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.

Damn, Damn, Damn

I've strategically cleared my entire lunch hour (read: 10 minutes) for writing today's post and I left the damn magazine article at home. (!)

Well, there's no use crying over spilled milk, unless it's red wine and then break out the kleenex this is going to make history. So I'll try to use my memory to recall what I wanted to tell you (I know right? Scar-ey).

So I don't know if you get the magazine Parents but I do somehow and occasionally I get the chance to read it and often find some useful crap in there. Crap I wish I'd known before I did it the wrong way 18 times, but useful none the less. This month's useful crap was an article on Sleep Habits of babies and toddlers. I found the first two pages hugely vindicating sprinkled with a tip or two* I am currently trying out on the baby (or the one who runs our household now). How-to-the-ev-er. Smack dab in the center of this useful article was a quote from a doctor somewhere where it must be opposite day every F-ing day or something because this is what he said, paraphrased, "If your baby falls asleep while nursing, wake him up to a full alert state before laying him down so he will learn to put himself back to sleep".

.........................What In The Sam Hell Are You Talking About?

Let me put it this way, Doc, if you actually think any woman in her right mind would wake that sleeping baby up only to lay it down again, I want some of whatever drug you are on. Pronto. Also? What is your address because I need to know where to drop my kid off tonight so you can babysit him overnight, for the next 400 nights. And can I have your wife's cell number because I need to apologize to her for all of those nights she was up taking care of your children by herself. Poor woman (for several reasons).

Note to Parent's Senior Editor: No more Crazy Doctor consults. We're all set filling up on our own crazy for the year, thank you very much.

*The first thing I'm trying is to put him to bed as early as possible in the evenings, like 6:15pm last night, in an effort to get him more "good sleep" under the assumption that he will sleep later in the mornings** and not get up in the middle of the night screaming for his binky (or 'dinkdee!!!' as he calls it).

**Hmmmm. Would 5:15am constitute "later in the mornings"? Me thinks NO.

*2 The second thing I'm trying is a nightly massage before bed. The first night he looked at me like I had lost my mind and was trying to kill him via skin removal. The second night he went straight to OH MY GOD WOMAN I'M ABOUT TO DIE.

Beginning to think of retracting my earlier statement re: useful tips.

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.

How I Fired My Editor

What's awesome these days? Ooh! I know. How about teenage acne? I think I'd like to single handedly bring it back in style for the 20-something crowd. Hey, what can I say. I'm a trend setter!

And in other things that make my life awesomer, I'm about to leave work for a much needed 2 week vacation and everyone decided to flip the f out at me yesterday for taking my God-given right to paid time off. Bon Voyage, A-holes!

In conclusion, I don't know if I've told you before how I am frequently and rudely edited by my not-so-literary husband from time to time. (I mean his idea of writing involves Microsoft Excel. Can you imagine the horror?) Well, it just happened again and in response I've decided to tell you horrible stories about him here. Witness:

A few weeks back we ran the NYC half marathon together. I believe it was his idea and I was actually excited to participate (this isn't the horrible part). We did an okay job training for it and ran some of our training runs together with the Maestro in the baby jogger, which was cool and grown up of us. Cut to the week or two before the race when my training topped out at 7 miles and I would receive daily emails from the husband bragging about his 9 mile run, and his 10.5 mile run yada yada. To which I swiftly told him to shove his feet alternatingly into his behind. Along comes race day and we think we're ready. If you've ever participated in a run like this or any long course athletic venture you know what I mean when I say we "thought" we were ready. Because for the rest of you, you have no f-ing clue if you're ready or not, you're just hoping you don't die or get picked up by the ambulance for moving slower than the pace of time.

We're about 1 mile into the 13.1 mile death course when Grant loses his shit on me and screams that "You're running too fast! I can't keep up with your pace! WHY DO YOU KEEP RUNNING ONE STEP AHEAD OF ME?! As soon as I catch up, you speed up!" And trust me, I took pity on you by limiting my exclamation points to 4 in that excerpt. So there I am standing dumbfounded in the middle of 4 million racers, trying to estimate the time loss I'll experience by strangling my husband and chopping his legs off.

Turns out I didn't have the time. Lucky for him.

E.I.F.S. Exercise Induced Flip-out Sessions

Now I've seen it all. Several medical phenomena have occurred this weekend and I feel it's only right to notify the press about them (ie post it here).

1. (Did you miss my lists?)

2. I did not die during the NYC Half Marathon yesterday.

3. I did not die after the NYC Half Marathon yesterday.

D. I am still alive today.

E. Those little emotional-hormonal "episodes" that start when you're pregnant, peak post partum, and continue through breastfeeding months are still here and make themselves known when it's not at all medically necessary. (Let me explain).

I sent a mini-mass email to my family before the race to let them know I might require one of their assistance with Medical Power of Attorney should Grant and I both die during said race. And I got several responses of good luck and encouragement back. Upon which, when reading these I started balling and hyperventilating simultaneously. Then, I emailed everyone after the race telling them that in fact, we did not die but are mostly completely incapacitated from soreness. To which I got several more notes of congrats. To which I read with tears streaming down my face. Finally, I wrote my friends in NY a note thanking them for helping us out over the weekend with the Little Man and for their support and love. During which I again sat staring at the keyboard, wondering why the letters were swimming together in a pool of tears through 2 swollen eyes. I mean. WTF? It's just a freaking jog through the park. Get a grip, Weirdo. There are much more pressing matters to worry about.

Like what we're going to do without Paula.

And PS. if this is what exercising does to you, then I'm f-ing out. Nuf said.

The Next Billy Elliot Emmerges

In terms of stressful life events I'm going to go ahead and throw out a 9 on the 1-10 scale these days. Can I decompress a minute? So in a nutshell, (Help! How did I get in this tiny nutshell?!), in the nutshell, the lazy, gradual merge back into the working world that I was planning on has taken a turn for the worse. But for good reason. The girl, Erin, who had previously taken over my work responsibilities post flying placenta is pregnant and I am awaiting her delivery to return to work part time. However, after a cleverly orchestrated maneuver with the bosses, we worked it so I could return a little early to "review" all the new goings on in our department so I would know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing there when I return.

After exactly 2 half-days of reviewing, Erin's baby decided he couldn't possibly miss this year's Tony awards and so Evan was born last Friday afternoon. Mama and babe are healthy and happy and loving life currently, whilst I shi# my pants because we have about 4 million things going on and I don't even know which button turns on the new printer in my office. Holy Xanax, Robin.

Remind me why I wanted so desperately to return to the working life of bees? At this point I would like to retract those statements and go back to wearing my pajamas all day and drinking 14 cups of coffee while watching my tivo'd episodes of Home Sweet Hollywood and Top Chef. Sorry about the confusion. No, I don't want to mastermind the entire department's study enrollment nor send out faculty emails about research updates or really even wear my hospital id. So leave me alone. Now pass me my coffee.

Cough Up the 79 Cents for the Gerber Crap, It's Worth It

Round about 5 months ago I lost my mind. I decided that rather than buy perfectly good (and organic mind you) jarred baby food from the neighborhood grocery store, I would make him his first baby foods from scratch. Please don't let this cloud your judgement of me, I am college educated and got that stupid little gold emblem in the corner of my degree to boot. But alas, I embarked on a journey that there was no turning back from. And so help me, if this child ever once raises his voice to me or comes home after curfew you better believe he's going to get an earfull of homemade baby food ranting and several pots and pans thrown at him. I'm just saying.

Homemade baby food preparation, regardless of what your Homemade Baby Food Preparation Made Simple book will tell you, is basically everything you don't have rolled into 1 fantastic endeavor. You don't have the 3 hours it takes to start, prepare, and finish the process, you don't have the 14 extra pans it will require to successfully cook and store said food, you definitely forgot several of the ingredients required for 1 "simple"recipe, and you sure as hell don't have the patience to follow the "simple" directions. Start with this knowledge and you'll be far ahead of where I was when I lost my brain function trying to accomplish it. I would right my own book but it would be short, "Homemade Baby Food Preparation Rules: smack yourself in the forehead with a large steel soup ladle. The end."

Here follows a pictographic montage of the destruction involved in baby food prep 101: (You hilariously think you'll accomplish this whole task while the baby is taking his nap. You funny, funny lady).

It starts out simple enough with a few pots, a food processor, and some storage containers.
Only you didn't have the storage containers when you started cooking so you had to stop mid-prep to run on an hour and a half errand to Babies R Us to get some. Oh and the baby gets up as soon as you return. Awesome.
Then while you're cleaning, peeling, chopping, steaming, boiling, and processing the food, the baby freaks out. Pause for baby redirecting and distraction techniques 1-4.
By now you're accumulating more dirty dishes, silverware, tupperware, and towels than you ever realized existed on this planet.
And then you start dropping miscellaneous pieces of food, ie a carrot which swiftly becomes part of the dog's organic food preparation, not what you had in mind when you lost your mind taking on this project.But finally, finally it is finished and your freezer is full of several home made baby food items which you cannot wait to try out on the baby because he is going to LOVE it, love, love, love...

Oh, he really hates, hates, hates it? He really makes a face so horrific you have to close your eyes lest you turn to stone? He really uses his entire body, cowlick to toenail, to gag on one small spoonful of carrots and sweet potatoes? Ha! Hahaha. Ha. Good one, Life! Life = 24, Me = 0.

Like A Short, White Oprah

Listen, I've been known to exaggerate a number or two to make a point*, who doesn't, but no exaggerating required to implore upon you to shoot and dismember the voice in your head if it ever tries to convince you to sign up for a half or full fledged marathon, because you will be forced to run 4,599 miles a day in preparation for your race. Now, maybe it's just the fat little short girl inside of me that thinks that's a bit ridiculous, but you be the judge. And when has that fat little short girl ever led me astray? She was right about the Skinny Cow ice cream, and that makes her credible in any language.

Nuf said.

PS. Grant's always trying to up his funny scale to make a cameo on this website, and recently he did by not even trying. He forwarded me his registration email for the NYC half marathon and the subject line was, "I'm an idiot". Several emails later he forwarded me my registration email, subject: "You're an idiot". Touche' my love, touche'.

*Did I tell you how upon hosting 2 friends to New York for the first time I told them Central Park was, "Like 7 acres big!"? No? Okay, pretend I never told you that.

Power to the Little People

You may remember this story about my social prowess when fraternizing with important "power people" that my husband and I meet from time to time. You know the people, they may be slightly older than you, well established in impressive careers, usually very well traveled, and more often than not, expert conversationalists. Read: Intimidating as hell. Well, friends, I've been holding another such instance from you and per former president Billy Clinton, I must be honest about it.

Setting the scene: my husband and I are set to have dinner in the city with a certain power couple that we're somewhat familiar with. Since most of our meetings had previously been group gatherings, this would be the first stand alone social occasion for the 4 of us. The wife component of the other couple is a medical doctor (of course) and her husband after graduating from West Point and two trips as a paratrooper to Iraq (that's right TWO tours) is currently a professor of history at the Academy. Not at all intimidating. To add insult to injury, they are the sweetest, nicest people you've ever met with giant hearts to match their giant brains.

And in the other corner: me and Grant. Two homegrown, cornfed Ohioans who consider Florida a foreign destination. One, a boring baby nurse who may or may not have been fired/quit her previous place of employment for calling off to often, and the other a wet-behind the ears, freshman coffee boy* for Lehman Brothers (love you, honey). Stellar life experience alert! Look out.

Anyway, needless to say my desperation over making any friends in this city overwhelms my self consciousness about not being a "power" person and we're off! The evening begins splendidly and I make sure to only have one drink before we're seated so as to not appear the binge drinker that I am. We are seated and I'm spewing compliments about the restaurant, since it was their choice, and feeling like I'm on my A game. The waiter approaches for our order and I try to pick choices from a variety of ingredients rather than my usual selection from the children's menu: an order of chicken fingers and french fries. Everyone orders and conversation continues.

From time to time the conversation takes a turn that I have absolutely no f-ing clue about what they are speaking so I politely take a drink of water or go powder my nose. Standard. Our apps come and mine is amazing so I swiftly inhale it - without choking - and ready my place for the main course. And then it happens.

In an attempt to complement their restaurant choice again, I take the opportunity of a lull in the conversation to clear my throat and pronounce proudly that, "My appetizer was wonderful! The sweetbreads didn't taste like bread at all!"

Nails in the coffin.

~R.I.P social networking skills~

We loved you once, and now no more.

*No, you were not really an errand boy, it just makes for a better story...

Caution: Meltdown Imminent

After basically surviving Hell and back* today I finally made it all the way downtown for Dooce's book launch and signing only to find they were sold out of the book when I got there, Grant and Griffin in tow. Fanf-ingtastic.

Contents include: up several times during the night with the screaming teething baby (not that this is an unusual occurrence, he hasn't slept through the night more than twice in his 7+ months on this planet), a window replacement for the car that was 3+ hours late, a visit to the pediatricians office AGAIN because I thought Grif had another ear ache (turns out he doesn't and I'm now the "weirdo" mom at the office, walking a tightrope all day to keep the baby from scratching his eyes out from irritability and boredom, wrestling the screaming child into and out of his snowsuit several times to take the dog for his obligatories, making a death defying dash to shower, get dressed, and perform the makeup overhaul, and finally, actually body slamming him to get him into the car at 7:15 PM to try to make it down to Columbia to pick up Grant and then on to Tribeca to the book signing. Where, evil of all evils, I got a really great parking space. Ain't life a bi^$%? Er, I mean, grand?

On Sale Now At Macy's Fragrance Counter

The newest development in my life of late involves that of a minor nuisance we are currently experiencing known as "we're f-ing broke". Several suggestions have been thrown around such as: selling the dog, hacking him up and selling him part for part, and finally, something seriously gross and extremely unfortunate: me going back to work. I know. President Vom-town USA.

Here is the dichotomy, I would love to get out of the house 2.5 days a week and contribute to our non-existent income, truly I would. However, my fear of the nanny from hell situation and my slightly overboard obsession with anyone who sets foot near Griffin are major negatives to the whole situation. I can't even tell you the madness that selecting a nanny involves. And I'm just talking the things I'm saying out loud, not even the catastrophe going on in my brain that I can't even lend words to. Except imagine "Psycho" only to the 10th power. I'm presently interviewing potential candidates and we're 0 for 4, including two "hell no's" and two "you have got to be on crack, hell no's". Alas, it is a work in progress, more to come later on that topic.

So, I know I need to nut up and go to work already like millions and billions of mom's are doing all over the world every day, but as long as I live, breathe, and blog, I will voice my discontent. Malcontent? Whatever, you know what I mean.

Oh, and sidebar, I just got a whif of myself and yes, that's Eau De Curdled Milk/Baby Vomit #5. I am so ready for the workplace.

Reading Between the Lines

In light of my commitment of full disclosure here, I must update you on the "progress" of Grant and my's "Biggest Loser" weight loss challenge. Currently, and unfairly, Grant has lost 19.5 pounds in 9 weeks. However, I wish to preface my success by stating that it has been shockingly overshadowed by the gigantic numbers he's been throwing on the board. Undoubtedly, the most important result of this challenge is that we eat better and exercise more regularly. The true number count* is not important. Thank you.

What? Like using the child to distract you isn't ethical. Jeez.

*I've lost 2.5 pounds.

My OB-Gyn, The Miracle Worker

I feel it is my sworn duty as the educator to the childless masses to inform you of a delightful new development in our lives as of late. Remember how I told you about this back in November? Well! Friends. Don't go out and get your tubes tied just yet. There is progress on the V-jay jay front.

After consultation with my doctor which went something like this, "PLEASE, please, please, pretty, pretty please, f-ing are you kidding me, I want to die, do something before I light myself on fire to help me, please" she took mercy and wrote me a little prescription for estrogen which completely changed the ballgame. Thank the good lord almighty and then some. Give that woman a raise.

So no worries that after you birth a child you'll never have sex again, because you will. And it will be great. Well, I can't vouch for the great part because I don't know what kind of sex you're having to begin with, but hopefully its good? That's a hypothetical there, you don't have to tell me how your sex is, actually never tell me how your sex is, ok? We're just going to say yes, we have it and it's just fine, got that? Whew. Got a little nervous there for a sec that you might comment and tell me about your bedroom exploits and jeez how I don't need to read about that tomorrow morning.

Alright, what else do I need to tell you about? Oh yes. My sister had her baby! Her name is Lindsey and she is a-dor-a-ble so much that I need to eat her and contemplate doing just that on a daily basis. Pictures are forthcoming, she was born last Friday the 6th at 5 pounds and she has tons of brown beautiful hair. Gina and baby are doing very well and are at home enjoying some R & R. So the circle of life spins once more for our family and now there are 14 grandchildren for my parents: Gabriella, Ben, Grace, Mary Kate, Emma, Alex, Julia, Anna, Rebecca, Logan, Joey, Griffin, Aedan, and now Lindsey. I cannot believe how wonderful they make my life and how much I miss living in Columbus just so I can see them grow every day and listen to them spout off the philosophy of 9, 8, 6 and 4 year olds.

Happy late Valentine's to you all!

Blagojevich Was Their Web Designer

"The ankle bone's connected to the shin bone, the shin bone's connected to the knee bone, the knee bone's... (Error: The knee bone is no longer connected to anything because the owner of said knee bone doesn't know how to ski and therefore lost the connection of knee to rest of leg). The end!"

Take home message: Get to ski lodge early to secure snowboard before they run out so you don't wind up on ski's that you don't know how to use. Thereby paying millions (okay, tens) of dollars in medical bills to fix your dumb broken knee cap.

By the by* and all kidding aside, skiing is not so bad. I may have to retract my earlier statements about skiing, skiers, those amongst the ski and so forth.

Upcoming will be pics of the ski lodge we stayed at while at Hunter Mountain because I would be selfish to keep them to myself when truly, you need to see the majesty that is the Friar Tuck Resort and Spa for yourself. And we, the management, use the term "Resort and Spa" so loosely we're practically impeachable.

*Don't know what the hell this means but felt like exercising my poetic license this Friday am.

Pharmaceutical Destroying Badass Alert

Holy scream-factor, Batman. Let me just initiate some of you into the world of a five month old with double ear infections:

SCREAMMMMMMMMMMMMMM. Scream! SCCCCCREAM! SCREAMYSCREAMYSCREAMSCREAM. SCreAM. scREamO! Yell. ARGH! Blah!

Translation: DEATH AND DESTRUCTION and/or Armageddon.

In related news, it took me 2 hours, 2 pharmacies, 1 heart attack, several quarters, a new pair of underwear, and $16 to get one amoxicillin prescription. Fan-f-ing-tastic. And do you know what I did with the little pink bottle of magic majesty this morning? I DUMPED HALF OF IT ON THE F-ING FLOOR. Because that's how I roll. That's why.

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.

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".

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.

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?

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.