so intense it just won't suffice to say really, really or extra, extra.

The best comparison I've managed to come up with over these 8 weeks is a religious one, and I hope I don't lose anyone here because I'm not trying to spread the Word or solicit Christianity. But the truth is I think I finally understand what all of my Sunday school teachers were trying to say when they described how God loves each one of us because we are all his children. I can see the love God has for me in the way I feel for Griffin every morning and every night.

Every smile he gives me or sound he makes is the best gift I've ever gotten times ten. Ten thousand even. I get choked up just telling him, "Mommy loves you," and "I love you". Because those words are so trivial to the feelings behind them. I want more than anything in the world for him to understand how much love there is for him in G and my life. It surprises me every day that my breath catches in my throat when I see him sleeping.

There has been frustration and exhaustion in these last few weeks, even pain and many tears. But I never expected any less and I never ever expected the payoff and reward to be so tantamount. I relive the hard parts to remind myself where we are now and how much we've overcome and how grateful I am to be here looking back. Sometimes I remember children I took care of in the NICU and their parents spring to my mind. I have all new respect and appreciation for how hard every day is for them when it's their child who's suffering. I don't know how they do it. I have been so blessed to have a healthy pregnancy, and a healthy robust child who's demeanor and personality are unbelievably warm and soft.

Aside from the pictures, let me tell you how I see my son. Griffin is so sweet. He's so affectionate and his heart is always on his sleeve. He spends his days quietly studying everything around him or begging me and his Dad to hold and cuddle him. He snuggles right into my shoulder when I pick him up and breaks into a huge gummy smile when he makes eye contact with me. He coos, he "yells", and he farts and burps, all equally well. I love every sound. He cries, yes he definitely does, but only for a reason, be it hunger, discomfort, or exhaustion. He's patient, mostly. He loves people.

In a word, he's indescribable.

Growing Pains

So, evidently I gave birth to the Incredible Growing Baby. The past three days I've dressed him in brand spanking new 3-6 month size outfits and all three of them are too small.

Witness the Incredibleness:

Day One of this outfit and his knees stick out. Awesome. Note to self: should have invested in Carter's.

Day One of this outfit too. Does a high school gym teacher come to mind when you see this one?

Also, we like sitting up in chairs nowadays. Laying down is for wimps.

But... Sometimes it doesn't work out quite like we'd planned. And that's okay too.

Impressions of The Ugly Duckling

Can I draw attention to something very disturbing that really has my granny panties in bunches all over this piece?

Have you read a children's short story lately? If so, did it make you uneasy and downright fearful for tomorrow's youth? Yes?! Then we're on the same page.

Specifically page 15 of Lucy Kincaid's "Now YOU can read... The Ugly Duckling" and I quote, "He flew down to the pond and settled on the water. He called to the swans. 'Please come and kill me. I am so ugly, and I am so lonely I do not want to live' ".

...........

I'm sorry wha?

IS THIS AS INSPIRATIONAL AS YOU CAN BE, LUCY? For real? Oh hell no. I actually got to this page and said, "The End, Griffin!" Poor kid has no closure. And that's what he's going to pay some therapist thousands of dollars to tell him when he's 30 and hates his mother.

And that's why Reading Rainbow is Satan's spawn.

Last Post Cont.

3. Bring rambunctious, wild, crazy, annoying dog along. Because you're already screwing with Mother Nature here, why not really piss her off?

4. Allow parents to tell everyone and their neighbor's best friend that we are coming to town and to all come over to see the new baby! Translation: come over and wipe your grubby, dirty hands all over the clean, brand new baby with no immune system.

5. Stay up way too late entertaining family with baby and proceed to attempt to go without sleep for the entire trip home.

6. Get Mastitis (just wait till I post about this one!), aka massive red swollen breast requiring antibiotics for 7 days. Fun!

7. Separate the Marital Twosome, thereby allowing outside forces like extended family and friends to intertwine themselves in baby rule decision making.

8. Lose all track of feeding and sleeping schedules and replacing the orderly system with new system of "Who the hell knows, just stick a boob in his mouth if he's crying" System*.

*This is a faulty system. We as a unit do not endorse this system.

9. Try to hold onto a shred of protectiveness over newborn infant by squirting everyone who comes within two football fields of your son with Purell Hand Sanitizer. If they resist, squirt them in the eye.

10. When everyone's thoroughly exhausted and cranky, strap 6 week old infant back in car seat and back track across Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and finally New York to your place of origin, mastitis in tow.

Summation: It's going to be a while before we do something this stupid again. Like maybe a week or two. At least.

Day 6 of being home update - Everyone's still alive. And I've only bathed the kid 234 times. I swear he likes it, see?

Raining, Pouring Etc. Etc.

One would think that life, though perpetually full of motion by nature, would at times slow down and catch it's breath from time to time. Now I'm not saying I'm a fan of stagnation. Quite the contrary, I adore change, I embrace change, I preorder Change's Christmas gifts in September, I'm so in love with change. However... Eh he hem.

The kind of change that adds shitshow to existing shitshow is not the kind I like. Let it be so noted. And so follows the list (you know how I like lists) of actions and reactions G and I committed in the last week that added up to the shitshow of shitshows of shitshows.

1. New Idiotic Parentals decide to strap their 6 week old son into a carseat and travel 8, no 9, no 10, no 12 and 1/2 hours from New York to Columbus for their own selfish needs of visiting friends and family while trying to save a buck and screw The Man by avoiding outrageous airline fuel charges.
2. Proceed to stop as little as possible en route and keep stop time to the utter minimum thereby pissing off said 6 week old and causing much screaming and gnashing of the teeth by all involved.
{Pause: screaming baby alert}

{Intermission: This post to be continued until tomorrow, when I will also start my new series, "Impressions of The Ugly Duckling and other short stories".}

Favs From the Spam Folder, cont.

"Enlargement with PERMANENT Effects!"
- For a second my postnatal brain read, "Engorgement with Permanent Effects!" and I swiftly peed my pants, passed out, and threw up at the same time.

The Harvest

I am a proficient gardener. I can efficiently grow the hell out of house plants and window boxes. I'm the Dali Lama of urban gardening.

Witness The 2008 Harvest:

Say it, you've never wanted to gorge yourself on 5 Grape Tomatoes like THIS before.

*Note: no grape tomatoes were harmed during the filming of this add.

*I'm Teresa and I endorsed this message.

Today in My Life, Take 2

Below is an ever growing list of things I have done or am doing currently with a baby in a sling attached to my abdomen:

1. (Obviously) Pee.

2. Run the sweeper.

3. Eat lunch.

4. Blog/ Retrieve email/ Post pictures to Snapfish/ Edit pictures, etc (You get the idea, I'm on the computer.)

5. Clean.

6. Walk dog.

7. Do laundry.

8. Basically anything that I did before I had a baby that requires me to be upright.

Me thinks he may possibly be taking advantage of his free ride. The first 9 months were on the house, but the next 18 years are gonna cost you, Mister!

And since he's not cute when he smiles...

Weight Loss: I'm Sorry, Who?

The affair has ended. It was brief, ye 10 months, and it was hot but now I'm back to the old ball and chain: healthy eating. The bitch.

It started off slow, I was still eating healthy the first 4 or 5 months of the pregnancy. I had small meals, about 4-5 times a day. I avoided most junk foods and used fruit as my sugar savior. I attempted to eat all of the correct servings from each food group that that smutty book, What to Expect... suggested. My weight gain was low, awesome, and everyone was complementing me on my figure. I had a few checkups and the doctor was very complimentary.

Then the French Fries happened. Then the Salt & Vinegar potato chips happened. Swiftly followed by the Vanilla Ice Cream obsession, and the Molten Chocolate Cake fiasco. Eventually, Fast Food became a food group and instead of a pyramid, my plan resembled more of a cluster diagram. Pounds were coming from everywhere, I could sit and type at the computer for a half hour and gain 4 pounds. Late in the pregnancy, I actually gained 6 pounds in one week. My inner psychologist doesn't think I'm quite ready to tell you how much total weight I gained. She'll let me know when I can.

The first few days and weeks after Grif was born I heeded the words of every nurse and boob doctor encouraging me to eat, eat, eat and even to eat carbs, carbs, carbs. I was a very good patient. A little too good. Now these remaining er-several pounds that were not part of my pre-pregnancy self are sticking to me like Gen X'ers to Barack. I can't shake'em.

Enter my new diet plan: 500 Calorie Meals from Fresh Direct and cantelope.

Vom-town U.S.A.

Today in My Life

This will start a new series of my own invention: Today in my life...

Today in my life, I applied conditioner to my hair immediately after soaping it with shampoo.

And voila! Pert plus! Who knew?

Breastfeeding: WTF?

Yes, I have touched briefly on the trials and tribulations associated with breastfeeding your first child. Boys, you should read on for the sake of your relationship when your spouse decides to torture herself with attempting to breastfeed your children, I'll keep the specifics to a minimum.

Let it be said, that one would think after centuries of evolution babies would enter the world with at least some clue on how to secure a food supply in order to survive. Now this is not asking much, I believe, because we're not asking them to be potty trained, or be able to clothe themselves, or even to avoid dangerous predators. Just f*$%ing eat when we give you food! Whoops, earmuffs.

Now, not all the fault lies with the baby here. Mother Nature, the spiteful bitch that she is, throws several more curve balls at First-time Mommy. Not only does your little one have no idea what to do with a nipple, oh no, as an added bonus you don't have any milk in your nipples for at least 2-5 days. So basically you're saying, "Here Baby, here's your method of obtaining food. Only hang out for a few days, because they're empty". If I went to a restaurant, and I'm not an obnoxious consumer, and after ordering my food the waiter hands me an empty plate and says the food will arrive in 2-5 days? Me? Not so happy. I'd have the BBB on that restaurant's ass faster than you can say Health Violation.

Let's refresh: A. Baby has no idea what nip is for. B. Nip is empty. And C. when nip begins to fill, it fills so fast and so much that Baby can no longer latch onto it and therefore starves and everyone dies a bloody death.

[Sidebar: I'm pretty sure they left that chapter out of La Leche League's "Art of Breastfeeding" book. But I'm sure as hell not done talking about it.]

After several days of hell on Earth, you go visit your pediatrician who delightfully tells you your baby is starving to death and why aren't you feeding it you bad, bad, BAD LADY/MOTHER. Oh right! I'm supposed to feed it? Like I haven't spent every minute of every day since it popped out of my uterus trying to suffocate it with my gargantuan breasts in every attempt to feed it? Oh, silly me. I totally want my money back from Childbirth Class.

So in the end, you wind up feeding your baby formula from a bottle, EVIL OF ALL EVILS. And then you stupidly wait a week before contacting the proper authorities* to get you on the path to breastfeeding success. Because ultimately, you are as dumb as a prehistoric cave mom. Congratulations!

(I'm thinking of saving that last paragraph for a pitch to Hallmark.)

Pretty Sure Hef Co-Wrote These Lyrics

I didn't realize until Grif was born that I do not know many nursery rhymes or at least, the correct words to many nursery rhymes.

Witness:
Hush little baby, don't say a word. Momma's gonna buy you a Mocking Bird (Okay, you're with me there right? Well, read on...)
And if that Mocking Bird won't sing, Momma's gonna buy you a Diamond Ring (Still okay...)
And if that Diamond Ring won't shine, Momma's gonna buy you a New Cheese Rind? (Wheels falling off...)
And if that Cheese Rind starts to smell, Momma's gonna buy you a Bucket and a Well? (Anxiety starting about rhyming off the cuff...)
And if that Bucket and Well runs dry, Momma's gonna buy you an Apple Pie?

Let's just say from there the list of things Momma got him included a Dog named Rover, a Four Leaf Clover, a Washing Machine, a Playboy Magazine, a Date with a Model, and also some imaginary things that I can't remember anymore.

Yikes Griffin, yikes.

First Images of Baby Michael Phelps

Alright, I can't pass this up. I peed a little when I saw it and it's not because I just had a baby.

Product Placement

I swear, he dressed himself today. What can I say, kid's got style.

PS. And yes, this is post-Aussie Boob Doctor.

E is for Engorgement

Now I know this may be shocking to some of my 3.5 readers, mostly because you are all single and/or newly married and not yet contemplating the giant, insane leap into parenthood at this moment in time, but I feel it is my sworn duty to scare you with the truth before you partake in it yourself and cry foul at the horrendous nature of what befalls you post-pregnancy. It's my pleasure, my sisters did it to me and I honestly thought they were being dramatic. Ha HA HAHAHAHAHA. How oblivious I was.

Here's how it goes:
A. You get knocked up. (You're all, YEAH! This is so fun!)
B. You travel through pregnancy and it goes really well. (You're all, what are these people bitching about, this is great!)
C. You have the baby. (You're still, this is still amazing! Everyone is exaggerating the pain and etc.)
D. You try to breastfeed. (This doesn't go so well, but you're not horrible at it, so you're okay. YEAH!)
E. Your "milk comes in". (This should be called, "Your breasts swell to the size and weight of giant bowling balls, they're hot and sore as hell, and whatever progress you made with your baby convincing him that they are for nourishment and contain lots of yummy milk goes flying out the window when he takes one look at them and tries to run back into your uterus for fear of suffocation by mammary gland".)
F. You try every trick in the "Breastfeeding Your Baby" 2 page guide they give you in the hospital. Yeah, thanks for teaching me where my breasts are located, aside from that, you are completely useless.
G. You call lactation consultants, La Leche League, your neighbor's best friends mother, anyone who has breasts and might be able to help you. All turn up empty.
H. You start negotiating with your baby, "If you learn to do this, you can eat anytime you want, for as long as you want, anywhere you want, until you're old enough to enter a retirement village if you'd just meet me halfway here."
I. You finally reattach your brain to your nerve endings and get a breast pump to relieve the pressure which has quickly achieved 'Erupting Volcano' status.
J. You give in and meet with the scary Australian Lactation Consultant.
K. And voila! She's got him breastfeeding faster than Michael Phelps can win 8 gold medals.
L. You quickly take back everything you ever said about Australians. In fact, you're nominating Australia for a non-existent 'Country of the Year Award' and contemplating moving the entire outfit Down Under in support of Aussie Lactation Consultants.

The Flying Placenta

I forgot to tell you about the "Flying Placenta". So after being awake for about 24 hours and enjoying approximately 20 some hours in labor with vise grip contractions I successfully deliver my 8 pounds of baby and am feeling a tad bit, shall we say, cocky? I'm no longer concentrating on whatever creative venture the OB doc is working on down below but am transfixed by the little creature on the warming table across the room. He's amazing. He cried for a little while but once G went over to him and grabbed his hand, he immediately stopped. G and I are just staring at each other, tears running down our faces, in complete silence. I'll remember that moment for the rest of my life.

And then the lovely OB who incidentally was a stand-in OB for my OB due to the fact that mine went on vacation at 8am in the freaking morning on the day I delivered, but I digress. Anyway, Stand-in OB snaps us out of the moment by informing me that now, now I get to deliver the placenta. Wha? Something else has to be delivered? As in, I have to push again and enjoy that whole lovely scenario one more time?

Well, hell. I'm not going to half ass this placenta pushing job, not after I just had the world's most beautiful baby boy, so look out. I'm going to knock this placenta push out of the park, yes Ma'am. So I gear up, take a huge deep breath, and push with all of the might left in my pelvis and ass. And out flies the placenta, straight into the gut of my Stand-in OB, squarely knocking her back a good 6 inches, I shit you not. She was mid-sentence giving me pushing directions and my Flying Placenta knocked the breath straight out of her. She was definitely surprised, and me? I was all, hell yeah woman. That's how you push a placenta out, biotch. (Only I wouldn't call her a biotch, I'd say Ma'am, yes Ma'am. After all, she's the one sewing my vijay-jay back together. And FYI: don't piss off that lady).

And just because I can't stand keeping this beauty a secret from the world...

WHEW!

Wowsa. So, let's recap, shall we? A week ago today I went into labor at approx 1am. Woke up the husband who quickly shat himself and then proceeded to be the most supportive, most attentive, most loving, most amazing labor coach anyone has ever seen or heard tell of. I'm so in love with him right now, it's kind of offensive.

We made it to the hospital about 7am and proceeded to attempt to ignore my contractions until my body said, "Hold up a motha f-ing second, do you realize WE'RE IN LABOR NOW?" To which I replied, "YES, I CAN SEE THAT". To which my body replied, "WELL STOP F-ING AROUND THEN AND GET ME DRUGS". To which I replied, "Yes Ma'am". Yes, my body has made me her bitch.

So at 9 or 10a I got my epidural. Yes, Jesus, yes. And I had the best nurses all day who constantly backed me up and during an integral decision making process really stepped up for me, which I kind of heart a lot. Around 4p my contractions weren't progressing so they started me on pitocin and at 9p I was fully dilated and pushing!

Griffin came into this crazy world at 10:01pm and he is BE-A-UTIFUL, and very smart and witty. My life since then has been all boobs and stitches, but there is so much to write about that I'll be busy posting until he's 18.

Upcoming posts include: "E is for Engorgement", "Colace and I: A Lovestory", "Excluded Verses from Rock-a-bye Baby", and "The Art of Breastfeeding: WTF".

Off to obsess over that baby...

Still Warming the Bench of L & D

Sorry for the misdirection: I have not posted due to being too fracking busy at work rather than due to the onset of labor and delivery of the fetus who will aforeto now be named, "The Boss". Less as a credit to The Bruce, and more because he refuses to let anyone else tell him when to be born, so as to assert his independent streak nice and early on in life. Enter: My Offspring.

And FYI, according to my weekly emails, he has now surpassed the size of a small watermelon. I'm sorry? SMALL WATERMELON? Shut your mouth when you're talking to me.

And FYI #2, quote of the day from my OB to the husband, "You didn't know when you married her you were marrying a lazy uterus, did ya?" Eh hem, Madam. Please. If he knew half of anything about me when he married me, the least of his problems was a lazy uterus. He'd be more than happy with just a lazy uterus. It's the rest of the psychosis lathered emotional temper tantrum marinated in sarcasm that he could do without. But at least you can crack jokes about my GIGANTIC STOMACH better than you can assist me with going into labor. Danke.

If you need me, I'll be running up and down our steps carrying the air conditioner. Also, if you need any furniture moved or your landlord beat up, give me a ring. I just so happen to be in the market to kick my own ass.

Oogles and Oogles of Googles

Alright, hand to the Bible, I admit it. I google myself.

Not like a hundred times a week or anything. No, more like once or twice a month, tops. I'd also like to state for the record, that I do not believe there is anything wrong with this hobby of mine. I'm simply tracking my exposure to the masses. That is, if there was exposure. Because so far? Non-exposed = me. Not only am I not exposed to the masses, neither is my maiden named self, my nicknamed self, nor my initialed self. I guess I'm cooler than I thought, because I'm underground. Get it? Only the coolest bars and restaurants are super secret and underground. So, now I'm really excited to be amongst such great company as La Esquina and the Private Dinner Club of Brooklyn. I'm hot, ya'll.

I would also like someone to invent a google-yourself-counter that will then be published by name and everyone can see how desparate people are to be famous by how many times you google yourself in any given day. This would be hilarious. Then they should also publish the person's email so we can all email them and try to help them figure out what is missing in their lives, ie social interaction. So Internet, get on my idea. Thank you very much. And I'll take royalties for it too. Because I'm UNDERGROUND and underground people take royalties on all kind of shit. It's a fact.

What the Hell?

I don't know what kind of whack job these hormones are doing to my system, but I just started balling while watching the YouTube video of Christian the Lion. The same YouTube video I've seen a hundred times, the same one that has lame Whitney Houston music to it. In no way has the video been altered since I first saw it, maybe oh about 2 years ago. People, what is going on here? I normally have the emotional range of a parakeet. Nothing makes me cry. I think I've cried about 3 times in my life. (Maybe 4, but the end of The Facts of Life was very hard on all of us. Don't deny it.)

Let's tick off my world sphere as of late:
1. I'm bitchy as hell (I readily admit this but in no way does that excuse the truth behind what I've been bitching about for the past week).
2. I'm an emotional wreck (see above).
3. I'm eating everything I can get my grubby paws on, including the freezer burned mystery foods in the back of our freezer. Yum.
4. I'm Bloaty McBloatitoad and her sister Swollen McSausagetoes all in one.
5. This whole situation stinks of PMS and I have happily gone without Ye Ol' PMS for about 10 months now.

I call foul.

Does this mean I'm getting close to labor? Cause that would be AMAZING. Let's get this party started right and quickly.

Know What I Am?

I'm sure as hell not in labor, that's what I am. :)

More to follow, like how I gained 6 POUNDS IN ONE WEEK. Yeah, lots and lots of fun things happening now. Fun in bucketloads. Fun all over the place. Fun out the you-know-what.

I'd like to issue a shout out to my OB doc now for the stellar performance she's doing on helping me go into spontaneous labor. Hey there! Woohoo! Help me! My cervix and dilation machines are in the 9th inning with a tied score of 0-0.

A holes.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe...

Kung Fu Panda strikes again. Witness the mastery of skill:You've never seen moves like these. She can actually bench her body weight in donuts.

Be very afraid. Your cupboards are not safe anymore.

Thoughts On Vacating The Premises

I'm wondering if it's a lack of motivation or lack of efficient communication that is keeping the bambino firmly ensconced in the uterus currently. In either case, I have been conducting a 24 hour mental pep rally as well as frequent and routine rigorous exercises to convince him to join us on the outside. However, he's very firm in his resolve to ignore me. I admire his fortitude, I just do not appreciate it's consequences any longer. I may turn to eggplant shortly.

During the past 9 months I knew all along the day would come that I would labor and deliver this baby, but it's funny how your brain can blatantly ignore an obvious truth until it's splattered its white and grey matter all over the proverbial brick wall unto which it was ignoring. This is somewhat what I am feeling as of late. I know it's coming, I need it to happen, I am excited and ready for it, but I am not able to comprehend it actually happening. Weird, right?

Also, all that luscious, beautiful, plentiful, deep green grass over there? On the other side of the fence? It looks AMAZING right about now. And this grass over here? Under my swollen, hot, uncomfortable, sore feet? This grass sucks major buttocks. Every fiber of my being is focused on that other grass and I know, I'm admitting it right now, that once over there I will realize it is not grass, but a mirage of quicksand ready to snap G's and my and Hunter's heads off at the first opportunity. And I STILL want the damn grass. Change is good. Change is necessary. Change better happen soon or my hips and pelvis are going to take the first road to Hyannisport and not look back.

GPS or Going Postal Soon

For the sake of my marriage I have decided to invest in a navigational system for the new car. This piece of information was shared with us quite some time ago, and in the interest of being cheap, we forewent purchasing one at that time. Now as our couple's communication hangs in the balance, by a very fine spiderweb-thin thread, I feel it is time to take the plunge.

Unfortunately, we have a semi-large road trip coming up tomorrow for which we will probably not be able to secure the GPS system and this makes mama kind of nervous. Wish us the best luck ever, which never happens when we're on a roadtrip, fyi. And hopefully we will return to New York a functional twosome, wherein both of us is breathing and capable of independent thought.

I'm looking so forward to this weekend of reunionizing with great people that I can slightly overlook the impending doom of the trip up to Mystic, CT. Some peeps we see all the time, some we haven't seen in months, and some not in several years. The magnitude of funness measured in decibels is deafening and we could use a little "vacation from our problems" (What About Bob-style). Not that we have problems, we have no problems. Just don't tell me HOW OR WHERE TO DRIVE ONE MORE TIME WOMAN*. Like that kind of 'no problems'.

*Sidebar: Lately his driving resembles more realistically "Grand Theft Auto" than "Reality". God's honest truth.

Serves Him Right, With a Name Like That

I must say, like the first day of middle school, the last day of high school, and every day-after-Christmas of my life, my first taste of Mister Softee left much to be desired.

Here I am, dreaming about my first encounter with Mr. S for the entirety of my existence in New York, hearing countless tales of delicious experiences from friends and acquaintances alike, all building up to my first big date with destiny in a plastic cup... And what happens? Utter disappointment.

Picture it, Washington Heights, 2008, a chubby pregnant woman waddles up to the Mister Softee truck, waiting with crumpled bills in hand for her turn at the exhaust fume-filled window, stumbling over the words: chocolate nut sundae, she receives her prize and stares transfixed at the beauty of it. She's looking at that sundae like Mariah Carey looks at hot dogs. All outside noise and distractions are instantly muted. A shiver runs up her spine as she engineers her first bite.

You can actually hear the heartbreak as she shovels spoonful after spoonful of the sweet mixture into her cavernous mouth. No. No! It cannot be. Et tu Brute? Senor Softee, why have you forsaken me?

Not only am I wasting calories on this sub-par performance of a chocolate nut sundae, I can't stop eating it. And now I can't have another dessert of any kind until tomorrow! You little ice cream cone head b*stard. I'll get you for this. And your little dog too.

Note to the people of New York: he's not worth it. Dry your tears and save your calories for someone else. There will be another Gentleman o' Dessert somewhere that will steal your heart the right way. With flavorfulness, and real cream and crunchy nuts and lots and lots of cherries. With respect, people.

It's Hip to be Regular

Let's talk Fiber, shall we?

My First-scratch that-Second Congressional Petition: Fiber is wonderful and should be one of the four food groups. Or at least get it's own tier on the food pyramid.

My actual First Congressional Petition was against that insanely unconstitutional law wherein ex-military cannot sue the government for medical malpractice. You should petition against that too. It's insane. But let's not wallow around in our dirty political underwear right now, it will get us all riled up.

Anyhow, Fiber is not only a girl's best friend, it is a pregnant girl's orgasm. Who's with me here? Here's how the scenario plays out, for those non-believers, men, or women not yet of childbearing insanity yet: you want to get prego or get prego and your first step to becoming a parent is to take prenatal vitamins. Yeah Prenatal Vitamins! I am bearing a child! And I am going to take the hell out of my prenatal vitamins. I am going to be the best damn prenatal vitamin taking woman you have ever seen!

4 days later you realize you haven't emptied your colon in way way way too long. 4 more days later you realize you better start making funeral arrangements because God knows you wouldn't let your husband pick out his own socks let alone the box you'll be residing in for the next 4 thousand years. Finally, some blessed soul mentions you might want to try upping your fiber intake to get the ball rolling. Bless you, Colon Angel. No one tells you that the outrageously large amount of iron in those prenatals will stop even the most active digestive systems in their peristalsis tracks.

So you go to the store and buy everything you can find with the word Fiber on it. Fiber cereal, fiber bars, fiber brownies, fiber jello, fiber drinks, it could say Fiber Fiber and you'd buy 8 of them. Let me highlight the best choices for masking fiber into your daily diet without sacrificing taste or sending yourself into a fiber-induced coma. Fiber One bars are sex in an individually wrapped package. My fav is the Oats and Chocolate flavor, but the carmel one isn't that bad either. Wait, I should mention that 2 bars should never be consumed in the same day. Enormous proportions of gas are created and I cannot be responsible for you losing your job or your significant other leaving you due to the overproduction of said gas.

Cereal has two parts: Go Lean Crunch Original Kashi cereal is part one. They're all yu-u-ummy and if you throw a few blueberries on there in the morning, your stomach will thank you. All Bran is part two. Alone it is annoying and tasteless, but combined with the flavor power of Kashi, it is amazing. Apples and apple juice should be consumed every day. They are a bonus because though they aid in your digestion speed, they don't give you as much gas as fiber containing veggies. Whole wheat breads and crackers aid well in assisting but should not be used as your primary source of colon cleansing.

Things to avoid: now this is a toughy because I am a certified card-carrying cheesehog but you should limit your cheese intake to a little tiny bit a day or regular amount every other day or every three days. Cheese is fiber's sworn enemy and you don't want your lower abdomen to be their battleground for 5 days in a row. No siree. Been there and never going back.

I hope this helps you on your quest to be regular. Go forth and be merry with the knowledge that your colon is a happy colon.

It's Time We Had "The Talk"

Candy bars.

Here's the adorable and lovable and demonizing thing about candy bars: just when you satisfy your urge with one variety by over-consuming them until death is knocking at your door, you discover another even better tasting one to obsess over.

Witness: The first "relationship" was with Heath bars. I love heath. I love toffee and chocolate and little tiny nuts. I love them getting stuck to my back molars. I love them broken up in Blizzards. I love them on boats and floats and with goats. Gross.

After I broke it off with Heath (I just accidentally typed Keath and thought that was ironic since I've broken up with more candy bars then boys in my lifetime, I digress). After Heath came Reese's PB Cups. Holy mackerel on a corn dog stick. These beauties could be eaten melty and gooey or frozen with equal delight. They can be nibbled or snatched up in one bite. They go well in the center of sugar cookies, though secretly you want to say to hell with the cookie and give me more PB cups. I ate the bejesus out of those.

Just when I thought I was safe from PB and chocolate cravings, they had to go and invent this freaking bar, Nutrageous. I'm definitely one who gives credit where credit is due, and let me tell you, it was pretty freaking outrageous. Chunky, crunchy peanut butter and nuts and chocolate? Yes, I'll have about a thousand, thank you. Buy one bar in the checkout lane? Screw that, I'm going to Sam's Club, and that's just to take the edge off.

Next up was a surprise, I'd battled with the social stigma of Snicker's bars for sometime, never succumbing to peer pressure and advertising to get me on the bandwagon. Then one day I said to myself, Self, get off your high horse and try a damn Snickers bar, it won't kill you. WHO DAT? I luh uh uh uh uve Snickers bars. Mostly the Giant Size ones, Fun Size doesn't do the whole ensemble enough justice. I don't like them in ice cream though, strike one for Snicker.

Following the Snickers attack of 2005 came a new addition, Take 5. How about take 405? That's what happened after I tried this little doozy out of the vending machine while working 12 hour night shifts. If you don't think you deserve a Take 5 after a 12 hour night shift, you're masochistic. Everyone deserves a Take 5, everyone! I'd like to put my political beliefs where my mouth is and say that if we'd all just sit down and Take 5 together, we could get this whole mess with Iran straightened the f*&$ out. Senators, you are welcome.

Lately, another surprising turn of events has happened. And! He snuck up on me with the Fun Size. I never thought it possible, but the cookie-carmel-chocolate combination of holiness that is a Twix bar has stolen my heart this time. I am a slave to the Twix bar. I think about him all day and have resorted to emptying my pockets and wallet of all change before leaving for work so I don't "accidentally" stop by one of the 3 thousand vending machines in this place for a quickie. It's like a sickness of intense proportions now that there's practically two of me calling for the Twix-bar's head. Just typing about it is giving me the shakes.

I wonder if we'd spend a whole session on this at therapy?

Things That Have Become Increasingly Difficult To Do:

Pick up something I dropped.

Sit in a chair, any chair, for more than 5 minutes.

Contemplate Yoga.

Cross my ankle over my knee.

Find clothes that fit my waistline.

Tolerate bad breath.

Make meals that I'm not sick of eating.

Avoid tooting in public (I do this at least 3 times a day).

Paint my toenails.

Perform certain toilet tasks with ease (ie sitting down and standing up, let alone the other stuff).

Avoid touching my belly when he's caterwauling in there.

Wear a bra and/or pants.

Walk up 3 flights of stairs without resembling a rhinoceros during an asthma attack.

Deny the peanut butter and nutella urges.

Give a shit about weight gained as direct result of said urges.

Think about exercising.

Sneak Attack

So today I like New York. My work colleagues surprised the bejesus out of me yesterday with a baby shower in our conference room. Complete with plastic table cloths, baby-esque confetti, pot luck salads, and 14 kinds of dessert. I could not believe that people actually know my name, let alone would contribute their flour and 2 liter pop, chocolate chips and salad forks, time and money to celebrate the impending due date of this gigantic basketball who will soon join the Laugh More family. People are so terrific. Today people are terrific. Two days ago people were seriously going to get their asses beat when they cut me off at the toll booth on the way to work. But today is different.

We played that scary game where people try to guess how big your waist size is by cutting a piece of string that would signify your belt size. Yeah, I was looking around the room and I kid you not at least 10 people had string 4 feet long or more. 4 feet? For reals? I was about to get all ghetto in their faces before I remembered it was a baby shower. I managed to contain myself until I got home and was all, "Oh yeah? Mrs. 4-Feet-Ribbon? Let me measure your waist size missy. Now who's laughing? Huh? Yeah, that's what I thought". Jigga. (Not sure what that means).

I was so stuffed full of food by the end that I actually refused to take food home (a first). But now I'm kinda missing those extra turkey sandwiches that might still be in the breakroom frig...

Otherwise, everything's trucking along. Our next few weekends are full of parties, get togethers, childbirth classes, visitors, etc. And I feel like 4 weeks is going to be gone before I know it. It seriously takes some effort to not freak out about getting everything done now-a-days, but I'm doing my best to be in complete denial. Denial is a powerful, powerful drug, my friends. Have some. Every OB should write prescriptions for Denial to all of their newly pregnant patients. Stressed out? Pop a few Denial. Over your weight limit? Take a Denial! Husband chattering away about wanting to go to Tokyo 3 weeks before your due date? DECAPITATE HIM, then down some Denial.

At Least the Seams on My Stockings are Straight...

1930's Marital Scale

Can't say much for: "Wears pajamas instead of nightgown" and "Wears pajamas while cooking" - Let's just be real here: "Wears pajamas all day" and cut the BS.

Need to improve: "Often comments on husband's strength and masculinity."

Don't know what this means: "Reacts with pleasure and delight to marital congress."

How did you do? I'm a 47 which I think is pretty darn high considering my husband is constantly trying to convince people how afraid of me he is.

Sounds Kinda Kinky

My mega-amazing sister Gina and her friend Kari stayed with us last week and oh my God, I cannot tell you what they did for our apartment. Let me analogize. They did for my apartment what Madonna did for sex in the 80's. They did for my apartment what Sour Patch Kids did to gummi bears. They did for my apartment what THE INTERNET did for HUMANITY. Are you starting to get the picture? Because I need to conveyerize it to you.

Prior to the "arrival" there were boxes, both fully packed and partially unpacked, in every room. There were misplaced items all over the place, ie dishes in the office, toolbox in the kitchen, and towels on the deck. There was barely room to sit on any surface that wasn't covered with miscellaneous items without impaling your rear end.

Post the "arrival" there is order to the household! Order! There are no boxes in the living room, bedroom, kitchen, or bathroom. There are not 14 extra pieces of furniture in the living room. Boxes of storage are in the attic. And people. PEOPLE. The NURSERY is now a NURSERY. I apologize for all of the yelling, but I'm a tad bit excited over the recent developmentations. Now I really can find my camera cord and will Mos' Def' be picturizing the place and leave the evidence hitherfore for you to see for yourselves.

You might notice some extra word creation today and you can thank the secretary down the hall for starting me off today with the sentence: "Then he had to come back and defragmentilate it!"

Go Speed Racer! Go!

OMG: WARNING! THIS IS SO DAMN ADDICTING!

Typeracer if you dare.

Reminds me of my 4th grade computing class with Mr. Winters at New Albany Elementary and the depths of despair I would sink to after realizing my dreams of becoming a speedracer-typer were doomed. Damn you, Brandy Kolanko, and your majic flying fingers!

Other notables from Mr. Winters' class were Prince of Persia, Oregon Trail, and he taught us how to make business cards on the computer by taping shiny tin foil paper to the card before putting it through the printer to make fancy letters for our names. Life lessons, people.

Seriously With The Heat?

I don't know if you've heard anything about this little heat wave we've been experiencing in NYC the past few days but let me give you a firsthand account.

Ridiculous Heat = Overpowering Desire to Die or Kill = Unhappy Fat Pregnant Lady = Death to the Masses.

Now I wouldn't complain, I swear, I would not complain, except for the fact that the reason I am unbearably hot and sweaty constantly is because (ready for this one?) THERE IS NO AIR CONDITIONING IN MY 12th FLOOR OFFICE OR IN MY THIRD FLOOR HOME. Compliments of our wonderful Maintenance staff here at work and my Near Death Landlord who is not yet aware that he is near death but he's about to find out shortly just how close he and death are right now. VERY.

In other news, our power went out last night at 9pm, yes! And unfortunately it's difficult to run that one tiny window AC unit in our bedroom which manages to keep me slightly cooler than "Well Done" but pretty much "Medium Well" at all times with no power. So it was back to Heat = Die = Kill last night until about 1am when it finally kicked back on, along with all of the lights in our apartment that G apparently went around turning on when he realized the power was out. So I'm jolted awake after I had finally fell asleep swimming in ice packs and get up to start turning off all the lights. As I get back in bed a few minutes later, G wakes up from his dead sleep which he had been in all night (I know because I was watching him while I lay there sweating to death), looks around bewildered for a minute and says, "The power's back on!" Now, I ask you, in the same circumstances what would you have said at this point? Does it involve a lot of four letter words? Because my answer does.

So now when people ask me everywhere I go if the heat is killing me and then follow it up with "I wouldn't want to be you right now" I swiftly kick them in the nuts and/or boob and tell them to shove it. What? I claim free speech and pregnancy induced insanity.

Welcome To Rudeville

One of the two of my readers may remember how I used to write often about my neighborhood, Brooklyn when we first moved here and all of it's little idiosyncrasies that made G and I fall madly and passionately in love with it. Recently, we have relocated to the Bronx. While waiting for it's little idiosyncrasies to make themselves known, I have noticed great, big characteristics that make me want to pour freezing cold water down Bronx's t-shirt.

A.) Did I tell you about the move-in from hell wherein our landlord was ripping out our windows when the movers showed up with all of our crap in a torrential downpour? Let's just skip that one then.

B.) On our first weekend morning in the Ronx, G, Hunter, and me walked down the block to the little neighborhood bakery to introduce ourselves to the restaurant scene. We rope The Mag up outside and proceed in to admire the bakery delicacies and select ourselves two bagels, one coffee, and a chocolate milk (for the baby). While awaiting delivery of our toasted bagels with cream cheese, we (read: G) grabs a pastry to share. We promptly inhale our pastry, collect our bagels and are leaving the establishment. G was still inside while I unroped the beast and began covering him with affection, per usual. WHEN! This 65+ year old extremely aggressive man begins pelting me with "bad pet owner" insults. I was so confused and surprised I had no idea what to say to him. I stood there mouth agape with Hunter at attention about to kick this guy's ass when G exited the store to see what was happening. Old guy fired off a few more about how "great" it must be to have to wait outside while his owners sat inside eating breakfast, etc. Then the old bugger jumped in his car - that was incidentally parked in the handicap space when he clearly needed no assistance with walking, and took off.

Now listen up because I'm only going to say this one thousand times. Accuse me of many things, perpetual lateness, consistent unkempt housekeeping, binge drinking, detail extrapolating, or even self-medicating through over-eating. But DO NOT accuse me of abusing my dog because, People, he's the only one making out on both mine and my husbands advanced education degrees and healthy paychecks. THE ONLY ONE. There are few things that dog lives without and even fewer things he has to experience that he does not absolutely love. So if I decide to tie his leash to a pole outside the bakery I am patronizing in my full view and only a few steps away from me at all times so that he can accompany to and from said bakery, than SO BE IT. Kiss my pregnant white butt if you don't approve. And! I was sitting down because I'm SUPPORTING A GROWING LIFE INSIDE MY UTERUS and recently sitting down for breaks has come in handy while I grow TO THE SIZE OF A HOUSE.

I'm sorry.

Was the outrage a smidge thick there? She's a tad bit testy these days (read: most of her life).

I Spy

I have added another link to my daily blog browsing obsession. I got this one off of Maggie of Mightygirl.net and it's refreakingdiculous and I love it. I feel as though Mimi has an appreciation of my decorum problems and probably would approve of most of them.

Enjoyathon: http://smartypants.diaryland.com/

Cannot Locate Camera Computer Interface Wire

Since I cannot seem to locate a clean pair of underpants, let alone the camera, or wire with which I must connect my computer to to add pictures to the interworld, I decided to dredge up a few pics from the past and photoarchive the day we found out we were pregnant, rather I'm pregnant and G is forced to obey my every command... Witness!

The first pregnancy test I took was what I thought was two or three days after my period was supposed to start. This is a mystical assessment however, because my cycles are to regular what Obama is to old people. Was that an okay analogy? I didn't really try that hard there. Anyway - the initial prego test was negativo so we discarded it and proceeded to drink a few bottles of wine for close calls sakes. Two or three more days went by and still no visit from the hematopoesis gods, so I returned to CVS to purchase another, more expensive test, in the event that the negative sign is indirectly correlated to the dollar amount you spend on the plastic pee test stick. With G at the ready with the stopwatch, I peed away again. One line appeared right away, three minutes passed and there was a hairline perpendicular line that G considered not serious enough to warrant bringing a new life into the world. Two more minutes and there she was! Plus sign = Kniggity Knocked Up. FYI: the instructions say disregard results after 5 minutes or something ridiculous like that, but the giant roller derby bouncing ball in my abdomen begs to differ with said instructiones (Spanish for instructions).
We only had a few hours to kill (I wonder how often I'll type a sentence like that after this baby pops into the world) before our friends were coming over to party down so we took the opportunity to put our feelings over the new discovery into photograph form. Here I am saying, "Heeeey, I'm Fertile. What's your name?"
After explaining the sticky situation to Hunter, his thoughts were somewhat bleak on the matter: as in "Oh you have got to be f#$%ing kidding me". And then, "This better not disturb my sleep, my treat consumption, or my ability to make you two idiots do whatever I want you to".
And here we have the new parents-to-be saying, "We have no idea what we're getting ourselves into but we think a call to my dad and $100 in bail isn't going to get us far this time."
Preempted with the photographers direction to "pretend the baby was just born":


I know what you're thinking, and you're right. Us = Huge Dorks. But now we have a little baby dork on the way and then we'll outnumber you and your Cool Friend, so there.