Nutrition-ish

Do you know what I just said to my 3 year old?

"Eat your bacon and then carrots and you may have your sour candy".

Friends, do not judge. I am a creative type. I believe food pyramid means different things to different people and that is a-ok with me.

PS. If you saw his face when he ate the bacon, you'd realize it's totally awesome to be the one who gets to make these decisions...

At Least I Didn't Mix Them All Together

I have officially graduated to a crazy city person who mumbles to themselves as they walk around aimlessly looking in trashcans.

Convincing evidence #1: Yesterday, I had to run to the grocery to get a few things and while I was there I happened upon several extra items that I could not pass up. Here they are in order of importance:
Half Sour Pickles
Watermelon
Ranch Dressing
Tuna salad
Tapioca pudding
Tomatoes
Cucumbers

So you know this is going directly downhill, right? I did not realize how heavy my stash was going to be to carry the 8 blocks to my apartment so while crossing over Broadway I spied the parkbench those nice city planners strategically placed directly in my path, and I decided to rest a bit. And while I was resting, I decided it would behoove me to have a little snack to keep up my energy on the long walk home. Two half sour pickles later I took stock of my situation as passerby after passerby stopped to stare at me and I couldn't stop laughing. Well, I was in this far, I might as well go the distance. So I ripped open the watermelon container and had roughly half of it. I would have moved directly onto the tomato and cucumber but I didn't have a knife or salt and pepper so I opted to save those for home.

I gathered up my loot and started the long walk only to stop several blocks later to readjust my grip. There I started hysterically laughing again as my inner brain whispered to itself, "I definitely didn't get enough half sour pickles for this".

Convincing evidence #2: Last week after work I had to run some errands and while doing so I remembered all I had for lunch was a giant plate of fries, and that I better have something a tad more on the nutritious side to even the score a bit. At the smoothie place I studied my choices to get the best possible bang for my beverage and picked the Protein Punch. Back outside I swigged a couple gulps of it and literally almost grabbed the nearest person walking past to force them into the smoothie place to buy a Protein Punch. It was the most spiritual experience I've had since Ocean's 11 came out. I was in awe.

It took every ounce of my energy to not stop the next 4,000 people I passed to do the exact same thing and I barely made it to Duane Reade and Planet Kids before I died.

Is this what self actualization is all about? Because holy hell.

Salty, Salty, Salty

Want to know what made me lose my mind just now? The delivery guy only gave me ONE salt packet for my fries. O-N-E. (And I've decided I really, really can't tell you how many fries I consume these days. Really.) On the topic of food, did I tell you about the Rome episode of No Reservations? Because you are depriving yourself of happiness by not watching it. And I'm no expert but I'm pretty sure that's against the commandments.

So this is probably weird*, but as people start figuring out I'm pregnant again I have this overwhelming urge to trick them into thinking I'm not and they just called me fat. So far, I've almost made 5 people faint/vomit/pee their pants by telling them I'm not pregnant I just eat too much. One of which was definitely more of a "boss", than "co-worker", but I literally lost control of my mouth when I started talking**. I mean, I eventually tell them I'm kidding so I'm not a total d-bag, right? And it's definitely better than saying, "Yes, my husband and I had sex and the egg was fertilized with sperm so now my boobs are getting huge and soon my vagina will shoot out a watermelon. You're so kind to notice". Come on, I have some semblance of decency. (Except for that one about engorgement...)

However, do not misunderstand this as complaining or taking for granted what we have been gifted with by having another baby. I am more than over the top excited for Bambino, Part Deux and I do thank God He forgave us for screwing up the first one and let us have another try. I simply think it's a tad weird to talk about internal organ formation with a person I have said 3 words to in 4 years, and I'm pretty sure two of them were calling them by the wrong name.

*Did I really have to preface the story with this admission? Would any of this blog be here if I thought like most people? I must redress.

**Again with stating the obvious.

The Visor Is Extra

Because you never seem to have the time to look through those hair magazines at the salon to pick out your ideal do, I've coined and patented the haircut term for you.

Observe and Appreciate: The Star Wars Helmet.

Don't thank me now, my birthday is in a few months...

In other news, last week Griffin told me he broke his head. I said, "What?" And he said, with exasperated efficiency, "I broke......my head". So, of course I told him, as any good parenting award recipient would, "Well, if you think it hurts now, wait till your first hangover".

In other other news, you should definitely watch Anthony Bourdain's Rome episode from Monday night. If you don't want to rip your tv down off the wall/stand and eat it during this episode I don't know what is wrong with your brain, but there are plenty of neurologists who would take your money to find out. Maybe they'll even ask you to donate your brain to science afterward. (Although, I had to work on those things in nursing school and let's just say body donation is not on my list of top ten things I have to do before I die and go to Bora Bora.) Just saying.

In unrelated other news, we had a family vaca to Salt Fork Lodge last weekend and it was awesome. Pics to come, when I decide that uploading photos is more important than ridding this city of fried foods one french fry at a time after work today. It's a dirty job...

Get Out the Retractors!

It's not often that I issue retractions on statements I've made, written, or even those I've imagined making or writing (ask my husband if you doubt me). But today marks a day in history, my friend(s). I have eaten my words for lunch and they were f-ing delicious.

It's all about a jolly fellow named Mr. Softee, and how I once tarnished his good name with slanderous accusations regarding his product. I've discussed my feelings with several people over the years and in recent discussions had decided to give him one chance at redemption. (Either that or my ass has decided to take up a mind of its own and is in a breakneck race to overcome the size of NY state as fast as possible by way of dessert consumption. ((A very definite possibility))).

So. I planned the rendevous for several days and finally took the plunge earlier this afternoon with a vanilla cone dipped in chocolate. People. If you ever see someone rolling around the streets of Washington Heights with no regard for public decency but completely overcome by her consumption of a chocolate dipped ice cream cone, it's me. Stop and say hi. Just don't take any pictures. My agent would totally crap.

I'm a much happier person right now than two hours ago, thanks to Senor Softee, and my entire workplace is much appreciative of his efforts. Especially since earlier I decided to go door to door down the hallway ranting about the men's toilet overflowing for the bazillionth time and why can't they fix it right and who is dumping in there and causing all the problems, I know it's you Construction Man, you're fooling NO ONE.

So, I retract my earlier insults and urge you to visit your neighborhood Mr. Softee as soon as you humanly can. Or you know, whenever.

Now I'm No Manolo Blahnik...

Just in case you have reconciled with the idea that I'm having another child, let me show you what you're dealing with. Evidently, I thought it was okay to leave the house like this on Monday to run my errands all over town. Please note: the picture hides the fact that the one on the left has a heel and the one on the right clearly does not.

Wanna know when I realized this had happened? 20 minutes after I left the house.

People. Please.

Wherein I Once Again Thank the Lord I Have Faith

Holy hell has it been that long? I kept thinking of you (my solo reader that may or may not be my mom) and hoping you hadn't forgotten me. It is I, and I am alive. For now.

Much to fill you in on in the meantime, starting with the fact that it's so f-ing hot right now I'm hanging out in my microwave for some relief. Also, we went on an amazing vacation to White Birch Lodge a few weeks ago and I cannot say enough about lake water swimming. Except that I'm a million miles away from it right now and that is undesirable.
Here's a pic:That's the whole fam-damly on the husband's side, plus the 3 absolutely edible babies that pretty much took control of the vacation and had there way with it from the beginning. Obviously. Griffin had more fun that you can throw a rock at, which he did, over and over and over. It was quite interesting one day how he threw a kicking and screaming fit on the beach because he couldn't pick up the 14 ton boulder that was parked in the sand so he could throw it in the water. He's his father's son, I'm telling you. Not at all like me.

Another funny story goes something like this:
3am: wake to get ready to go to airport
4am: car arrives
6am: flight to Chicago
8:30am: running up airport gate with pee* running down my arms, onto my pants, down my legs and into my sandals. *Not my pee.

There's something calming about the feel of your child's pee drenching your clothing in a public place that you're just going to have to take my word for until it happens to you. Or maybe it's the direct hand of God reaching down to pat you on the back and say, "Hey there, you're going to be alright. Some day."

3 to the Izz-0 And Still Got It

*Griffin Story Alert*

So his new thing is, how can I put this delicately? Farting. And then sheepishly in a very quiet voice announcing to everyone in earshot, "Toot".

The other day he was raving on about something or other to me for a full 14 minutes of uninterrupted toddler-babble when he passed a little gas. He didn't even take a breath and stop before he goes, "toot", and kept right on talking.

Which sets you up for yesterday's event when Grant and Griffin were playing in the living room while I did some work on the computer in the next room. I hear random bumps and yells scattered with a few musical toy interludes and finally someone rips a huge one which jarred the very bones in my spinal column. I wait for it, and Griffin yells, "DADA TOOT! DADA TOOOOOOT!"

Happy Birthday, Babe. We love you.

Short Story Shorter...

WE FOUND AN APARTMENT. And since I am so good to you, I will spare you the disgusting and heartwrenching details of all the many mishaps we made along the way. Because the greatest outcome of all was achieved, I did not kill a real estate agent. S.c.o.r.e.

I will fill you in photographically soon, but first another "quote of the century" to add to your collection. After 53 days of the most awkward and personally offensive professional relationship 3 people could try to screw up, our real estate agent and ourselves have reached a successful end. Bless the god that I continually insult. Amen.

So I no-shit got a text from her earlier asking, "Do you guys drink wine? If so, what color?". Just reading it made my cold, dead heart of a New York Real Estate Casualty begin to melt. So I texted her back, completely honestly, "Definitely! Both, we're not picky".

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL. Out loud.

Who was I trying to kid? I will respect her less if I see her tomorrow and her cell phone is still in working order after she saw that message from me and resisted hurling it into the nearest concrete surface she could find, as hard as she possibly could.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's update.

But at least: we're moving! Y to the hell E.S.

News In The Breeze

Several updates on our apartment search.

1. Never ever ever ever use "Sahar Ziv" as your real estate broker in New York. Ever. Nevernevernevernevernever. He's a total liar and would cheat and steal to line his own pockets. It actually took me a month to even get to the point where I could type his name. That's how much I loathe him. Nuf said. EVEREVEREVER.

2. Because I don't have enough balls mid-air currently, 1 of our top choices of apartments is currently a shell of a place with no walls, no floors, no doors, and no kitchen. Because coordinating renovations was my second major, did you know that? (!)

3. A major factor in our desire to "win" #2 above is because while we were standing outside it haggling with the broker, a quite conspicuous neighbor happened to be walking her dog down the street... Are you ready for it? Catherine.Zeta.Jones. As in Catherine Zeta Jones-Douglas? As in Catherine Zeta Jones-T Mobile Spokeswoman of America? As in Catherine Zeta Jones of the Fabulously Beautiful Club? Yes, she walked her fluffy little dog right past Griffin and I as we oogled and giggled like school girls over her. And now you see why I have latched onto this apartment with every shred of my strength and will only let it go to the next bidder if they pry it from my cold dead grip. (But seriously, I'm serious).

4. The amount of patience I currently have with real estate brokers in general would not even fill up a thimble. And that's being generous. I often like to harass/fire them right off the bat, just to test the waters. (This has yet to prove useful, but still makes me feel good).

5. Saturday night after dining with Caitlin and Dave at Gus & Gabriel's Gastropub on 79th street, we walked right past another conspicuous gentleman in a trendy little bowler hat. If you thought I pulled out the big guns with Catherine, watch this: DETECTIVE ELLIOT STABLER. No, I am not pulling your leg. These are the kinds of neighbors one acquires when one leaves her home of perpetual exile in the Bronx and travels to the promised land of the Upper West Side. I seriously almost screamed when I saw him. Forget Catherine, this man is 40% of my entertainment television ladies and gentleman, something akin to a weekly prayer service.

Shoot, that's all for now. Eek, there's no time!

PS. Funny sidebar from this morning: I bought these black tights a few weeks back and my friend Erin said they'd be too big but I didn't believe her so I got them anyway. And then this morning I was hoofing it to work because every garage in the g-forsaken Washington Heights area was packed so I had to park 14 miles away. Long, coldbutt story short, by the time I made it to my office my tights were around my knees. Which makes me laugh.

Happy Friday!

In The Criminal Justice System...

I totally forgot to tell you this weird factoid of the day from Monday. Now, with our current living situation, aka living in bfing Egypt*, I rarely have an urge to take public transit. And considering I have always had a hate-hate relationship with the MTA, remember that totally fun transit strike of 2005?, add to that my 2+ hours of subway ride from our old place in Brooklyn to my job in Washington Heights (read: corner of 168th Street and oh-my-gosh-are-you-serious-with-this-commute?), equals I would rather exercise in a bikini in front of my strictly Hasidic rabbi neighbor than take the bus and subway anywhere not medical-emergency necessary. Enough said.

So! When I do actually partake of ye ol' subway, I have the pleasure of treating it like some sort of mass commune with the people of New York City. Cut to this past Monday when I had to jump the 1/B/C trains from W 72nd St. to 42nd and 8th Ave to pickup my cell phone from my friend Carly (whose house we spent the Super Bowl at and I was totally awesome to leave my cell phone there and in no way willing to turn our car around on the way home to go get it, thus requiring me to retrieve it on Monday {holy run-on sentence}) and I'm somewhat in a hurry. As I swipe my metrocard and begin to walk through the turnstile, this "WOMAN" comes barreling, much like a stampeding hippopotamus, through my turnstile. Oh hell no.

And because all I need at this point in my life is a good subway knifing, I push her backwards through the turnstile. Did you hear that?

I.push.a.completely.strange.crazy.person.backwards.through.the.turnstile.

Yeah. I thought that deserved repeating. And, weirdly enough, she lets me, giving little resistance. But once I'm through, she grabs me, drags me off to the side of the entrance and keeps repeating, "Pull over, pull over!" And then, "I'm a cop. What were you doing?" Yeah. Seriously. And then the ex-barreling hippo turned SVU cop says, "Thanks to you someone just got away. I was following someone. If anyone ever pushes you like that, they're a cop, and get out of their way". And she just walks off as I mumble some sort of apologetic trailed off sentence.

Now, you tell me, was she for real? Because that sounds pretty f-ing made up. And I consider myself somewhat of an expert in the area.

*Wow, two references to Egypt in 1 week. Did a buzzer go off somewhere or something?

Notes to Samantha Brown

(Excerpt from my drunken email to Samantha Brown last night.)

Congratulations on 10 years of amazing travels on the travel channel!...Letmegetstraighttothepoint,Iamnotoneforverbosityorbeatingaroundthebush.Iwouldlovetoanchoranewprojecthighlightingtravelaroundtheglobewithatoddler.MyhusbandandIarecurrentlyNewYorkers,originallyhighschoolsweetheartsfromColumbus,Ohio,onthebrinkofconcuringourgreatestambitions,withourmostimportantaudienceintow,our18montholdson,Griffin.Callmeanytime,IhaveincredibledreamsofhoppingthemetroinCairo,andhikingtheapalachiantrail.

And no, I am not kidding. You may notice a little something off from my regular literary prose, which may or may not be related to the fact that Griffin ripped off my space bar yesterday and in my haste to tell Samantha my ingenious and highly profitable idea, I had no time to fix it. Also? Why I chose riding the Metro in Egypt and hiking the misspelled "Apalachian" Trail as exciting travels to entice Samantha with, I cannot explain at this point in time. Only to say that those would in fact be badass, or children-services-call, things to do with an 18 month old.

Part of me thinks I should leave it as is before sending it to the Travel Channel. And if they aren't open-minded enough to think I am television-worthy, then I don't want to work for them anyway. I mean, if they hired that fat guy to eat the world's most disgusting food, I've got to at least have a shot, right?

If not, I'll just start my own show with Anthony Bourdain... Now there's a guy who would love my show. I'm positive it would make his Tivo.

Here's One for Ortho Tri Cyclen

Call me crazy, but I think my OB is trying to send me subliminal messages. I mean, it's not that crazy considering those people who think they were abducted by ufo's, but you know... If I constantly compared myself to those people I'd end up digging for unicorn caves in the Indian Ocean. (I'm just saying.)

So anyway, I saw my doc this week and she asked tons of questions per usual including the ever-popular "What are you using for birth control?" To which I replied, "Condoms". To which she replied with a blank stare and nervous little cough. Now, maybe I'm being oversensitive, or maybe it's the fact that she delivers, oh maybe 236 babies a day for her living, but I definitely picked up on some negative vibes after this exchange.

Yada, yada, yada and just as she was getting ready to leave she quickly asked, "And what method of birth control are you using?"

....

Now, I have an intensely invigorating and quasi-intellectual position for my hospital and consider myself somewhat medically educated. But all that aside, I think she's debating between telling me that my choice of contraception is not actually considered birth control or if she should just go ahead and schedule my next visit in a month to see how far along I am.

Lady. Understand this. I have an 18 month old cross between the Tasmanian Devil and a fire hose who still routinely wakes up screaming for me at 4:30am. That's the best birth control there is.

This One's Going in the Baby Book

From time to time I hear things from my Grant like, "Do not blog about this" or "I don't want this to end up on your blog" and "This is not to go on your website". Which, of course you know translates to "ABSOLUTELY BLOGWORTHY" in my brain of brains, or lack thereof. Hereafter lies the latest addition to this group... (Faint of Heart Disclaimer: If you have problems reading, talking, hearing, or otherwise being part of certain feminine matters regarding the "special time of the month", you may want to sit this one out).

[Curtain up, my mother's house over the holidays which is a venerable 3 ring circus of adults, children, babies, cats, Santa, neighbors, solicitors etc etc.] The house is somewhat empty, magically, and I run to the loo to quickly pee all whilst leaving the door open so I can hear Grif getting into some kind of trouble all the way across the house, knowing I can't actually stop him, and imagining the horror I will find upon exiting said restroom.

Only this time he pops his head in for a visit just as I grab my Kotex from the drawer. He immediately begins screaming something at the top of his lungs. Now, this little 18 month-old fireball of mine is quite verbal at this age but there are still many, many, many things he says that I scratch my head at and move on because there is no possible way he is saying something intelligible to my brain (much like 90% of the things my husband says as well, but I digress). I initially do the same to this exclamatory outburst but as he keeps it up for 2 minutes I realize he is saying something. And when the realization of what it is smacks me full in the face I have to hold on to the wall to keep from falling off my "seat", both in comedic appreciation and also in fear of what he will blog about me someday...

Let me digress again for a second to give you some back story. There are several things in this world that can make my son absolutely lose his mind in excitement for. Lest anyone question his paternity or maternity, one of them is food. (Obviously). Trucks, trains, airplanes, babies, slides, dogs, and balls also rank pretty high up there on the scale of unimaginable bliss. And, within the food category also exists a hierarchy of favoritism. Starting out with chicken or meatballs, advancing to bananas and peas, then up to blueberries, and at the utmost top remain the unseated champions yogurt (or "gogurt") and cheese.

Back to my restroom experience...

After seeing me begin to unwrap my Kotex, Griffin begins circling the bathroom yelling at the top of his lungs, as if his very life depended on me understanding what he is saying, "Cheese? CHEESE! Cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese. C.H.E.E.S.E!"

I'm so proud of that kid.

Which is Practically Scientific Research

We went to Park City with an amazing couple friend of ours, Brad and Nicole, or Bricole for future reference. The weather was amazing, the skiing was awesome, and I only had 2-3 emotional breakdowns about missing G to the izzo. Note to mom's: if you're on vacation 800 miles from your 17 month old, do not, I repeat do not try to talk to him on the phone. Disastrous. There I am, balling in the bathroom at the bottom of the ski lift as women stop to stare at the mumbling marshmallow sobbing into her cell phone. But needless to say, he was perfectly fine without us, or so we hear from the grandmom's (Who incidentally probably wouldn't tell us if he was a basketcase because they knew we would have been on the first plane back if they told us he so much as sneezed. And since it behooved them to have us gone, so they could hog him to themselves, they refrained from mentioning anything like that. Thank you, Grandmommies).

So there we are, our first night in Park City and after a 5am flight, an hour bus ride, and 4 hours of skiing, we all decide to hit the local grocery store for some provisions and also food etc. I'm cruising the cereal isle, almost comatose from exhaustion when Nicole runs over to tell me, "I think Katherine Heigl is here!"

To prove how out if it I was, I go, "The girl in Grant's class who runs the marathons? Who gives a flying rats a**, she's too skinny anyway". (Again, I was barely conscious and that is why my initial reaction was not to run up and down the isles screaming, "K-K! It's me! Your long lost, BFF! Do you want to come to my house to play?")

Nicole stares at me for a second and takes off to get another item on our list. As I near the milk and eggs isle I glance to my left and OH MY GOD, THERE'S KATHERINE HEIGL. Wait for it... Ohhhhhhhhh, Katherine Heigl, now I get it. (Brain attempting to connect neurons now.)

And friends, let me make your day. She. Doesn't. Really. Look. Like. That. Now, let me go off for a second here and I'll be back to where we started in a second. The thing, or one of the many many things about show business that pisses me off is that women are portrayed and expected to look unbelievably gorgeous at all times which is a feat not even Jesus could pull off, so that's one thing. Jesus doesn't want us to kill ourselves and airbrush virtual people out of thin air so that small children can grow up thinking the world is made up of 10 foot Barbie and Ken dolls. In fact, I believe there may be some underground footage of satan himself creating Barbie and Ken, but it's strictly on the DL so I can't show you.

Getting back to Katherine, I think she's unbelievably cute, I sincerely do. But - she has flaws, and zits, and greasy hair too. And I only stared at her for about 5 minutes, but I'm pretty sure nothing she was wearing was name brand or even new for that matter. As if I needed any more reason to stalk her, now I really want to because she's normal! Or so my assessment was after 5 minutes of staring...

Probably Not Going to Make "Most Popular" with This One...

Alright, I admit it, I'm a card carrying member of a "Mom's Group". I'm not proud of it, but at this point, it's either talk crochet and crockpots or completely lose my mind. Now where's my damn knitting needle?

So to carry my weight in the Mom's Group I've posted several memo's on our google page from time to time. The last post being yesterday and involving the first mention in 2 months of a night out for the mom's to leave the kids behind with dad and finally get to know each other a little more than, "Sara! Get that light plug out of your mouth!" or "I've changed 15 poopy diapers today!" Do you see the problem here?

Cut to this morning when I eagerly log in to check all of the hits I've gotten on my Night Out invite and do you want to know what I saw?

(MNO) Mom's Night Out
By Teresa B* - Nov 5 - 1 author - 0 replies

W.O.W. Not only do I have no prospects for sanity here, I'm now the "Bad Mom" because clearly I "don't care" about my kid and his infinite poopy diapers and lego stacking abilities. I'm sure the group owner is scouring her google capabilities to see how fast she can un-join me from the group. But I've got news for you, Crazy Mom Group Ladies, I hate crochet! In fact. I've had the same scarf in progress for 3 YEARS, and I'm damn proud of it. So shove that in your crockpot and slow-cook it.

Yep, I Did That.

To save you the trouble of googling this before you send an email to the entire department that confirms the suspicions that you're a flaming idiot.

Moot Vs. Mute.

Anything I can do to help my fellow 'Intellectually Challenged' persons.

In other news, on my way to work this morning a man walking his 5 year old daughter to school gave me the once over and proclaimed, "God Bless You". And hereafter my list:
1. Shut up, you're walking your daughter to school.
2. What the hell does that even mean anyway? Do I need blessed today?
3. I reiterate: You, with a 5 year old (though she is insanely cute with her pink backpack) = not hot.
4. I do confess that the blessing was much classier than the whistle, the profanity, or the gesturing but still - 5 year old. Gross.

*Brainstorm #3* They Also Drink Out of the Toilet

Does anyone else find it offensive that dog food commercials now very closely resemble TGI Friday's commercials? Maybe it's just me but the day I buy Chef Michael's Canine Creations for our dog is the day I iron my dinner napkins (or in other words, never). Plus, they try to sell the food because it looks like table food when in reality it looks like chunky dog food covered in gravy.

Attention Chef Michael advertising committee: the people of America do not think your commercial is appetizing. Because *Brainstorm #1* we can tell the difference between real food and dog food. What was that team meeting like: I know! Let's appeal to the people who think regular dog food does not look appetizing enough for their dogs! *Brainstorm #2* let me put this delicately: dogs lick their own butts. Are you really concerned they may not find dry dog food appetizing?

I have a better idea, can you do anything for Olive Garden? They need you now more than ever.

Note to Self: Dye Hair Before 15-Year

Why haven't I told you about my 10 year high school reunion yet? Why? Why? Why? Because I don't care if you have never met anyone from my high school at all, this is an entertaining story.

I'll skip over the part where I was either gigantically popular or enormously stupid which led me to be our senior class president, but I was. Which leaves me forever strapped to the responsibility of planning our reunions, and thereby receiving months and months of hate-mail emails telling me what a horrible job I'm doing, and how the reunion is going to suck, and how my eyebrows are uneven. *Highlight.* And maybe some would even say I deserve the hate email because I don't "plan things in advance" or "give a shit", but I say to those people, "f%$^ off" and if you would rather snort spaghetti through your nose than come to a reunion planned by me, than go for it Chef Boyardee. L'chaim.

My idea for our reunion involved two things: people and booze. Now, maybe I'm a little conceited here but I didn't estimate it taking me very long to secure these things for the party, like, all of 4.7 seconds of my time. Which must have just really pissed some people off. Wait I retract, there was a good 15 minutes it took me to stop and pick up sticky name tags, 15 minutes 4.7 seconds total. Added to some serious Facebook and emailing efforts to reach people and we were in the money.

Day of reunion arrives and Grant and I get there early, but not early enough because there was already 4 or 5 people waiting. Wow, the enthusiasm. I measure the evening on several points that added up to an all out raging success. The points are as follows:

- Out of 210ish classmates, around 80 were in attendance.

- A total of 4 people were cut off at the bar before 9pm.

- The cops were called 3 times.

- My tab was under $100.

If not for some minor fall backs (ie the bartender recognized me immediately as the "older sister" of one of her friends and ps she graduated high school in 2005), I was thrilled to have so many people there and watch everyone having a great time together. Especially, the part where our former classmate cornered Grant by the bar to give him this card before launching into a 15 minute narrative about his trip to the Netherlands for the Redhead Convention. Let that just sink in for a minute. Poor guy spent the entire party trying to locate every person in our class who had red hair to initiate them into the club. And by the way, you have to have a passcode to get into the website. Those redheads don't joke around. But by far, my favorite comment of the night was his and his alone, "Hey Mike, does your sister still have red hair?".

A-may-zing.

Flying My Bird to the One I Love

Have I told you about my hatred of flying? Well, I kind of freak out a tad and then there's the packing cluster f*^% that is my part time hobby considering how much we travel on a weekly basis. So all in all, it's a horrible experience for all parties involved. And since you know me so well by now, you know I have a husband story that I'm gearing up to tell you, right? Right!

You be the judge, do I need more shit going on when we fly to add to the 12 overweight bags that are costing me 1,000's of $$ that I don't have, which I have to now pay for online to save 15 bucks (because you know if there's 15 whole dollars to save I will walk to Nebraska, skin a goat, build an igloo, and be back before lunch thank-you-very-much), as well as online check-in to save us 15 minutes, and a screaming baby attached to my body by some chinese torture straight-jacket, and 398 liquids that are neither less than 3 oz, nor in a plastic ziplock bag, and God knows how I feel about the laptop that is completely pointless to take on a 3 day trip, but if he wants to take the GD thing then fine, take the GD thing, just don't ask me to help you at the conveyor belt because I also have a stoller, a diaper bag, a carry-on suitcase, and a purse all packed with roughly way too much crap that will probably be exploded on the other side of the x-ray scanner, just as they stop the husband for a 25 minute pat down because did I ever tell you that he is the Incredible Steel-Machinery man with at least 45% of his body made up of metal and or iron of some sort? Well, do I?

No. The answer is I do not need more rediculous shit to encumber me through airport security.

And yet.

After actually successfully maneuvering myself, my crap, and my screaming baby through the above cluster f%#*, I'm hobbling through the terminal towards the gate when my husband chases me down to tell me I have to go back out through security and check his carry-on suitcase at the counter because (wait for it) they won't let him carry-on his Gigantic Electric Power Drill.

[Blink.]

[Blink, blink.]

[Head ever so slowly tilts to one side.]

Friends. I started out under the premise that this is a safe place here on this site and I want it to remain one, so I will not actually tell you the 4 letter and 7 letter words I had to share with my happily wedded husband at that moment. I'll leave that for my diary and my shrink (read: bottle of vodka). Just take faith that I will never have to instruct Grant to forego packing the powertools in his GD carry-on bag ever again. Enough said.