It IsTime For Change

Seeing as how it's Fall, I've made an executive decision that it is New Leaf Day in our household. There has got to be a way to squeeze more productivity from my day, and by God, I'm going to find out how. Starting with writing, I have got to get my act together and write more. I think some of this problem stems from the fact that when I'm crazy busy I feel like I don't have the time to write something great. And if I can't create something quasi-intelligible, I don't want to even bother with the time.

So more on this later, the babe is a-stirring, but what would you do on New Leaf Day?

*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.

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.

To The Tune of "Please Don't Go Girl"

Dear Tikka Masala In My Belly,

I thoroughly apologize for what I did to you today, but the thing is you're so amazing that I had to have you all to myself. Sure, I contemplated saving half of you for tomorrow, but swiftly realized there was not going to be anything leftover once my craving was fed. I mean, honestly? I almost lost a few fingers mixed in with the naan. If it's any consolation, the Palak Paneer didn't stand a chance either. If anything, I think you should be flattered that if you were being held captive by the North Korean government I wouldn't send in Bill, I'D SEND IN JESUS. Do you understand my love for you now? Okay. Good.

Now tomorrow is another day. And maybe, just maybe I'll leave some of you for the next day. (But more than likely not because I don't work on Friday and there is no way you're staying in that fridge until Monday so I better just finish you off tomorrow as well.)

Salaam,

India-or-Bust

Didn't Davy Crockett Die There?

Now I will readily admit that remembering historical dates is not one of my most intense forte's. Nor was it during middle or high school when I was actively learning it. How I managed to get through those classes without failing, is still a mystery up there with MJ's toxicology report but at least it's over, right? However, I do have some sort of sentimental need to visit historical sites and imagine myself living through whatever battle or march or wagontrain adventure that once took place there. Hence my intense desire to see the Alamo when we were in San Antonio a few weeks back.

My best friend from high school, (and coincidentally college as well) and the only one who can make me scream laugh instantaneously by imitating yours truly, got married to the cutest Texan podiatrist you have ever met. And we all know how those guys grow on trees down there, am I right? So we trooped the fam down south for the main event and had an awesome 3 days catching up with friends, tubing down the Gruene River, and 2-stepping our pants off at the reception. It went way too fast and everyone was gone before I even had the time to get sick of them. The nerve.

When I booked the trip to the Great State, I decided to give us a late flight out on Sunday so we didn't have to rush around totally hung over in the morning only to realize we missed our flight which left us time to sightsee for a hair or two. All weekend we had been trying to find something to do that day until someone casually mentioned they had went to see the Alamo the day before. WHAT? You mean there's actually an ALAMO? And it's in my near vicinity? And there followed several straight hours of me chanting: MUST SEE ALAMO. MUST SEE ALAMO. So that together with Griffin screaming about the heat and his dislike of his rental car seat, directly led to Grant's head exploding several times that day. Holy Matrimony, Batman.

Eventually, we worked our way to downtown San Antonio and found a parking garage relatively near where we thought the Alamo was. ALAMO. ALAMO. ALAMO. We pack up Grif in the stroller and laden ourselves down with 80 million pounds of shit and no I don't know why, but we're parents and that is what parents do. And we've walked two steps out of the garage before the heat of Satan's Inferno descends on the 3 of us and we almost spontaneously combust right there on Main Street. Did you know that about San Antonio in July? I guess I should have been tipped off when I learned San Antonio actually means Satan's Inferno. (Yeah-huh.) Somehow we make it the 3 blocks to the ALAMO and we enter the grounds. The gardens are beautiful and there are these huge big billowy trees giving shade to the crumbling old stone walls that you can tell were hand stacked way back in something-07. The place was packed and we tried in vain to wander around taking it all in as quickly as possible before death overtook us in the form of a Flaming Grim Reaper. Grant kept asking to leave but I hadn't quite had my historical site fix so I kept inventing things to show him so we'd have to stay a little longer.

Finally, after a grueling 2 hours of the heat I give in and we walk back to the car. We're sitting in the cool of the air conditioner waiting to pull out of our parking spot when Grant goes, "What the hell happened at the Alamo?"

Though I really wished I could scream at him for an insensitivity to the sweat, toil, and sacrifice of our forefathers, I could only say, "Hell if I know, that's why I picked up this brochure".

Ah history. I can only hope to impart such a keen sense of nostalgia to our son someday.

Altogether Not Together

Let's do a spit polish on our relationship here so we can get past it and move on, okay? I've been extremely neglectful of Laugh More and I realize none of you have laughed since July 7th which is entirely inexcusable. Now, on to bigger and better things.

My boobs are my own again! Rejoice with me. And take this moment to mentally note that you owe your mother a whole hell of a lot of nice Salt Water Taffy for giving you the benefit of breastmilk because let me tell you, it is not pretty nor non-labor-intensive to do so. But alas, I've made it a year, well almost, 11 months and that's close enough for me (except when it's a measurement of days past your 4th Anniversary that your husband hasn't gotten you a gift, and then a month's leeway is absof-inglutely not acceptable). I digress.

In other news, and to link two bits of otherwise unrelated information: 1.) It's Shark Week and 2.) My baby is about to turn 1 year old on Sunday. Now, these two seemingly unrelated events are in fact, quite related. To quantify how rediculously insane female reproductive hormones are, and how debilitating they can be to 51% of our population, I must expain about my emotions and feelings and "issues" with having my baby turn 1. I have found sentimental and/or emotionally devastating all things that I come in contact with lately. Exhibit: Shark Week.

Last weekend we threw a little Pre-1st Birthday party in Riverside Park for the big man and on our way down there, I noticed the billboard sporting the "Shark Week is Coming!" advertisement (that coincidentally was the same billboard that said it last year too - quirky this little City we have here), and completely had a full on hyperventilatory break down. ........ What the mother loving h*ll. So I smacked my own face several times and asked it, "why are you nostalgic about Shark Week?" And my face said, "because, you heartless cow, my baby was born just after Shark Week last year!" And then I said, "you're right! And I am a heartless cow. Now let's both cry and if Grant asks what's the matter let's yell at him, ok?"

So yes, Shark Week ended with a bang and a flying placenta last year and that is how my baby is related to sharks. Swiftly on the heels of this psychotic break, I also thought to myself, I bet Stacey posted about Shark Week this week. And sure enough: Shaaaaaark Week!! I love my friends.

Zest-fully Clean

Quick, be quiet, I don't have much time.

Since returning to work has amounted to me working 168 hours a week and overtime, I have very little time to update you. But I've been dieing to talk to you, so work is on hold and you are my focus for the next 3.75 minutes.

Several orders of business: I got my hair cut again, circa 2 years ago and since every time I get my hair cut anywhere my only request be it Super Cuts or Bumble and Freaking Steal-Your-Money Bumble is to cut it so I don't have to do anything short of apply shampoo and conditioner to get out of the house in the morning, they succeeded in selling me some bullshit product for $25 that is supposed to make it look like I "spent the day at the beach". Revelation: "spending the day at the beach" hair looks like shit. And so I cannot fault Bumble for ripping me off because I'm the asshole who bought the product with full disclosure. Henceforth, I arrive at work every morning to people saying things like, "Wow, it was that kind of night, huh?" Yes ma'am, I spent the whole night flying a kite in a rainstorm trying to recreate the great experiments of one truly amazing Benjamin Franklin. Thank you for noticing.

On another note, did you know that my neighborhood post office, the one that I was truly moving to my neighborhood specifically for because in my last neighborhood it took 2.5 hours, $75, and three desert sheiks to get to totally pissed me off, you know that one? Well, did you know it opens conveniently at 8am? And that subsequently you can go before work to do your posting business, only not exactly so because the tellers don't start working until 9am? Now shouldn't the person who thought up this fantastic idea be promoted? I'd say. Promoted to uprighting tipped over porta-potties. Whew, it's a cleansing morning for me today, and I already feel better.

Last but not least, I am uber excited to be in my BFFFFFF's wedding on Saturday in a beautiful dress that is totally sexy and when I went to get it altered, the 107 year old Russian seamster (?) said, "hubba hubba", it looks that good. On an unrelated note, if you happen to wear a size 9 ladies dress shoe and happen to have a pair of silver heels in that size, would you like to overnight them to me so I can have them for sure by Saturday morning? Thank you. Totally random question, I know. Kidding Sara! Totally kidding...

Happy Tuesday! Alternate side of the street parking is in effect.