Carboard boxes, duct tape...

Moving time... I'm gonna go check out a different program for a while. Blogger has pissed me off for the last time!!! ;)

The move may be temporary until I find a program that offers everything I want. I apologize if I'm not as easy to find as I usually am. Think of it as me, playing hard to get. Think of it as one big fun wild goose chase. Or hell, don't think of it at all and just click here.

Expect a sub-par layout, but a comparable level of whining!

Why I Need To Hire Smokey The Bear As My Gym Trainer.

Watching my body adjust to postpartum life has been like a ten week walk through funhouse mirrors. My fat cells can't quite decide where to settle, so they spend a week in my stomach, then down to my ass, around to the thighs, with a few lone explorers checking out the living conditions of my upper arms.

When I started working out again, Chris begged me, in quite the Sir-Mix-A-Lot fashion, to "please don't lose that butt". I've always been blessed in the booty department, but things have gotten a little out of hand lately. Out of two hands, actually. I have a spare tire, all right. Only it's not in the normal spare-tire-around-the-midsection locale. I couldn't get the metaphorical spare tire up over my birthing hips, so there my fat rests, in thighs and ass.

I hadn't paid much mind to it until last week, when I did quite a bit of walking around. I had chosen to wear a skirt that day, which made me feel pretty and ladylike... until I was actually in pain from my thighs rubbing together when I walked. By the time I got home, I'm not kidding you, I had two red patches on my inner thighs from the skin-to-skin contact.

"Chrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrris!" I squealed. "You're not gonna believe this. It's worse than my ass almost bouncing me off the treadmill."

"Uh-oh," he said, knowing that he was crossing into dangerous territory.

"LOOK!" I screamed, spreading my legs and pointing. He raised an eyebrow. "NOOOOOOOO NO NO NO, not that! Here!" I shouted, showing him the silver-dollar sized rashes on each inner thigh.

"What... the... hell?" he asked, suspiciously.

"I got these FROM WALKING! My damn thighs are rubbing together so bad that I got a rash! I'm just lucky the friction didn't start a forest fire!!!"

"Yeah," he said, a smirk sliding across his face. "Literally."

Playing the part of Proud Wife

Ever wonder what happens when Chris plays Ipod Commando?

He wrote about it here.

Mr. Cantwell did a guest spot for Re:Generator last week. He provided five music videos for the weekly "Five Music Videos To Help While the Weekend Away" column. I provided some snappy adjectives! (Reprieve! Penchant! Totally mine.) Anyway, you should check out Re:Gen despite the fact that Chris contributed this week, especially if you're into metal. Like, It Sounds Like We're Getting Prison Raped By Satan Metal.

If you need something sweet after all that, here:

The Dutch Apple of My Eye

Looky what I made!

With Reagan being baby number three and all, I was a little worried that the novelty of an infant would have worn off a little bit. I'm gonna level with you here: I'm not enraptured by wee babies the way most women are. I like the ones that can tell me what they're thinking, can wipe their own butts, and especially ones that laugh at my jokes. Frankly, I don't vividly remember the infancy of Maddy and Brady; it's mostly just a blur of "leaving the house is a pain in the ass" and "when was the last time I showered?".

This time around, I'm enjoying it a lot more than I remember. I'm certainly not playing favorites with the children themselves, but the circumstances are much better this time around. I'm married. I'm not working. I'm getting enough/maybe too much sleep. Although I've doted on all my children, Reagan's got me whooped. If my day was broken down into a pie graph, the biggest slice would be "stares lovingly at baby." If my life was an actual pie, it would be Dutch Apple, and win a blue ribbon at every state fair.

My reprieve from work has created ample opportunity to give more attention to the older children as well. I can finally be the mom that isn't too tired to play outside with them after school! I'll read more than one bedtime story, and not fall asleep sitting up, still mumbling "I do not like them Sam-I-Am..."! I'll occasionally make something for dinner that doesn't have the word "cheese" in the title! And get this: yesterday, we actually made play-dough.

AND, my life of sunshine, fresh flowers, and cupcakes with sprinkles just got a little better yesterday. I finally bought a new pair of jeans... something with an actual waistband, not elastic. And you know what? They're a size 7, not too shabby, not too much farther to go. Not even fitting into my pre-pregnancy size 4's could make me any happier than I am with life right now.

Although, after mentioning it, I wouldn't mind a piece of pie.

Book Pimp

The best part of being a Stay At Home Mom, aside from the obvious "Baby-bonding", is the fact that I'm left with long stretches of empty hours when the munchkin is sleeping. When I get tired of staring at her, and after I’ve made up a good enough excuse to postpone the housework, I set up camp with a book. I've read a ton of great books in the last month, and when I was out of fresh material, I scoured my bookshelves for those titles I was more than happy to dust off and revisit. And now, being the generous soul that I am, I'll share a few of my favorites of the last few weeks, both old and new, with you.

It's officially Autumn now, so even if you're not an avid reader, maybe the thought of curling up in a cozy seat with a cup of tea and a good book sounds appealing. Or better yet, sit outside for a while without fear of heatstroke, and take a glass of wine and a pack of smokes (if you're into that), and one of these:

Rant: An Oral Biography of Buster Casey by Chuck Palahniuk
C.P. is the same mastermind that brought us Fight Club, and Rant is along the same twisty-dark lines. Granted, the best thing about the movie Fight Club is Brad Pitt's body, which Chuck Palahniuk isn't responsible for, but I think we all can agree that it's still an amazing concept. Rant is a little confusing at times, but well worth the mental workout once you get accustomed to the style of narrative- which is basically a bunch of different people giving an account of a man named Buster (Rant) Casey. (Hence the “Oral Biography” warning.) I also read Lullaby this summer, and although it was entertaining, I liked it far less than Rant and another C.P. book I read last year, Choke.

Chuck Klosterman IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas, and also Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman
Both of these books are collections of essays/articles by Pop Culture Junkie Chuck Klosterman. I loved both of them, but if I had to pick just one to recommend, it would be Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. I, for one, enjoy people who can make me feel intellectual and vital to society while I’m reading about Star Wars, Saved By The Bell, and the Pam and Tommy sex tape. C.K. gets a standing ovation from me- or better yet, the Slow Clap.

Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress by Sarah Jane Gilman
Sarah Gilman is everything you love about David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs, but with ovaries. This book was so fantastic that it completely erased all the guilt I was harboring for spending so many years pouring over vapid chick lit. Yup.

My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One Night Stands by Chelsea Handler
I’m not kidding you, this is the fourth time I’ve read this book. It might be a little on the vulgar side for a lot of people, but I absolutely loved it.


So, there you go. I’ll probably add more to this list later, but there’s a few of my favorites from this summer to get you started. And, as a little bonus, if you’re interested in reading any of these books, I would L-O-V-E to lend you my copy. Maybe if you have something you think I’d like, we could even trade. These books are too good to sit on my shelves, so if you can give one of these a good home and a little attention, they’re yours for the taking.

So, what books are you currently pimping? I’m almost through with re-reading To Hell With All That: Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewife. When I’m done with that, I’ll need some new material… suggest away!

Estrogen-Infused News

Don't sue me for libel.

Faulty Pipes (and that's not just a critique of the singer):
British alternative rock icon Morrissey cancelled two of his LA shows due to a burst water pipe at the venue. It's actually a great thing that the building proved to be unstable before the show, so they'll have time to fix the problem. If the venue can't sustain a leaky water main, there was no way in hell it was going to stand up to hundreds of crying Smiths fans. Umbrella is the new scarf.


Britney Britney Unfitney...
What the hell kind of world do we live in that makes Kevin Federline the responsible parent? He's now full-time Papazao because Britney allegedly failed to show up for her court-ordered drug tests. Maybe if her weave wasn't so tight, she would have realized that she wasn't supposed to be testing the drugs, but that she would be tested for drugs. "Them drugs work just fine, y'all!"
Let me tell you what I like about this whole Britney scandal. For the last 10 years, that girl has been the go-to hot chick for any male with a fetish for the innocent school girl. The statistics on that? It's right up there with the amount of men who breathe, masturbate, or like pizza. I'm willing to bet that every female in my age demographic has had to listen to male friends- maybe even boyfriends- call that Pop Tart hot. And she was, in her heyday, which just makes her that much more annoying. I, for one, once dated a guy who kept a life-sized cardboard cutout of Britney in his bedroom. Like that's not intimidating. Time that I should have spent enjoying myself was spent vowing to do more situps.

Now? HA! NOW I ACTUALLY DO HAVE ABS LIKE BRITNEY- no crunches required. Thank you, Britney, for simultaneously "hitting the bar" and lowering it. It takes a lot of money to look that cheap.


Leave J-LO A-LOne!
Ok, I'm officially over the J-Lo pregnancy rumors. The media has been swirling preggo rumors about her for what feels like years now- can we get over it? Doesn't the gossip media have anything better to do- like find out for me what Luke Perry is up to. That, I care about. I love pregnant celebrities, so I'm getting a little tired of the tease. Wishing that Jennifer Lopez would actually be pregnant is giving me blue ovaries.
What grinds my gears about this particular rumor is that it's set off every time J-Lo is photographed in something on the modest end of the scale. It's a Catch 22... either you go around half-naked and get criticized relentlessly (see above), or you wear age-appropriate fashion and get accused of being pregnant.
The only point of contention I have with Jennifer Lopez is that marrying Marc Anthony pretty much obliterated any chance of a clever "Hollywood Smashed-Up Couple Name" a la "Bennifer". I'm punny as all hell, and even I can't think up anything catchy. Ben Affleck had the right idea- he just married another Jennifer. Smart move.



This concludes our broadcast day.
As for me, my husband should be home any minute. I'm going to pour us both a drink, cuddle up with him on the couch, put on a movie, and then spend the entire time trying to think up a clever name for Mr. and Mrs. Marc Anthony.

Update from Camp Cantwell

I've certainly been lacking in the blog area of life, because diddlydoo is going on. Actually, that's not entirely true, but try as I might, I just can't get around to posting an entire entry about how I burned my face making bacon (what a way to go) or how interesting it is teaching a seven year old how to spell the word "doughnuts".

Aside from those things, my days consist of speaking in a secret language to my baby. If you live under our roof, terms like "shadooby", "shadinky", "Rootus" and "Boof" all have their own specific definition. I also serenade the cat with impromptu songs like "Fatzilla Catzilla" and "Let Me Brush You, You'll Look Ten Pounds Lighter". Needless to say, by the time Chris gets home from work, I am near delirious with anticipation of speaking to someone who comprehends what I'm saying and appreciates me on a deeper level than "I Like You Cuz You Feed Me." It's also nice having someone contribute more to the conversation that "Waaaaaaaaah" or "Meeeeeehreooow".

One noteworthy thing that happened last week: Maddy was inaugurated as Super Student of the Week in her second grade class, the first student of the year to be picked. HECK YEAH. As a young, once-single mom, I feel like there's a bit of a stigma, so I'm prone to pushing Maddy academically because I have to overcompensate for the silent judgement I get from some of the other mothers. Maddy's school is teeming with affluent Stay At Home Moms, and a handful of them are Big Fat Bullies. So here's what I have to say to you, Condescending Mom Who Always Makes Me Feel Bad- SUCK IT. Your child? She wore a t-shirt with the periodic table of elements on picture day and my beloved bastard daughter still won Super Student. Go cry about it into your Starbucks Coffee with Seventeen Modifiers all the way to your kid's ballet class. Nyah-nyah-nya-nya-nyah. (Usually I'm not quite this... well, mean. Let this out-of-character rant, in my defense, serve as testament to the fact that this lady has it coming.)

In other, less estrogen-infused news (ok, there's an idea I'm gonna take off running with, ye be warned): Both the boys have birthdays this week. Brady turned the big Oh-Four over the weekend, and is extremely proud that he can now show off his age by doing this:


Chris won't reach official birthday boy status until Friday. Ah, it seems like only yesterday that I was affectionately referring to him as "22". We did have a BBQ on Sunday as the Pre-Party, and I can honestly say it was the most fun I've had in a long time. Chris had a blast, even though he doesn't remember the last part of it. It's a shame, really, because the most hilarious part of the evening was when Chris was coming back out to the backyard where everyone else was and slamming the sliding glass shut just hard enough for the lock to latch behind him. "Somebody locked me out!" he said, indignantly. "Nobody did, honey. We're all outside. You know how sometimes the slider locks when you shut it?" Chris then proceeded to knock on the glass. "Who, exactly, do you think is going to come unlock that for you? The baby?" "Someone locked me out, on purpose, and they're still in there. You know what, whoever you are? EFF YOU. Yeah, eeeeeeeeeeefffffffffffffffffffff yoooooooooooooooooooooooooooou!" (Complete with photographic evidence:)


All in all, it was a great day. We made not only a killer lunch, but a killer dinner as well. For the PM crowd, Chris grilled two whole chickens, a ton of shrimp, and an entire prime rib. My only job was to handle the side dish- roasted veggies. Delicious, scrumptious roasted veggies, that ummmmmmm, that sat whole and raw in the refrigerator because I didn't remember that I was in charge of cooking them until I was piling my dinner plate high with an array of protein. Ooops, my bad. This is why we can't seem to keep Vegetarian friends.

If you weren't there but wish you had been, here's your chance to live the action vicariously! Be thankful that you weren't there to witness firsthand my husband's proclivity to giving kidney punches to unsuspecting friends. Maybe it's not just the vegetarians that we're driving away, come to think of it.


So, I suppose saying that diddlydookins has been going on is a bit of an understatement. Usually a comment of that nature isn't followed by multiple paragraphs of rambly text. Hey, Keep Em Guessing, that's what I always say. Who am I kidding, I never say that- I always say "What's for dinner?"

Well, that and "SUCK IT!"

This Week's Featured Pet Peeve:

Spelling errors in a classroom.

How arbitrary are my neurotic vexations? I'll start a sentence with a conjunction, but a homophonous error will make me insane.

Before Brady can walk out of his preschool, he has to go around and individually bid adieu to each classmate. "Bye, Nolan. Buh-bye Sapphire*. Goodbye, other Brayden." As he was making his rounds, I started eyeing the craft shelf to avoid having some kind of Romper Room flashback. Cute little jars sat in a row on the shelf, each one bearing a label indicating their contents, even though the jars were clear. "Damn," I thought to myself, "someone here is a stickler for organization." It seemed a little redundant- a jar of pencils that said "PENCILS", a jar of paper clips that said... you guessed it, "PAPER CLIPS", and then, right there between the "GOOGLEY EYES" and "BEADS" was a jar of sparkly little gems. And it was labeled "SEQUENCE". This is the type of thing that most people either wouldn't notice, or wouldn't dwell on more than a flickering smirk. Not me. No no no no, not Anal Retentive About The Most Arbitrary Things Me. It's not like there was a teacher beating one of the kids or a lice outbreak, but I'll tell you what, I am never, ever thinking of that daycare the same way again. Granted, Bradyn will likely never know that the teacher who was obsessed with labeling everything wasn't so meticulous with her spelling(and it's not just like she transposed a few letters- this is an entirely different word here, people!!!) but it is very, very likely that every time I go to sign Brady out for the rest of his preschool career, I will look at the shelf above the sign-out book obsessive compulsively to see if the error is still there.



*If I had to guess who was Most Likely To Be Caught Playing Doctor Under The Swingset, my vote goes to the kid with the stripper name. Just sayin.

All the spandex in the world can't help me.

Imagine my glee when I stood on the scale at my 6 week postpartum checkup and saw the little metal slider getting nudged farther and farther to the left, until it finally hovered over a number that was within ten pounds of my pre-pregnancy weight. Imagine my smug little face as the nurse recorded the number on my chart with an impressed expression. Imagine my elation when the nurse practitioner- previously referred to as The Pregnancy Diet Nazi- called me "Skinny Minnie!" Imagine me skipping out of the office that day feeling like the Prom Queen.



Imagine my horror when, two weeks later, my go-to baggy pants required an elaborate "shimmy-hop-shimmy-twist" to get over my ass. I should probably also mention that said pants are maternity. Need I mention I almost passed out? (Although, in hindsight, it was probably because the pants were cutting off my circulation.)

The time to work out was nigh.

Believe it or not, I had actually really been anticipating a return to the gym. I'm the last person that anyone would ever call "fit" or "healthy", but about six months before I met my husband, I had been bribed by my roommate to go the gym with her, and I fell in love with it. Immediately I began to see results, and I felt better about myself than I had since before I had kids. It was like a drug.



Along came Chris. The euphoria of falling in love quickly became more addicting than the euphoria of making it through an entire Latin Dance Fusion Aerobics class without wheezing. I traded in dates with the treadmill for dates with Chris... and although he provided me with plenty of cardiovascular activity, he's also a chef. No one but me noticed when a few new pounds stowed away here and there. Like a baby or a cat, I tend to gain weight when I'm happy, so I was ok with it. It was when I went shopping for clothes and had to buy an entire size up that I really gave it a second thought. Hmm... my belly is getting bigger... which is funny because I have felt kinda sick the last week and haven't been able to hold much down... hmm, maybe I'm just PMS'ing. Yeah, that's it. I should be starting any day now... actually, come to think of it, aren't I a bit late? [Smacks palm against forehead...]

I was under no grand illusion that I would shoot out baby numero three and look like a supermodel, but I was pleased with the progress I had made at the six week mark, and confidant that once I was given the OK by the doctor to start working out, the rest of the pounds would fly off. What I didn't take into consideration was that the birth control I begged my doctor for would cause extra weight to flock to me like paparazzi to Beckhams.



Realizing that I needed to go to the gym cancelled out the fact that I wanted to go to the gym. It's like your boss telling you to do something that you were already planning on doing- sure, the task gets done, but not doing it of your own free will takes all the fun out of it.



With a slightly deflated attitude, I suited up for my first day of working out. By the time I had spent a few minutes walking on the treadmill, my heart started beating faster and I could literally feel the endorphins being pumped through my veins. Confident and determined, I reached out to the treadmill's control panel and eagerly starting tapping away at the plus sign. The loop of rubber started cycling faster and faster, and soon I was going from power walk into jog.



GA-JUUUUUUUUUUUNG.
GAAAAA-JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNG.
GA-JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNG.

As soon as I accelerated my gait into something that was of a slightly higher impact, I was absolutely horrified to realize that my ass was jiggling like two jello molds in my gym pants. I was almost afraid that the velocity of my behind bouncing rhythmically up and down would eventually gain enough momentum to catapult me right off the treadmill and careen me into the elliptical machines. Never before has a trip to the gym instilled so much antipathy; not once have I ever said to myself, "I need a sports bra for my ass."

I don't really like focusing on weight as a number, so instead of targeting a specific weight, my goals are:
1.) To get back into wearing actual clothes and not my maternity wardrobe... which is equal parts working out and shopping for clothes that fit me.
2.) To be able to endure a cardio session without
a.) Bouncing off the machine
b.) Wheezing like an asthmatic geriatric
c.) Walking away from the treadmill thinking, "I need a cheeseburger and a cigarette."
3.) To scare the gratuitous belly fat into submission. No, tummy, it is NOT ok to hang like that. Retreat! Return from whence you came!

Does anyone have any gym horror stories, or I am the only one whose ass makes an ass out of them?

This Week's Featured Pet Peeve:

The Birth Control Patch.

"They" make you think you don't get pregnant because the hormones in the birth control prevent eggs from being released, or prevent fertilized eggs from implanting in your ueterine wall.

BULLSHIT.

I'm convinced that the real reason you don't get pregnant is because you don't have the chance to. The fatigue, moodyness and weight gain are what kills your chance of ever getting action in the first place. Also- try to feel sexy with a week's worth of bandaid adhesive forming a linty square on your stomach.

Soon, we are "upgrading" to something a little more reliable and a little less likely to turn me into a fat hell beast, but in the meantime, I am waging a war with hormones. Because my husband is hotter than hell, and because I'm still suffering PTSD from my lovely pregnancy and labor, I've got to deal with the minor annoyances associated with pumping my body full of extra hormones. Although I may bitch about what a pain-in-the-ass it may be, I'd MUCH rather take on a handful of extra hormones than an extra human being. Because really? That's just a pain-in-something-else.

L is for Lazy...

I caught this on this very funny blog, and it's pretty much all the blogging I'm in the mood for tonight. Expect something more soon!



A is for age: 27
B is for breakfast: Breakfast was delayed today- by the time we got to IHOP, I was way more interested in a bacon and egg cheeseburger than the origianal strawberry pancake game plan.
C is for career: Stay-at-home mom/wife for the next month.
D is for dog's name: No dogs, although my last one was named Alouicious.
E is for essential item I use everyday: Definitely the computer.
F is for favorite TV show: Sex & The City and Arrested Development- out of shows currently on-air, I'm addicted to LA Ink, Rock of Love, Top Chef, and am waiting (im)patiently for the new season of American Idol.
G is for favorite game: Apples to Apples
H is for hometown: Born in LaMirada, California
I is for instruments I play: Skin Flute and Male Organ.
J is for favorite juice: Grape
K is for kitchen, what color is it?: Red
L is for the last place I ate out: IHOP
M is for Marriage: I am totally obsessed with my husband.
N is for nickname: Nik, Nikki, Coley
O is for overnight hospital stays: 3
P is for people I was with today: Reagan, Bradyn, Madelynn; Husband; Grandparents; Brother
Q is for quote: "We're all of us haunting and haunted." -from Lullaby by Chuck Palahniuk
R is for regret: Smoking
S is for sport: I started getting into Major League Lacrosse this summer!
T is for time I woke up today: 7 am
U is for favorite piece of undergarment: Chris's lucky boxer-briefs (Trust me, I'm the lucky one!)
V is for last vacation I took: 2 days in a swanky hotel in Santa Monica while I was pregnant.
W is is for worst habit: Leaving the dishwasher open. "Honey, have you ever seen 'Garden State'?)
X is for number of xrays: Just dental ones.
Y is for yummy food I ate today: Homemade chili for dinner... with Fritos on top. :) There's only room for one gourmet chef in this family, and it's quite obviously not me.
Z is for zodiac: Leo

And now I tag... well, everyone who's up for it. Meghann? Ashlea? Tiana? Andrea? Who's sneaking around here?

This Week's Featured Pet Peeve:

People who call my baby a boy.

At five weeks old, I'm willing to concede the fact that my daughter still looks completely like... a baby- a deliciously plump, happy, androgynous baby. Well, usually she's happy- in the photo, she looks disappointed in mankind, or severly annoyed, just like her mama.

I've always thought that newborns all looked like wrinkled little old men, aliens, Elmer Fudd, or Yoda. All of them, even my own. It doesn't bother me that other people think that as well. What does bother me is when strangers assume the gender of my baby, although I suppose it only bothers me when they get it wrong. Baby faces are baby faces, granted, but do people really not notice all the hints I'm giving them? She's dressed in a pink onesie. With flower booties. In a pink blanket. In her pink stroller. Either I'm doing my best to subltly suggest to the public that she's female, or it's a boy, and the cast of Queer Eye For The Metrosexual Infant threw my baby shower.

Proof that I am a spoiled American:

From a MySpace bulletin I sent out today:

All summer long, our house has been a chilly 72 degrees. Partly, this is due to the fact that when I was pregnant, anything over 72 degrees felt like I was boiling in a vat of my own fat. Partly, I wanted to overcompensate for the fact that Chris works with fire all day long... the least I could do was have a nice, cool, house for him to come home to! (Notice I didn't say clean...) I'd be the first to say, whenever the topic of weather came up, that actually, it didn't feel too hot this summer! It was actually quite pleasant! To which Chris would slowly, slowly turn to look at me, and I could see the little thought bubble above his head full of this stuff- &%@#$%&!!!!!!- because my summer? My summer consisted of laying on my couch like a beached whale, drinking caffeine free iced tea and watching Rachael Ray with the AC blasting so hard that I was actually cuddled up underneath my favorite down comforter.

I'm sure that's probably the cause of the problem I'm faced with now. One of our AC units went out yesterday. Last night I was in denial. Today, I am in agony. Agony and lots of deodorant. I am forced to hang out in Maddy's room all night, because the only parts of the house that don't feel like you're in the stomach of a cow are the kid's rooms.

Which brings me to my point- and you thought I didn't have one!!!


DOES ANYONE KNOW A GOOD LOCAL AIR CONDITIONING COMPANY???

(Preferably one that accepts salami sandwiches and watercolor paintings of indecipherable animals as payments, but as they say, beggars can't be choosers.)

Two weeks ago, my beloved TV started to show signs of aging.
Last week, I left my cell phone outside and it's been dead since.
Yesterday, the AC.

I was sitting there thinking "Wah-wah-wah what's going to break next?" when I realized how petty it was to complain about losing some of my luxuries, I laughed out loud. I am so stupid, so petty, so damn lucky to even have these problems at all. But for the record:

Please God, don't take my Internet.

What Santa is bringing this year...

I want to get the munchkeroos these!

By my calculations, I'd be in 22nd grade this fall. (But don't trust my calculations, I didn't make it through college.)

In the same way that Christmas and Halloween have become less about me and more about the experience I create for my children, The First Day of School has been a spectator sport. I get to channel my inner geek with a romantic stroll down the school supply aisle, where, in my imagination, protracters and glue sticks follow me like I'm Snow White, where I am serenaded by the pencil sharpener that just flew by and landed on my shoulder.

Happy First Day of second grade to Madelynn!
In the grand tradition of Maddy, me, and first days of school, I fought back tears after I waved goodbye and walked out to the car. She was excited to go this year, fully because she had been suffering a mean case of withdrawal from those three months without Monkey Bars. She worried all summer about second grade, but I don't worry about her. Madelynn may be shy at first, but people adore her. (And even if they don't, she doesn't really give a shit. Sweet.)

She sat at her desk, hands folded, and looked like she was afraid it was going to swallow her up. I watched her through the big classroom window for a few minutes while I was chatting with the other Moms, and I saw her straighten her pencil box in the center of her desk, and then move it to the side, and then the middle again. And then I noticed that even though I got the exact pencil box the teacher specified, most of the other kids had a different brand. Knowing this as I walked back to my car burdened me with some bizarre surrogate social anxiety. Is that weird?

Speaking of surrogacy, I emailed the four girls I know who are still in high school, and asked how their first days went. And then I begged them to tell me what they wore, because that's pretty much what the first day of school is really all about. My daughter has to wear a uniform, which, although a godsend on every other day of the year, kinda takes all the fun out of the first day. I reconciled myself with this by harassing my sister and her friends to tell me what they wore... and by reminding myself that there is Free Dress on Picture Day.

Attack of the Mom-Brain!!!

Something about pregnancy and the subsequent weeks of being postpartum renders your brain only about half-useful. It's the phenomenon of Mom-Brain that leaves you incapable of even the easiest mental tasks. It's what causes you not notice that you're wearing your clothes backwards, have two contacts in one eye (right, Tiana?), or that you never rinsed out your conditioner. It's what caused me to leave an entire trunkfull of frozen foods in my car until they melted beyond salvation because... well, because I just completely forgot about them.

The grocery mishap, compounded with the fact that I've been listening to Disney music all day, caused me to seek shelter within the pages of my new book, Rant, by Chuck Palaniuk. The pessimist in me especially loved this passage from pages 12 & 13:

"The big reason why folks leave a small town," Rant used to say, "is so they can moon over the idea of going back. And the reason they stay put is so they can moon about getting out." Rant meant that no one is happy, anywhere... Rant used to say, "Life's greaetest comfort is being able to look over your shoulder and see people worse off, waiting in line behind you."

May your day be graced with a good book, some age-appropriate music, and no thawed chicken juice seeping into the upolstery of your trunk.

Love me, love my weakness for musicals.

Because it's late, and I'm exhausted to the point of nearing delirium, I'm going to confess something. I was really anticipating the August 17th release of High School Musical 2. Unfortunately, my daughter was out of town and we had to wait until she came back to watch it... which means the last five days were more torturous than I'd like to admit.

If you're not familiar with the High School Musical phenomenon, it was a movie made last year for the Disney Channel about a group of high school students. It's plot is Grease meets The Mickey Mouse Club, and it so corny yet so catchy. When I saw previews for the sequel, I knew it would be horribly cheesy, predicatable, and over-the-top... ergo absolutely fabulous and I couldn't wait!!!



Even though I grew up loving musicals and cheesy movies, there were moments that garnered a groan and eye-roll from me. ME- I saw From Justin to Kelly- IN THE THEATER- so who am I to pass judgement? Noooooooooooooooone. But I will anyway.

Zac Efron- dreamy enough to make me feel like a creep- was wearing so much makeup that he looked like an Oompa-Loompa gave him a makeover. Sadly, even his freaky fake tan was not enough to distract from the horrible song and dance around the golf course that he did. Who thinks that was cool- besides the Kevin Bacon character in Footloose? Otherwise, though, that kid is adorable. Even when he's trying to cop a feel on Gabriella as she's singing her "I'm Breaking Up With You" song. Hello, on the bridge? I am SO not the only one who noticed that, right? (Oh, how I wish I had another adult to discuss this with!) And why, oh why, was there an omelet on the stove just ready and waiting for him every time he walked into the kitchen?

Really? Am I really typing all this? Time to put myself to bed before I start to analyze the beseball dance-off... one boy just sang to the other, "I'll show ya how I swing!".
It would just be too easy to keep going!

What came first, the chicken or the egg? (And other food-related queries)

Do I watch Food Network all the time because I'm constantly hungry, or am I constantly hungry because I watch Food Network all the time?

Piss Drunk?

Germany. Home of sausage, Hefeweizen, lederhosen, and now... the Piss-Screen.

Essentially, it's a way to weed out potential drunk (male) drivers by having them play a simulated driving game where they steer a car with their stream of urine. If you crash your car in the game, the number for a local cab company appears on the screen.

Great for society, bad for janitors...

http://www.piss-screen.de/

For those Crazy, Hip, Neglected Blog Mamas!!!

I haven't participated in a CHBM rally in a while. Please forgive me while I unabashadly blame it on my unborn child. After the stretchmarks she's giving me, she can take a little heat from a blog group. ;) Oh, and if anyone's peeved that I didn't post this on Friday like I should have... take it up with afformentioned unborn.

The theme is Summer Photos, here's what I got for ya:

As a favor to me...

Anyone who has access to Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds", go play it... this is my message to you-ou-ou.

This has to be some kind of joke. Unless Petra Nemcova designed a line of resort footwear inspired by her tsunami survival, or Aquaman has a fashionista for a girlfriend, I have a hard time imagining much of a market for these.


On the other hand (foot???) they do accomplish one remarkable feat (feet!!!)- they actually make Crocs look not-so-bad. I can't believe I just said that.

More than meets the eye?

Anyone out seeing this



soon? Keep an eye out for my step-brother, who's got a teensy bit of screen time in the movie. (Towards the very end, he's flying one of the helicopters, and then he blows up.) I haven't seen it yet because the idea of sitting in a packed movie theater watching robots fight for two hours while my body is screaming "Why aren't you laying down, Stupid?" at me... well, it's not my bag, Baby. I am, however, extraordinarily proud of my brother.

This step-brother of which I speak is named Michael, and he's a month older than I am. I didn't get to know him until after my mom married his dad a few years ago, because he was an Army Ranger and served two terms in Iraq, flying Blackhawks. He's one of those guys who comes off as a complete asshole until you get to know him- then you realize, well, yeah, still an asshole, but he's funny.

Soooooooo, go have fun, those of you who are unencumbered enough to be able to sit in a movie theater for two hours without frantically making an escape plan in case your water breaks!

Honestly-

HELP.

Does anyone know how difficult it is to remove wallpaper? Like, on a scale of 1-10... for a preggo. I have a fairly small bedroom with a wallpaper border along the top of the wall that I would just like to not exist anymore. Anyone have any pointers???

Young man, you are grounded until I can tell this story without busting up laughing.

Tonight, over dinner, I was dealing with the usual frustrations of trying to get my children to eat... not to mention keeping elbows off the table, full mouths closed, and the bodily-function jokes to the bare minimum. To make matters worse, Maddy had a friend over, and my baby broher Tyger, and my sister and her best friend were all there too. Mealtime was hectic, and I was getting frustrated with how much policing I had to do to get them to eat. It's not like I was forcing them to eat liver and onions or anything, I made their favorite- Mac & Cheese- from scratch.

My three year old was in rare form tonight, especially because he had an audiance, and I had to keep pestering him to quit the comedy routine and eat. Raising my voice slightly, I said, "FINISH YOUR DINNER!" to which he looked at me, wide-eyed, looked back down at his plate, stabbed a forkful of Mac and said, "MACARONI! You are going in my belly to marry my lunch! And then you will kiss each other! Nakey! AND IT WILL BE SEXY! They'll be like 'Oooooh la la!'"

I almost spit out an entire mouthful of salad. I could not fathom what had just come out of my baby boy's mouth... let alone begin to process how to counteract the situation. While the six other people at the table howled with laughter, I tried not to choke on my mouthful of food. I could feel my face blush with mortification. And then, after asphyxiation was no longer a concern, I couldn't help but laugh. And trying to reprimand a three year old while you're laughing doesn't help much.

"The Talk" happened after dinner, when it was just the two of us, and I still had to turn my head away a few times when I was about to break character. I'm not sure where he picked the term up, but according to my daughter, he had used it at least twice before. It got me thinking about how, even though my kids cross the line occasionally, they do it with hilarious pizazz. Hey, it could be worse- as long as cracking a really inappropriate joke is the most trouble they get it, I can handle that.

It got me thinking, though, about how hard it is to repremand a child when they do something funny. My all-time favorite example of this was when my family went out for dinner once. My mom, two brothers, sister and myself were in the middle of a busy restaurant on a busy night, at a table surrounded by other diners. My brother Tyger had to have been only about 3 or 4 years old at the time. In the middle of dinner, Tyger lets out the most enourmous, resonant, bellowing belch I have ever heard in my entire life. My entire family is dumbstruck for a moment, in awe of the fact that a noise like that came from a three year old and not a lumberjack. Apparently, the other diners heard it too, because it seemed like for a split second, a hush fell over the restaurant and all eyes were on our table. And then, my baby brother, with a look of shock and disgust on his face, turned to our mother and said, accusingly, "MOOOOOOOOOOM!"

Almost ten years later, I can't even type that story out without laughing out loud...

But enough about me and my family's bad manners- anyone have a story to share about a kid getting out of trouble (if only momentarily) because of a keen use of comedy? Sharing is caring.

delish...

Last night's dinner...
The Tabasco sauce is for Chris, who liberally applies it to everything edible. I've got mad Tabasco aversion thanks to one fateful lunch shift where an entire bottle spilled in my apron and I had to smell it all day long. (In case you were wondering. I'm a huge fan of Cholula, though.)

So, there you a go, a picture of dinner in lieu of an actual post. Eat up!

If Tabasco and Cholula got in a street brawl, who would win?

Why put something off until tomorrow when you can do it the day after that?

So, I'm gonna level with you here. I'm not really a motivated person. Especially with this whole "(insert any verb here)-ing for two" that I have going on lately, sometimes it takes me a whole half hour to motivate myself to rise from a reclined position to go get a brownie from the kitchen. If it takes that much for chocolate, people, you can only imagine the struggle I'm having with housework.

It's not just that I'm lazy. It truly is difficult for me to move around. I'm trying my best! Yesterday, I did a few loads of laundry, some light housekeeping, played with my son, grocery shopped, and cooked two dinners from scratch. Seems like an easy day off, right? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? By the end of the day, I felt like I got run over by a truck.

Today, I still feel miserable- a theme I've been battling for the last week or so now. (I'm thinking about starting a fund to bribe Dr. Jacome to expedite this whole childbirth thing, donations gladly accepted.) I'm taking it easy today, although I'm bored out of my mind. Already cleared my TiVo of everything I have been saving to watch when Chris wasn't around (he disapproves of my addiction to The Ex Wives Club). I had to get out of the house before I went stir crazy- seriously, nothing makes me grumpier than feeling like I wasted a perfectly good day off by staying in my house and not contributing to the economy in any way. Since we're trying to save money, I decided against going anywhere that provides you with a shopping cart, and instead decided to visit my other therapeutic outlet, Golden Spoon. Life feels so much better with an empty cup of frozen yogurt in front of you, especially when it's Strawberry and Orange 50/50 Bar Swirl with fresh strawberries on top. Or maybe that's just me. But I sat outside of the the yogurt shop, reading a book and basking in the sun until I was scraping the bottom of my Styrofoam cup and the metal rivets in my maternity jeans had absorbed so much heat that they were literally burning my skin, and now I feel like a new woman.

Or, at least, I will...after my nap.

I've returned physically, but not mentally.

Our two-day vacation was perfect... except for the fact that it was way too short. Depressingly short. Almost-threw-a-tantrum-when-we-had-to-leave short. As a matter of fact, I may appear to be back, but it's just a clever illusion. Really, I'm still in the VIP cabana at the Viceroy Santa Monica, sipping Voss water and eating food I can't pronounce. You're reading this because I've gotten mighty good at telepathy.

In reality, I'm glad we could sneak away from the desert, even if it was for 24 hours. Timing was perfect- I was maxed out mentally, and still kind of am, to be honest. A proper post is in the works, but I'm having a hell of a time stringing words together to form sentences so it might take me a little while to get caught up.

In other news, can I please have this baby? I'm literally losing what little sanity I had left.

And the livin's easy...

I'll take a Jehovah's Witness any day.

One would think that living two decades in a city with the word "Desert" in the name would make one accustomed to desert-y things. I absolutely adore my desert city, with the palm trees, the sand dunes, the tumble weeds the size of SUVs, the mountain ranges hugging our valley from all sides, the unrelenting sun- even wild coyotes, bighorn sheep, roadrunners and scorpions lose their novelty after a while. What I will never get used to? The fact that because I do, indeed, live in a desert, sometimes I might need to be prepared to come home from the hardware store to find a four-foot snake on my doorstep.

Luckily, Snakey the Snake was first spotted by Chris, who's "WHOA!" was reason enough for me to stay pretty far back. I did get a peek at the serpent, from a good 15-20 feet away, and it was enough to creep me the F out. I could not, do not even want to try to imagine what would have happened if I had stumbled across the thing on my own. Only one of us would have been able to walk away from the situation without going into cardiac arrest... or, more appropriately, I should say "slither away."
My money? It's on the huge scary scaled thing.

Sit back, relax, enjoy the slide show.

Sarah G. sent me some pics she took at the wedding- hopefully this will hold you over until the professional ones are ready...

What weekends are for:

I'm sure everyone's had a hard week. Go splash around a bit!

"I'll make the most of it, I'm an extraordinary machine."

Married life.
It's been under a week, and... uh... well, it feels no different, except now, every few hours, Chris and I look at each other, giggle, and say, "We're married!"

Our honeymoon consisted of one whole entire day off together- well, technically half a day, because we had to pick Maddy up later that afternoon. We went and watched Shrek the Third, and as I sat sandwiched between the two of them, I found it hard to stay focused on the movie because I kept staring at the person to my right or left, feeling overwhelmingly blessed.

By the next morning, the "overwhelmingly blessed" turned into "overwhelmingly overwhelmed," as I looked around the house and made a mental list of all the chores that had to be done. I still had a few days off from work, but Chris was leaving to rejoin the workforce at 7:30am on Tuesday. I took a break from packing Maddy's lunch to walk my husband (I can't even type that without a giggle) to the door that morning, something that made me feel very June Cleaver. The only problem was that about ten steps from the front door, the realization hit me that This house isn't going to clean itself... and I'm the one with the day off today... oh eff me. I've got to do it? As I said goodbye to Chris, I couldn't stop the tears from falling, the big fat wet hot tears sprung from the hormonal well of pregnancy. I was already lonely before his car was shifted into Drive.

I spent most of Tuesday cleverly avoiding doing most of the housework. I even went into my work to see if I could pick up a shift! I ended up spending the afternoon shopping for new carpet with my grandma, with enough time to accomplish a few of the least deplorable tasks on my housework to-do list.

Wednesday, it was unavoidable. I had to clean my closet. Really, I had to, because people were coming out in the afternoon to measure my bedrooms for new carpet. I really wanted to avoid having someone opening my closet doors to measure the square footage and losing their life, suffocated under an avalanche of mismatched Vans and clothes I haven't been able to wear in 6 months. There is no motivator for housework greater than the chance a perfect stranger might die upon entering your home! And, let's be honest, I can't afford BOTH the new carper AND a lawsuit. Let's be honest, I can't even really afford the carpet.

Ever since Tuesday morning, I've been arm-wrestling with my hormones and have consistently lost. Ever the glutton for punishment, I declare "TWO OUTTA THREE!" and lose again. "BEST OF FIVE!!!" Then, my Self-Esteem decides it can't handle watching the slaughter from the sidelines, so they pipe up, "I play winner!" My hormones then proceed to mop the floor with my Self-Esteem. I've gone through the last few days unwittingly doing an Eeyore impression as my punishment.

I worked a little the last two days, which really didn't serve any purpose other than annoying me. (I gave the play-by-play over at zee other blog, the one where I just complain a lot, you know, that one?) Now I'm self-medicating with Fiona Apple (Extraordinary Machine on repeat!) and trying to distract myself from the daydreams I'm having about French Fries wearing ketchup shoes and can-can dancing from the plate to my mouth. Yup, daydreaming about junk food, despite the fact that I can actually feel my toes swelling as I sit here.

I'm off to go elevate my lower extremities before I have two pillow feet and ten Vienna Sausage toes.

Mmmmm.... sausage...

A generation gap so wide, you'd need a pair of Acme Rocket Skates to cross it.

Upon Seeing A Roadrunner:

Me: Look, Maddy! A roadrunner! Like the cartoo---
Maddy: Like High Speed Online!


(For those of you saying "Huh?", our cable internet is called Roadrunner.)

Hitched, without a hitch.

As of Sunday, May 20th, at 2:49pm, I am married.

Everything went perfectly (insert dreamy sigh here). I don't have enough time to elaborate at the moment- I'm not even at home- but I did just want to check in with everyone in the Blogosphere and assure you that I haven't fallen off the face of the earth.

More later, that's a pinky swear.

It's like muzak for the eyes!

I've got nothing to say. Here's a picture of Brady, post-haircut.

For the old man in all of us!

Mapquest finds you the lowest gas prices in your area!

Smile like a saint, curse like a sailor

According to an episode of Spongebob Squarepants, there are Seven Bad Words in the world, but thirteen if you're a sailor. Madelynn asked me about the truth of that yesterday. I told her that there were probably more bad words than that, depending on who you asked. She told me that she tried counting and only got up to eight, so there was no way that there could be thirteen bad words.

Today, while bombarded with a fresh piece of wedding-related info, I... um... well, I kinda lost it. I was unloading my rage on the phone when Maddy walked into my room. I immediately shut myself up.

"On second thought, I think there just might be thirteen after all," she deadpanned, "maybe more." Then she turned around in her sparkley mary-janes and walked out of the room, adding, "You could teach Mr. Krabbs a thing or two."

Cracked Up

Today kicked my ass.
I was running on two hours of intermittent sleep and not prepared to deal with not one, but two small crises in Wedding Planning Land.

I laid as low as I could, tried not to flip out. I only officially lost it once (on the phone with my grandma, of course) and came dangerously close to having a breakdown in the middle of the baking supply aisle of Albertson's while thinking to myself, "How the hell am I supposed to get through this without my trusty companion, Junk Food?" UNFAIR.

Maddy and I both had friends over for dinner- Maddy's friend Jade and my friend Andrea. We started talking about the concept of "If Mama Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy!" (which, lucky for me, is a notion completely understood by Chris). Maddy had her own take on the witticism, which was "If Mama Ain't Happy, I CRACK UP!"

HOW DOES SHE FIT A SIXTEEN YEAR OLD IN THERE?

As the older two of us were doing the dishes together and the younger two were fighting over whether they were going to watch Freaky Friday or Annie, I turned to Andrea, and in reference to Maddy said, "Where did I go wrong?"

Without hesitation, Andrea replied, "You mean, 'How Did You Manage To Give Birth To Yourself?'"

Oh. Good point. On the bright side, Maddy wrote down some nice things as part of the Mother's Day gift she worked on in school. For example, she loves it when I "make chocolate cip cookies" and I'm smart because... well, see for yourself!

Art Show(-off)

(You have to click to see the full image... my apologies on behalf of blogger.com.)

Last Thursday, we went to check out my brother's artwork on display for the senior high school Art Show. First of all, it is abundantly clear that I got NONE of the artistic genes that run abundant in our gene pool. Both my grandmother and mother are extremely talented artists, and the only artistic talent I have is nice penmanship. Sometimes. All the actual look-how-well-I-can-represent-actual-things artistic talent went directly to my brother.



So, yeah, he can draw. I'D LIKE TO SEE HIM CARRY A BABY. ;)

Love you Ernie, and I'm way more proud than I am jealous.

I can see clearly now the rain is... on my parade.

I'm just going to throw this out here: without the help of ophthalmology, Chris is blind as a bat. Every once in a while, he'll throw on his old pair of glasses, but I'm not sure they're that much help, seeing as how the prescription was written when fanny packs were cool. The time finally came for Chris to get contacts.

While he was having his eyes examined, I was running wedding-related errands with my grandmother. When Chris was finished with his appointment, he called me up.

"Babe, I'm not sure if you knew this or not, but we're... surrounded... by MOUNTAINS!"

I couldn't help laughing out loud. Yeah, I was kinda aware of that. (We're surrounded by a 360 degree view of mountain ranges, even from our backyard.)

After I hung up with Chris, I had to explain to my grandmother what had caused the guffaw that made her jump out of her Reeboks. A look of panic swept across her face. "His eyesight was that bad? Oh no!"

"Isn't that hilarious?" I said. "I'm glad he finally got around to getting his eyes checked."

"Oh, me too," said my grandma. "And it's a good thing he's got two weeks to get used to how you really look before the wedding!"

Sometimes, the grass is greenest in your own front yard.

I'm going to be honest with you here. I was Cranky Mom yesterday. I was impatient, irritable, not Very Much Fun At All Mom. I was looking forward to spending some one-on-one time with my daughter tonight to compensate for my microscopic fuse yesterday. We ignored the chores that needed to be done. We neglected the television. We shunned (most of) her homework.

An old friend of ours asked about Madelynn, and it took me a while to figure out how to answer. She's absolutely the most complex child I've ever met. She can be deliriously silly and then completely morose in the same sixty-second time span. She's got teen angst flowing through her seven year old body... she is very hard work and the thing I am most proud of, and also the biggest challenge I face. I can see myself through her. I am petrified of her growing even a day older.

But, for today, I pushed away the sadness of knowing that one day this will all be different. For today, I enjoyed her as my seven year old. When I tucked her in bed tonight, I sat on the edge of her bed a little longer, hugged a little tighter, and lingered at the door for a few minutes longer.

Goodnight, Moo. Thank you for today.

Eye of the storm...

Even though Andrea's up to her ears in stress, she's still managed to kick some photo-bloggy ass this week. Please pay her site scout a visit!

And now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

And the inheritance goes to...

This morning, I was getting Brady dressed in a t-shirt that has the word "MOM" on a scroll through a flaming heart, kinda with a Sailor Jerry tattoo vibe to it. Brady asked why it said "MOM" in the heart, and I said, "Because you love me!" Brady looked back down at the shirt and said, "And what's all the fire for, Mom? OH I KNOW! Cuz you're HOT!"

Chalk one up for the Shaggy One. Maddy's got to step up her game a few notches! Maddy's not really the complimenting type. Last weekend, the kids and I had dinner with Andrea, and on the table was an advertisement for a Mother's Day Vacation. Maddy picked it up and read it. "Mom Get Away!" (It was supposed to be "Get-A-Way".) "Yeah, I totally know what they mean!"

AND ANOTHER ONE!

Maddy: "Mom, tomorrow is a Free Dress Day!"
Me: "Oh really? Why?"
Maddy: "Because Saturday is Oh-ho-dee-hi-ho."
Me: "WHAT?"
Maddy: "Oh-ho-dee-hi-ho. It's a Mexican holiday, Mom."
Me: "Do you mean Cinco de Mayo?"
Maddy: "Maybe. Dangit, I'm a quarter Mexican. I'm supposed to know these things."

The Bard is rolling in his grave.

Last night, as Maddy and I were working together on her homework, she started quoting Hamlet.

"Where'd you learn that, Maddy?"
"I don't even know where I get this stuff, Mom. Who says that anyway?"
"It's from a play called Hamlet, written by William Shakespear."
"William Shakespear? Is that Britney Spears' dad?"

I would gobble him up, but Painfully Adorable Three Year Olds aren't in my diet.

Nerves of Tin Foil

I am being tested.

I feel like Jesus, when he was up on a mountain being tempted by Satan. Only... well, I'm obviously not Jesus. (I'm hilariously far from perfect and couldn't grow a beard if I tried.) And the Tempter in question isn't wearing a red unitard and carrying a pitchfork- it's shaped like a sucrose molecule. And I would never say "Get Behind Me, Satan!" because everyone knows sugar automatically goes to your ass anyway. So scratch that analogy. Point being, I'm really trying to stick to the diet that Dr. Hitler Jacome (and company) suggested. But I'd just like to know HOW I'm supposed to do that when the odds are stacked against me.

First of all, Del Taco chose this month to unveil the Orange and Cream Milkshake.
Then, I found a huge Costco-sized box of Brownie Mix in my cupboard.
NOW, they opened a donut shop en route from our house to Maddy's school. And my daughter is aware of it. Very aware of it. Very aware as in asking me seven times a day if we can go before school.

I hit my breaking point. I crumbled... like the topping of the cinnamon roll I consumed in less than twelve seconds. If you happen to be in the neighborhood of Country Club and Monterey, go to Swiss Donut for the Crumb-Cinnamon Roll. Unlike myself, you'll probably be able to enjoy it without hearing the phantom screams of an entire team of medical professionals in your head. If you happen to see some woman, quite pregnant, shoving donuts in her mouth like a fiend as she argues with invisible people, don't worry. It's just me.

Like whoa.

For any of you interested in photography, I suggest taking a look at the Freefall Photography collection by French photographer Denis Darzacq. It'll blow your mind, if you have one. ;)

"La Chute" (The Fall)"

Move over Bridezilla-

Here comes WIDEZILLA.

My wedding dress finally came in! My mom ordered it for me, so I tried it on when I went over there for our weekly family dinner last Wednesday. I'm sorry, I don't think "tried it on" is the right term, because that implies that I could actually get the damn thing on.

All my life, I've been between sizes. I'm one of those people who has to try everything on, and being pregnant is no exception. They tell you to order based on your pre-pregnancy size, but I don't think there is a seamstress in the world who could anticipate how big my belly is in comparison to the rest of me. (Stop rolling your eyes, dear reader. If it makes me feel better to blame it on the dress maker, LET ME HAVE THAT, OK?)

So, back the dress goes, with another one, a bigger one, on it's way. I believe the dress is being walked over from Pennsylvania, based on the shipping estimate. The other problem is that Dress V.2 is going to be way too large, and will require a great deal of altering to give the illusion of "Nicole In A Dress" and not, "I thought I was coming to a wedding, why is there a huge circus tent walking down the aisle- oh wait, it has a face! Is that... NIK?" Under normal circumstances, alterations would be a mild annoyance. In my present world? UM, YIKES. I need this in three weeks!

Well, there you go. I've felt like lately, this blog has been severely lacking in entries of the "Bitching and Moaning" variety. Up next? Probably something gooshy about Chris. We got our marriage license today!

Infectious grooves ?

Chris went in yesterday to do the routine Drug Testing for his new job, and after he was done, he picked me up from work and we went and grabbed lunch. As soon as he started up his car, reggae music came blasting through the stereo.

Him: "Sorry babe, I just felt like listening to reggae now that my drug test is over with."
Me: "What do you mean, 'now that my drug test is over'?"
Him: "Well, I couldn't listen to it before my drug test. This reggae music is potent stuff."

On writing our vows...

Chris and I are working with Revered Stan to pen out the wedding ceremony, and as we were reading a list of tradtional openings (as in "Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here together...") I wondered, Do you think I could convince Reverend Stan to do this???

The Story of Us.

Tonight, I started filling out paperwork for the Reverend who is going to marry Chris and me, and about halfway through page five, when I was listing his maternal and paternal grandparents, something hit me.

I haven't practiced my new signature!

I immediately grabbed the first piece of scrap paper I could lay my hands on and started practicing. As I scribbled my new name over and over again, I thought about some of my favorite moments with Chris and felt like I had been run over by a huge Mac Truck carrying a lifetime supply of Lucky.

Often, when my mind has time to wander, I think about the first time we met. I was fairly certain I'd never find what I was looking for, and was still letting the super glue dry on my broken heart. Chris was a San Diegan who had spent the last few years in San Francisco, and had followed a job lead out to My Neck Of The Woods. As fate would have it, not only did I know his new boss, but I had caught the bouquet at his wedding. After a quarter of a century wondering about my future husband, I met him on my very own doorstep. If either one of has had done just one little thing differently, none of this ever would have happened. It's something that boggles my mind, that overwhelms me, that makes me believe in love and fate and God and makes me like a country song.

And now, aforementioned Love of My Life is home, so I'm going to exit stage left.


I can't believe I made it through an entire post with little to no sarcasm! Expect overcompensation tomorrow!

A creamy sauce for my stuffed shells, possibly?

This weekend, I'm trading in my lazy days off without the kids for two 8 hours days at work. Downside- running around all day. Upside- not only am I making some extra money, but more importantly, I'm not giving myself the opportunity to spend any money.

It's a wee bit after 10, and I stopped by the grocery store on my way home for work so I can make a dinner for Chris and I to eat together when he gets home. I know it's a little late for dinner, but hey, at least I'm cooking it myself and not leaving it up to a bunch of wiley teenagers who may or may not remember to ask if I want fries with that.

Here's a thought for you before I go back to stuffing my shells: (no, that is not a sexual innuendo. I'm much too tired for that, and I am literally making Stuffed Shells for dinner, perv.) Wait, what was I going to say? I started thinking about stuffed shells as a metaphor and kinda got lost in X rated images of my super hot fiance...

OH YES. What I was going to say is that I really, really hate when people have cryptic personalized license plates. My thought is that if you're going to fork over the cash to sport a vanity plate, at least make it something decipherable, so I don't waste the better part of my day trying to figure out what that random slew of consonants is supposed to mean. Because I will. And the day after that. It will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have actually wanted to pull up next to people at red lights, do the international "Roll Down Your Window" gesture, and ask what their license plate means, but I think I'm one notch above that level of desperation. I will admit, though, it is a very feeble notch.

Enjoy your weekends, yous.

Wined, Dined, and... uh...

Last night, Chris and I were collectively wooed by his next potential employer, The Viceroy. The place is swanky digs, reminiscent of old Hollywood. Yes, I could live there. Chris has had a bevy of interviews over the last week, and last night, Chef invited us to have dinner at the resetuarant. The meal was insanely good, and as I nibbled at the dessert tray, Chef told Chris that he was the top candidate for the job and they would have a definite answer on Monday, after they check a few more references and run a drug test. We both tried to keep cool, which was hard for me because I get excited like a puppy gets excited, and hard for Chris because they kept sending him cocktails and wine. This is a job that Chris is capable of doing, but a huge leap upwards for him. It's also a big leap of faith for the resort to take as well- Chris is decades younger than other people who applied for the job. He sailed through the verbal interview and kicked ass at his Iron-Chef type cookoff, but I think he is a lot younger than what they had in mind.

The whole job search was prompted by the fact that Chris's current Chef-boss, the Sickeningly Talented Aaron Barnett, is looking to relocate and set up shop in Portland. (You have been reading scout, haven't you?) Chris (and I) can't stand the thought of him staying on at his current restuarant once Aaron leaves. Chris deserves a wee bit more money, and the opportunity to work in a kitchen where there's more than two other people there who a.) care, b.) know what they're doing, and c.) don't attack him with a knife when they're angry.

The Viceroy was soooooo inspiring, it felt like the entire place was posing for a picture. I wanted to take photos of every little detail, but didn't want to look like Big Huge Touristy Geeks, especially since Chris hasn't been officially hired yet. I did sneak a couple pics of the place, which aren't great because I was trying to be as stealth as possible. For a better idea of the grandeur of the place, check out the website I linked for you up top.

Click the pictures to enlarge...

The Dining Room:


One of the pools:


And us! (This was before dinner, in our front yard.)


All right, off to work for me now, sadly.
Have a great day-
Even you, Sanjaya Malakar.

If this picture doesn't make you smile...

... then you've probably had a week like mine.

My brief attempt at optimistic encouragement, courtesey Keith M Johnson.

Expect a rant from me soon...
Properly warned ye be, says I.

I'm the fortune-ate one...

Chris and I had a delectable Chinese feast for lunch yesterday, and we got hooked up with the fortune cookies because I knew our server. We have a history of getting eerily accurate and applicable fortunes (yes, I know they're purposely generic so everyone thinks that, but I swear it's really true for us!), but this one that Chris opened has to be my all-time favorite, especially if you play the "In Bed" game.

Oh no no no no no!

Britney Spears and Howie Day?

Apparently, they met in rehab and she's fallen hard. Apparently, Howie Day is a great kisser. Apparently, I can no longer listen to a Howie Day song from now until the end of my days without thinking about Britney saying that.

Inanimate Object of Lusty Thoughts of the Day

For a mere $14.00, this print of a painting from one of my favorite movies (Amelie) could be mine. I want this really really really badly, and yet, oddly enough, not badly enough to buy it for myself. *HINT HINT*

This is from the Almost Famous shop on Etsy, where there's a whole lot of awesome going on- like the Fight Club set.



See? Told you!

And it seems to me you lived your life like a flashlight in a breeze?

Dead celebrities are screwed. I'm still all muddled up with feelings of ickyness about the Kurt and Courtney movie, and first thing this morning I'm getting bombarded with Anna Nicole Smith's diaries. Ok, as much as I'd like to be indignant about this, I don't really think Anna Nicole would oppose everyone and their grandmother reading her diaries. This is the same woman who made a characticure out of herself on a reality television show. I don't consider it being invasive either, it's more like evidence or an opportunity to understand more how this strange woman became such a strange woman. Maybe it will finally answer the question, "How smart is Anna Nicole, I mean really?"
And diaries. I think everyone has to realize that at one point, they might fall into someone else's hands. Anne Frank and Harriet the Spy are both prime examples. As I was reading clips of Anna Nicole's entries this morning, I couldn't help but feel that they were written for that very purpose. On an online poll this morning, 75% of voters said that publishing Anna Nicole's diary was disrespectful, but only 32% of voters said that they would not read them, if published. I hate hypocracy almost as much as I hate poor grammar, which is why I will probably stay away from reading the diaries in their entirety. Although, if someone wanted to read them for me and then give me a detailed report, well, that's ok.
Maybe this is sick and twisted, but I really hope that Elton John records a version of "Candle in the Wind" for Anna Nicole. And I hope Weird Al collaborates with the lyrics. You know what? I think I just figured out how I'm spending my Friday night!

Oh well, whatever, nevermind.

So, they're casting the upcoming Kurt and Courney biopic. Ewan McGregor and Lindsey Lohan? How about Jared Leto and Drew Barrymore?

The Scoop: Casting for Kurt & Courtney

Whatever it is, it can't be as disappointing as Last Days.

OR CAN IT?

American Idle : And then there were 8

"Two legends collide: Tony Bennett meets Sanjaya." From Ryan Seacrest's mouth on Tuesday's show to God's ear, apparently, because another week has gone by where Sanjidol isn't even in the bottom three. I don't get it, and it's making me really hate Howard Stern. At first, I thought he was garnering the magicially appearing votes from the tween contingent, like Kevin Covais/Chicken Little from the previous season, compounded with the fact that he's the first Indian American to be a finalist on the show. Now? Now I think I just hate Howard Stern. And, as usual, I agree with Simon- if Sanjaya wins, I'm quitting the show too. (Here's something scary- on an AOL poll I checked this morning, Sanjidol was ranked #1. No, that was not a typo.) Sanjaya's a nice kid... a nice, shaggy haired, soft-spoken, hula-dancing kid, but an American Idol? Kelly Clarkson would eat him for breakfast. Hell, Clay Aiken would eat him for breakfast. Look, I just gave myself the option to segue into a gay joke, and I'm not taking my own bait! I'd much rather talk about Haley Scarnato's legs. And I will, I promise.

Tony Bennett coached the Idols tonight, and it seemed like most of his direction involved encouraging the contestants to perform the songs more like he did. I'm not about to argue with Tony Bennett, but he seemed to discourage every performer from messing with the classics. After seeing what some contestants did on British Invasion week, that probably wasn't a bad idea. On the topic of bad ideas... um, Mr. Bennett's yellow blazer. He looked like he should be hosting a cable-access game show.

Blake was the first to perform last night, which kind of ruined the whole "I can't wait to see what Blake's going to do!" thing, but that's ok because it wasn't very good anyway. He sang "Mack The Knife" which will always remind me of the big McDonalds Moonhead guy singing about a Big Mac. Sigh. The judges were happy enough- actually, a lot more positive than I was. I don't think Blake has to worry about going home for the next few weeks, but I've come to expect a lot more out of him. Blake, you've let me down. You're going to have to try super hard to find a wiggity-wigga-way back into my heart.

Phil was up next, and all I could think about was how much he looks like Nosferatu. And the guy from the movie Powder. It's just creepy, I don't care what he sounds like. He sang "Night and Day", which the judges thought was disconnected, lacking passion, and gloomy. (I would expect nothing more from a vampire.)

Next up was Melinda. She's so good, even Simon can't think of anything negative to say, much to his (and my) chagrin. Really, she's awesome. I'm not sure if I still believe that suprised "Who, me?" look she gets on her face every time she's complimented, but she does seem humble. I think her only problem in this competition is that she seems like she's in a completely different league from the rest of the contenders/contestants. First of all, she seems much older than everyone, and not exactly the same level of "fresh" and "hip" that we get from Jordin, Blake, and Chris. I think she will have a fabulous recording career in front of her, I'm just not sure she is the right one to win the competition. She does have the same last name as my grandparents. I will investigate the liklihood of us being relatives.

Chris Richardson! It's my completely unprofessional but strong opinion that he gave the best performance of the night, as far as modernizing a classic goes. He sang the hell out of "Don't Get Around Much Anymore", and although it looked like he was dressing up like Justin Timberlake for Halloween, it really worked. This week (and last!) he gave the performance I was expecting from Blake, which means I am now a huge Chris Richardson fan. You should be too, ok?

07-04-03-04
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Jordin Sparks was up next. This girl is adorable! Incredibly, she's the same age as Sanjaya, but a million times the better performer. Ryan Seacrest has predicted that she'll win the comptetion, and although she's not my choice for number one, I would love to see her in the Top 3, and wouldn't think it crazy if she took the whole thing. Tuesday night was a little boring for me, though.

Who knew this would be the week Gina Glocksen went home? I thought she sounded pretty good. Then again, what do I know. It's not like I was voting for her anyway. For the record, though, I did anticipate her staying around much longer than Phil and Haley, and in a perfect world, outlasting Sanjaya. Poor Gina looked upset at the results, and who could blame her. It's one thing to know it's your time to go, and quite another thing when you're standing next to an oiled Barbie and told that she got more votes than you.

Following Gina that night was the man, the myth, the legend, the Sanj. I've been trying to watch my language lately, but this really deserves a "WHAT THE FUCK?" I'll admit that I loved Sanjaya in the very, very, very beginning, but once Hollywood week was over, I thought it was time for the cute little sentimental boy to go home. Why is he still here? I sing with more enthusiasm in the shower. It's gotta be all the hype from stupid stupid VoteForTheWorst.com. If he sticks around longer than some of the really and phenomenally talented people, I think he's going to get assasinated. Not by me, mind you, but it seems most of America is pretty riled up about this. Once Phil, Haley, and Sanjaya leave, the show is going to get really interesting.

I would gladly keep Sanjaya around for another week if we could all please, please just send Haley home. If I have to watch her wiggle all over the stage with her plunging necklines, coy expressions and overly-greased legs, I'm going to scream. I roll my eyes so many times durning her performances that I have blurry vision for the rest of the night. Her voice? It's not horrible. Her body? Wow. But Haley needs to stick to the beauty pageant circuit. Maybe the auditions for that Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders reality show were right next door to the American Idol auditions, and the poor thing got confused? I know she's nice to look at, but think of it this way: the faster she gets kicked off, the faster she'll be posing naked somewhere.


Last up was LaKisha, who always seems to end her songs with a mean ole pout. The girl's got some massively large... pipes! I don't really like her as much as Melinda and Jordin, and definitly not as much as Chris R. and Blake. She seems to be loved by the judges and has stayed out of the bottom groups so far, so I'm assuming she'll last for another few weeks as well. Look, I don't really care, I'm just hoping to get rid of Phil, Haley and Sanjaya so the real competition can commence!

And Paula? Paula. Please, please please fire your stylist. You only look good to you, and that's because of the drugs. And maybe you could do something other than the same exact ponytail you've been sporting for the last few weeks? You paid a lot of money for those extensions, you should really be showing them off.

I just realized how long this post is. I am so sorry. No judgement, ok? ;)