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.