Context.

If any one of my friends described my personality as "slightly abnormal," it wouldn't bother me. I'd probably be amused. On the other hand, hearing my doctor describe my test results as "slightly abnormal" just isn't amusing at all. I'm trying (yet not succeeding) to not worry yet- I have a colposcopy scheduled for March 2nd. Basically, they want to take a microscopically-close look at my cervix because my test results were abnormal. I'm not sure if everyone's aware of how you get microscopically-close to a cervix, but I'll give you two hints. One: it's not through my ear, and two: they suggested that I dose up on Tylenol before the procedure. Can I please change the subject now?
In the meantime, there's really nothing I can do... and in the words of Cancer survivor Olivia Newton John and my grandma, "It is what it is." I'm just going to keep repeating that to myself over and over again, because it's a lot more reassuring than "Go ahead and have the rest of that pint of ice cream, you're probably dying of cervical cancer anyway." Oh god. It is what it is...

The Desert Celebrates Something Withered That Is NOT A Dead Celebrity

You can see the rest of the (really adorable) set of pics here. You're welcome.

And now, my opinion:

In the Coachella Valley, two things are flourishing in noticable abundance: old people and palm trees. The old people are responsible for the terrible traffic on the main roads, and the palm trees? They're responsible for dates. The first Date Palm trees planted in the United States were planted here in the Coachella Valley in 1903, and I think the guy that brought them over from Algeria cut me off on Cook St. earlier today. The Coachella Valley continues to be the leading producer of dates in the US, contibuting over 30 million pounds of the wrinkley berries each year. In 1921, The Riverside County Fair & National Date Festival began as a celebration of date harvesting.

Did you know that the date has more potassium than a banana? They are low in fat and sodium, and high in fiber, iron, and magnesium... but none of that really matters, because the best way to eat them is in a date shake.

If a date shake really isn't your thang, I don't blame you. Lemme tell you what- it takes a lot more than a glorified raisin to get me out of the house, even if there is some ice cream involved. The real reason to go to the Date Festival is for the rest of the food.

My favorite food group is Fried, which makes any type of county fair like my birthday and Christmas rolled together, wrapped in winning lottery tickets, and deep fried with a side of ranch. You can't walk more than ten steps in any direction without being within smelling-range of some sort of food vendor. Mexican, Italian, Chinese, BBQ, Greek, Indian, American... everyone is representing in full force. The choices are so overwhelming that I actually envied the cows in the Livestock Stables- what I wouldn't give for four stomachs at a time like that! I settled on pizza, a bbq chicken sandwich, funnel cake, a churro, cotton candy, a date shake, and a deep-fried Snickers bar. I almost feel guilty about all the food stuffs I neglected.

Between meals, there's a plethora to do to take your mind off of how much weight you're going to gain in one day. There are plenty of booths scattered around the fairground selling (you guessed it) dates and other locally-grown snacks, as well as merchants who will airbrush custom t-shirts, paint your name on a grain of rice, or sell you something you had no idea you needed... and will probably break in 72 hours anyway. There's an art exhibition showcasing local schools' award-winning artists, a petting zoo, a livestock area, and ostirich and camel races. I will state, for the record, that there are few things in life I enjoy more than watching grown-ass men fall off large birds... but from a distance- ostriches really freak me the heck out.

And speaking of camels... it's a bit of a touchy subject with me. I went to the fair really, really, really wanting to ride a camel. Did I get to ride a camel? Nooooooo siree. Apparently my bump and the camel's bump aren't a winning combo. Isn't that a little hypocritical? I can understand dissueding a pregnant woman from riding the Bumper Cars or the Ring Of Fire, but a camel ride seems kinda tame to me. I mean, they let me ride the parking lot shuttle, and that went way faster than the effing camel did. Oh well, just another little piece of ammo I'm going to use against this baby when he/she is a teenager and wants a later curfew. "Past midnight? I don't think so. I couldn't ride the camel, your ass better be home by 12."

Chris and the kids got to ride the camel, and I sat on the sidelines, photographing the fun while I muttered under my breath. For that reason, I started referring to the festival as the (un)Fair. It's ok, though, because there's a lot of things I get to go through as a pregnant woman that they don't. Like morning sickness! And Childbirth. Ooooh, I bet they're so jealous of that! I'll be right back after I count my lucky stars.

I'm back. I got to three. They were: 1) I can use "I'm Pregnant!" as an excuse not to do anything, and they can't. 2.) I can pig out and claim that I'm eating for two. 3.) I can win almost any argument by saying "You're outnumbered! It's two against one!"

Anyway, back on track here... so yes, The Date Festival! Fun times! I managed to leave out the parts about it being totally ghetto, because Funnel Cake covers a multitude of sins. I'm definitely planning on going next year, if not to try the Krispy Kreme Chicken Sandwich that I whimped out on getting, then just for the camel ride. And I'm gonna make everyone sit on the side and just watch me.

Avert thine eyes, Shari Lewis. Avert thine buttons, Lambchop.

Because tonight, I am going to eat lamb. That's right, I am ending my 26 (and a half) year protest on eating lamb, where my primary argument against it was the fact that I was raised a devout Shari Lewis fan. Although I'm sure I will end up enjoying dinner and eating my words (HA!), I still think Chris deserves to hear 50 stanzas of "The Song That Doesn't End" as retribution.

*For the record, I would have no problem eating Hushpuppies.

Because we know what's important in our family.

Phone conversation between Chris and myself, today:

Me: Chris, I have bad news...
Chris: Oh no, what?
Me: Your glasses got broken today.
Chris: My glasses? What glasses?
Me: Your eye glasses.
Chris: MY PINT GLASSES?!?!?!?!?!?
Me: No, your eye glasses.
Chris: Oh, no big deal. Whew, you scared me there for a second.

Fart jokes always go over big.

Maddy: Look at that horse's buttocks!
Brady: Buttocks? My buttocks- it says "Pfffffffttttttttttttttttttt!"

American Idle

I know few of you are as obsessed as I am, but this had me smirking and saying "Oh, I know! TOTALLY!" at my computer.

Slipping into frumpville.

If I had a nickle for every time I've been out running errands this week, and then looked down and realized that I'd left the house in my slippers again, I'd have about thirty cents. Just sayin.

Chris has a REALLY BIG... sense of humor!

Happy Valentines Day, from The Artist Formerly Known As The Valentine Slayer. The holiday has become marginally less annoying to me, and I actually chose to celebrate it this year! I am turning over a new leaf. Next up? Maybe I'll actually start liking puppies.

Chris and I completed not one, but two wedding registries in the last 24 hours. We did one at Target, because not completing a registry there would be tantamount to not inviting my own mother to my wedding. Besides, if I don't pop in there at least every 48 hours, they issue a Missing Person's Report. In addition to a coffeemaker, some new glasses, and various home-related items, Chris also managed to divert my attention long enough to scan a box of condoms. [Clears throat] Magnums.

I hope the grandparents get the joke.

Here's a story of a lovely lady who was bringing up two very something blogs...

I finally published a couple entries that had been sitting in blog purgatory... I just wanted to inform you of their existence, because I fear otherwise, they will go completely unnoticed- the Jan Bradys of Prose and Converse.

Men In 2006: Is "Pussy Whipped" the new "Alpha Male"? (This actually came from 2006, so no judgement, ok?)

and

Not-Mommy-Approved-Licious, from waaaaaaaaaay back in January.

You know me, unless something isn't attached to my body or screaming at me to make it a PB&J, I am at high risk for forgetting it entirely. I rescued these mere moments before they went the way of The Pythagorean Theorum, The Doogie Howser Theme Song, Making Birth Control Work Effectively, and other things I've completely forgotten.

I'm so lucky I was outside today.

(Forgive the camera-phone pic, but Leonard III was at home.)

Should be: cleaning out my dresser so Chris can have some drawer space.
Am: popping bubble wrap.

Notice anything different about me???

Yup, I'm well on my way to becoming a REAL grown-up!!!

All I need is a (Super)bowl of chips.

Disclaimer: I am not a football fan.

Having said that, I'll tell you that the highlight of Superbowl Sunday (aside from the commercials and making fun of Prince durning half-time) was when my friend Andrea and I were sitting on the couch, trying to decide who we going to root for. She chose the Bears because she has friends in Chicago and family from Illinois. I chose... well, actually, I didn't, but that's beside the point. So, we're parked in front of the dip, which is parked in front of the TV, discussing what team's uniforms we liked better, which players looked too fat, and why some of them were wearing Victorian Muffs/Fannypacks. Then we noticed that she and I, the only two people who didn't even know who was playing until we got to the party, were the only ones watching the game. That made me laugh harder than the Kevin Federline fast food commericial... but just barely.

By the skin of his baby teeth...

When Brady was being assembled in the Baby Building Factory, he was equipped with a life-preserving device, something I have come to refer to as the "Charmometer". This child can tell when he is within seconds of pushing me over the edge, and at the precise moment where I am seeing red and about to have a nervous breakdown, he whips out the most angelic, TV Sitcom Cute Kid routine and earns himself the privilege of seeing another birthday. This picture was taken in the midst of one of this morning's many tantrums/fits/crying jags. To narrow it down for you, this one didn't involve urinating- that came about 20 minutes later. This entire morning felt like Brady was at war with the little angel/devil on his shoulders. The angel was bound and gagged, and the devil was slipping Brady skittles and double-dog-daring him to see how far he could go before I threatened to send him away to Swiss Boarding (Pre)School. Let me just put it this way: I was so overwhelmed this morning that I wanted to tell Brady, "Oh yeah, keep it up Kiddo. I'M ALREADY GROWING YOUR REPLACEMENT!", but I didn't. Instead, I called my breakfast date to tell her I was running late, and cried the whole way to my pancakes.

Needless to say, when it was time to pick Brady up after school, I wasn't looking forward to it. As I walked through the door of his daycare, Brady came barging towards me full speed and locked himself around my legs. "Mommy! Know what? I missed you!" (Insert maternal heart-melting noises here.) All I really have to say is that I am so thankful that the aliens who abducted my son while he was at school could not have picked a better day to do it. Boarding School will have to wait until next semester.

Good intentions and interventions.

I had to make a quick grocery store run on my way home from work/picking up the munchkins, and I had a very strict list. All I wanted to get was something to cook for tonight's dinners. I use the plural because I've become accustomed to eating two dinners- a little snack with the kids when they eat, and then another little something with Chris when he gets home from work a few hours later. I would like to take this opportunity to point out that my health care professional recommends that I eat many small meals a day, and I'm not just a glutton. For the most part.

I asked Chris what he wanted to eat tonight, and he asked me to just pick up some snacks. He said he wanted apples with peanut butter, or maybe a ceaser salad. (I might have mentioned something about not wanting to buy any more junk food- and for the record, I meant it at the time.)

I didn't manage to make it out of the grocery store with apples.
Or peanut butter.
I did remember to grab a bag of ceaser salad mix.
And ice cream.
Or, more accurately, ice creams.

I use the plural because... I couldn't help it. I was powerless! Last night after dinner, I was hit with an overwhelming urge for something cold. (I know. Most people crave flavors, and I'm the weirdo who goes and craves a temperature.) I would have killed a man bare-handed for some ice cream last night. Not wanting to find myself in a similar predicament tonight, I thought there was no harm in strolling through the frozen food aisle. Well, once I opened the door for my urge for dessert, common sense had not only left the building, but got ran over in the parking lot. I couldn't stop at one pint of Ben & Jerry's, because I couldn't possibly decide between my Old Standby and a new flavor I'd never seen before. I had every intention on stopping there... but then, when my kids began salivating the moment said pints hit the shopping cart, I became really protective. Sure, they're my hearts and souls and all that sappy stuff, but do I really want to share my ice cream with them? The answer to that question is embodied in the quart of Root Beer Float ice cream that I threw in the cart so quickly, it almost bounced. Then I noticed the bright yellow tags behind that freezer door, yellow tags teasing me with the promise of a better bargain if I bought two. I would be very impolite of me to turn down such hospitality, so I picked up some Breyer's All Natural Strawberry. Did you see that? "All Natural." So it's good for me. Natch.

The "low" of my shopping experience had to be when Madelynn was unloading the shopping cart as we were getting ready to check out.
"FOUR ice creams, Mom?"
"Yeeeeep!"
"But Mom," in a hoarse whisper, "what are people gonna THINK?"

Breyers Ice Cream: Two for $6, with Club Card
Ben & Jerry's: $3.99 a pint
Having Your Six Year Old Discourage Your Ice Cream Purchase: Effed Up.


Half of Brady, with our magnificent array of frozen delights. (Maddy was too embarrassed of me to be pictured.)

I'd actually prefer to wake up and smell the roses.

Very high on my To-Do List:
Teaching my son the importance of flushing.

Nothing says "Good morning!" quite like a little poop floating around in the toilet.

Not-Mommy-Approved-licious

At the risk of all my street cred flying out the window, I'm going to be brutally honest.

Last week, I purchased my first ever... deep breath... first ever Edited Version of a song.

Maddy has developed this penchant for Fergie- and more specifically, the song "Fergilicious." I blame my sister for that one. Now, if you know me, you know my taste in music is wide enough to include my fair share of guilty pleasures that I don't mind owning up to. (I call to reference Ashlee Simpon and Kelly Clarkson.) However, please believe me when I say that the choice to add this song to my iTunes library was strictly for Maddy. With that in mind, having never heard the song in it's entirety, I opted to purchase the edited version.

So, the version of the song that Maddy gets to listen to says "shhhhh" instead of "shit". Whoopee! I had only heard my daugher and sister singing the chorus of the song when I bought it, and had no idea it contained lines like "I got reasons why I tease 'em, boys just come and go like seasons," and "I know I'm comin off just a little bit conceited when I keep on repeating how the boys wanna eat it." Hearing my six year old sing that made me fear getting arrested in my own home... not to mention the conversations I'll be having with her ten years from now.

The complete dorkiness I felt for buying an edited song was quickly eclipsed by worries of my daughter becoming a stripper. You think I would have learned my lesson after the great Pussycat Dolls Debacle of 2005, but I guess I'm still learning.

This begs a bigger question- one bigger than "What's wrong with Maddy saying things like 'They'll be lining down the block just to watch what I got'?" That question is this: does this mean I have to start listening to KidzBop???

Another one where I compare myself to Santa.

A few weeks ago, I had one of "those" days. By that, I mean that at 3:07, I wanted to kill the man driving the blue Ford F-150 on the corner of Fred Waring and 111 because he didn't leave me enough room to make a right hand turn during the red light. At ten past three, I got teary-eyed thinking about orphans. No orphans in particular, just orphans in theory. Before the clock struck four, I swiped my debit card at the register of Old Navy, and came out with one red velour sweatsuit, because I felt like lounging around my house in something warm and cozy, and everything else I owned of the warm and cozy variery was getting on my nerves. When clothing is getting on your nerves, you're having one of "those" days.

Fast forward to today. I changed into afformentioned sweats faster than Clark Kent becomes Superman and was on the couch, horizontal, before my daughter could say "Let's watch Cartoon Network!" As I lie there, not unlike a beached whale, I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the TV screen.

I learned a priceless lesson today. Never buy an entire outfit made of red velour, unless you want to look like the bastard lovechild of Santa Claus and the Koolaid Man.

License To Drive.

Brady: Mom, can I drive my nuts?
Me: WHAT?!?!?!?
Brady: Mom. Can. I. Drive. My. NUTS?
Me: Brady, what are you talking about?
Brady: Maddy said I was driving her nuts, can I drive mine?

Santa Baby

I used to love Christmas. The entire season was magical and almost hypnotic, something to look forward to all year. Now? Now I just think it's a huge pain in the ass. I'll tell you what I like. I like the idea of Santa, jiggly jello belly and unruly facial hair, going about his business from the North Pole all year long, delegating toy-making tasks to his minion of elves while he meticulously checks, rechecks, his list. I like to think of Mrs. Claus, puttering around the kitchen in her apron and halo of curly silver hair, her only goal to have a batch of cookies fresh from the oven as soon as Santa walks through the door. I stopped believing in Santa aroundabouts my eighth year of life when I woke up Christmas morning and tore down the stairs, only to find out that in addition to the cookies I left out for Santa, he devoured a whole pint of Baskin Robbins Very Berry Strawberry ice cream. MY whole pint of Baskin Robbins Very Berry Strawberry ice cream, might I add. And a twelver of Bud Light. I knew immediately that Santa would not do something like that, not to me. My step dad really dropped the ball that year. Instead of stepping up to bat and admitting that he ate my ice cream and washed it down with a dozen beers after I was asleep, he penned a Thank You note from Santa.

"Dear Nikki, thank you for the delicious cookies. I was still hungry from my long journey, so I hope you don't mind that I helped myself to your ice cream. I know it's your favorite, and I know you had to beg your mom to get it, and I know you were saving it for later, but it was really good. Don't worry about those beer cans, it's Rudolph who drives the sleigh anyway. So yeah, thanks for being such a good girl this year! Next year, try not to be such a smartass to your step dad. He's a cool guy. Love, Santa."

The note might have been convincing, had my step father remembered to disguise his handwriting. So there I was, Christmas morning, wearing pajamas with feet, and realizing that not only did Santa not exist, but my step dad was a real piece of work.

Fast forward almost two decades later, where I find myself, almost comically, on the other side of the chimney. I wish I could have the innocence of my children, and more importantly, the enthusiasm and optimism. I am a Scroogey McScrooge, bah humbugging all over the place. Once you know all the tricks, the illusion isn't so fun anymore. Santa really is just some man in a suit- and I don't even get to sit back and enjoy the show. Now I'm forced into the suit myself; tired, broke, and with an extreme inability to attractively wrap presents. I will put on the Santa show for my children while they're still willing to believe it, because they deserve a little magic. Well, and because "Santa is watching you" motivates them to be a hell of a lot nicer than "because Mommy said so!"
But who's gonna sneak presents under the tree for me? Because I really want a Wii and a Scooba and some new jeans and those Vans I've been lusting after since last March, and I really want to believe that some fat man is just going to give them to me, on account of me being a good girl all year. I almost wish I'd chosen to still believe in Santa, even if that meant accepting him as a fridge-raiding binge-drinker. It's still a whole lot better than Santa being... me.

Mrs. Sprat

It's not like I'm superficial or anything, but seeing my boyfriend wearing my jeans makes me never, ever, ever even want to be in the same room as a calorie for the rest of my life. I shouldn't complain, though. I suppose it could be worse- at least we don't have the same bra size.

Men In 2006 : Is Pussy-Whipped the New Alpha Male?

It's almost half time. The opposing teams are playing their hardest, but losing steam. Offense and Defense keep getting confused. When the whistle blows to pause game play, the rivals approach each other and meet centerfield. The opponents size each other up through narrow eyes, appraising the other while sending messages of intimidation. And then, they all switch jerseys. Game play resumes.

Imagine sitting at your favorite local watering hole, watching this very game go down on TV. You'd be so shocked you'd drop your buffalo wing in your lap, right? You'd tilt your pint of beer warily, looking for evidence of hallucinogens. Calm down, sportsfans, it's only a metaphor.

In this big game we like to call Relationships, what happened to The Blue Team and The Pink Team? Manly men and girly girls? Don't get me wrong, equal rights are a good thing, in as much as sterotypes are detrimental. I've just noticed lately that it seems like women nowadays are more eager than ever to wear the pants in their relationships... and their significant others don't seem to mind wearing the pink shirts.

We asked for it, we got it. From Suffragettes to Feminists to every woman who's ever implored her man to get in touch with his feminine side, we've got no one to blame but ourselves. And it's not like I, personally, want to place blame on any one- I just want someone to open doors for me and change the oil in my car. Is that so wrong? At the end of working a long day, the last thing I want is a guy coming to me with his... feelings. WHAT THE? Excuse me? You have those? You want to "talk" about "our relationship"? Unless that's the new slang for "fuck like bunnies", I'm really thrown off here.

It's bad enough that no one really dates anymore. If you've ever gazed into someone's eyes and thought, "Does this mean I have to change my relationship status on MySpace?" you know what I mean.

If it wasn't for the lack of cell phones, the internet, Squirt soda, and Christopher Cantwell, I would totally want to live in the 50's.

Kids, these days...

And we wonder.

Revenge is a dish best served after the kids are asleep.

Parenting is a thankless job most of the time. Do my children ever look at me adoringly and say "Gee, Mom, thanks for enduring that really painful labor!" or "I really appreciate the fact that even though I threw up all over your favorite pillow, you still let me sleep in your bed when I'm sick!"? Um, no. They have no idea about the sacrifices I make for them to have happy kiddie lives. I do it because I love them more than I'd ever imagined possible. I do it because one day, they might have to take care of me. I do it because on Halloween, they get an infinite supply of candy that I can totally raid as soon as their sugar-highs wear off and they fall asleep.

Winosaur.

My boyfriend, being the culinary genious that he is, knows a lot about wine. He can talk about tanins for hours, and even owns half a dozen differently-shaped wine glasses to best compliment the different varieties. I know a lot about wine too- like, for example, if you chug it like beer you'll wake up after an hour-long blackout drooling all over your best friend. We both have a lot of knowledge to bring to this relationship, which is probably why it works so well.

While he was at work the other day, I started flipping through one of his hoity-toity food magazines. It was one of those magazines that contained recipes with no less that eighty-seven ingredients, most of which are only available on the black market. It's a striking contrast to the food magazines I get, which shed enlightenment along the lines of "Try putting sliced hot dog in your Kraft Mac-n-Cheese!"or "How To Sneak Vegetables Into Your Children's Food Without Them Throwing Them At You!", so I'm sure you can imagine my intimidation. In Boyfriend's magazine, somewhere between a recipe for Sauteed Liver Of Firstborn Son and "How To Blow Your Rent Money On A Mushroom", I came across a nice article on wine, geared towards complete schlemiels like me. I said to myself, "Well, this can't hurt to skim over. Maybe they'll even interview Charles Shaw!"

The article had a lot of interesting and informative things to say. I'm probably light years away from ever being able to taste the difference between a merlot, pinot, and cabernet, but at least I'm not pronouncing the "t"s in them. And, although I actually like White Zin with ice cubes, I know better than to ever do it while anyone is watching.

Proud of my freshly-gleaned wine knowledge, I started rattling off facts to Boyfriend as soon as he got home from work- over two glasses of Vintage Year Subject Matter, Red. A few sentences into my diatribe, Boyfriend got that really amused look on his face, like he was watching an elephant paint the Mona Lisa or a bunch of one-legged preschoolers tap-dancing to The Good Ship Lollipop.

"And, and, and, and, did you know that you don't have to drink white wines chilled, or reds at room temperature!?! You totally can do whatever you want! As a matter of fact, I can totally drink this Pinot Noir chilled, and it's not even tacky! I think I'm gonna do that right now."

As I lept up out of my seat, Boyfriend pulled me onto his lap. "Sweetheart, do whatever makes you happy... but there is a difference between 'chilled' and 'I'm gonna throw some ice cubes in there.'"

Damn.

Putting the "Strange" in "Stranger"

I've only been back to the Wonderful World of Myspace for what? a day? maybe two??? and already it's been Open Season for weirdos. I'm sure this is why the term is "Stranger" and not "non-acquaintance."

First, there was Stranger Scott, who was a little confused that I listed my location as "The Devil's Buttcrack" and wanted some clarification. Sure, yeah, I'll give him that. Next up in the line of queries was "ru single?" Um, ru kidding? I'm sorry, call me old fashioned, but if you don't have the time, let alone the attention to detail, required to type out the extra FOUR LETTERS to make that sentence grammatically correct, then buddy, there's no way you've got the time and attention-to-detail required to make it to first base* with me. (*Second base if I'm drunk, I ain't gonna lie.) As if that wasn't enough, he closed the email by signing his name as "Scotti". Nick-names, sure they're endearing. I go by mine all the time! But, I don't know, maybe save it until you've exchanged the introductory email? And what's with the i instead of the traditional y? Something about the i immediately emasculates him in my mind, and aside from that, I'm totally annoyed. I think I've got Irritable Vowel Syndrome.

Next up: Someone with a picture of Prince Charming as his default photo, with the title "You Know The Name". No, actually, I don't know the name, but if I had to guess it would be Something Is Wrong With Me Because I'm 32 And Have A Disney Cartoon of a Prince As My Photo. (Maybe that was just too long.) Mr. Latent Homosexual (Or Child Molester) told me I was stunning despite the fact that I have no nose in my default picture. He'd also really appreciate if I would holla back at him. Unfortunately, I'm all out of holla at this present time. (Maybe I should have linked him to Jesse?)

Next came Jonathan, who at first I thought might be Jonathan I Actually Know In Real Life. Alas, it was Stranger Jonathan, who just wanted to know "Whazzzzup and where da party at? I see you around town and at your work and you be fly." Um. Yeah. Da party is at the police department, where I'll be filling out a restraining order.

Most disturbing, however, is Rocky. Rocky wanted to know if I would like to earn an extra $200-$600, because he has piles of money to give away and really likes to see how crazy people will get for it. I think I've heard about that somewhere, and I think it's called Prostitution, but I'm not sure. Now, on rare occasion I'll talk to just about anybody who sends a drink my way, but that's just manners, ok? Something about a stranger dangling money over my head under the condition that I do something crazy for it just makes the Weirdometer go off. People do it on Fear Factor all the time, yes, but they also do it on Indio Boulevard, and I just got the feeling that Rocky's definition was less "eat a cockroach" and more "eat my cock."

Why, just in the time it took me to write this, I got a friend request from this really lame boy band and an invitation to join the group Frankie's Pimp House. The Pimp House got denied, but I'm actually considering adding the band, just in case I can be around when they all realize that trying to pull of heterosexuality is futile and they're in love with each other.

If this is any indication of what MySpace is going to be like, all I have to say is I'm damn glad to be back. Sure, it was nice taking a break, but I was running out of people in real life to make fun of. I used to say that it interfered with my writing, but I'm going to use this post as evidence to the contrary.

And I think to myself...

Have you ever met somebody, bonded with them, and then tried to remember what it was like before you knew and loved them? Have you ever answered the question "How did you meet?" with, "Well, through a friend of a friend of a friend?" I have the internet eqivalent of that, and it's the site Crazy Hip Blog Mamas. Although I might be on the wilder, more unconventional end of the spectrum of Mamas, I have lost hours reading the blogs of the members, laughing and crying and knowing exactly what they mean.

Long story short- I know, TOO LATE!- every so often, they post a Writing Prompt, and it's that time again. It's not an assignment or a competition, but a collaboration to a group that I would love to contribute something to. I can't give every Mama a pedicure or bake cookies for every child in the world, but it's nice to be a part of something and I gotta earn my keep somehow. Let's face it- answering a question is a lot easier than dealing with dirty Mommy Feet (no offense, mine are the worst!) and probably more appreciated than loading kids up with sugar ("Junior get off the ceiling this instant!").


Q: "What song/movie best tells the story of your life/family?"
A: There are no movies that I can compare my life and family to. No movies, but plenty of Soap Operas. All My Children, for one. The Young and the Restless! Daze (I totally meant to do that) of Our Lives. (Ha! But I digress!) So I ruled movies out pretty quickly, and started racking my brain for songs. Music is more my thing anyway, there has to be something... (Elapsed Time: 27 hours) No, nothing really here either. Instead of dwelling so much on finding something that mimics my life, I figured that I'd be better off just trying to identify with something that can describe it. What's my anthem?

When I'm going out, I have to play "Bad Reputation" by Joan Jett. When I'm working out, I listen to Metroid The Band. When I need a pick-me-up, it's "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure, and nothing makes traffic more tolerable than Boston's "More Than A Feeling." When I think about my life, as a whole, and the family I come from and the family I've made, the one song that sums it all up is What A Wonderful World. (Not to loose all street cred, I'd like to add that my favorite version is the Joey Ramone cover, although the original by Louis Armstrong is divine. Obviously.) The song, like me, expresses the sentiments that life is great and we're lucky to be living it. Is getting a flat tire really that bad- we have red roses and fluffy clouds and people to share them with. Even when you have a bad day... you have a new one tomorrow. Usually this song inspires me to get lost in optimistic existential thought, and by the time it gets to the line "I see babies cry, and I watch them grow/ They'll learn much more than we'll ever know", I can't help but tear up. What mother doesn't think her world has been made a wonderful place only because of the child(ren) we've been granted to show it to? Who isn't humbled by the thought of that? A chocolate shake is DAMN good in and of itself, but something as simple as watching as my kids get their first taste of the magic that happens when you mix chocolate syrup, milk, and plain old vanilla ice cream together makes me giddy. Our world, with terrorism and taxes and people who tip less than 15%, might not be perfect, but when someone looks up at you and says, "I wub you, Mommy!", it sure is wonderful. I might be discontent with my job, with my relationship status, with my laundry pile taller than my six-year-old, and my bank account that is so low that afformentioned six year old can count higher than my current balance... but at least somebody wubs me.

Through the terrible twos and the teens and probably every year in between, I might need Joey Ramone to remind me of that every now and then.

I wanna be a lexicographer when I grow up!

I was out with friends over the weekend, and Boy-Crazy-Gina was practically getting whiplash as she checked out every boy that walked past.

I coined a phrase that the punster in me is quite proud of, although I responsibly share all credit with my two friends Jack and Coca-Cola. (Actually, just one friend- separate yet inseparable, in the manner of Siamese Twins.)

"Gina's got her radar going tonight... No, no- wait a second- Gina's got her LAY-dar going tonight!"

::giggles::

This officially wins me a star on the Geek Walk Of Fame.

Don't cry over sour milk.

My relationship history has become a bit of a running joke at work. The on-again-off-again drama with a certain ex-someone is laughable in any context, but I get teased mercilessly at my place of employment. This probably has something to do with the fact that Ex and I worked together, and when I say "worked" what I really mean is "fought". Because everyone at work knows him, everyone at work asks about him. Because everyone at work is nosey, everyone asks about us.

Today, one of my favorite managers asked about Ex's well-being. Before I could formulate an answer, my manager was laughing at me. Maybe it was the huge sigh I let out, or the fact that my eyes became red lazer beams and steam was shooting out of my ears. Anyhoo, I gave the politically correct answer and tried to change the subject. He wasn't having it.

"You're Sour Milk Girl!" He shouted at me. He even pointed.
"What the? I'm who?" Really. I don't even like milk.
"You're Sour Milk Girl. You have milk in your fridge. It's been in there, but you don't drink it for a while, and then you have a craving for milk so you pour yourself a glass. You take a drink, only it's gone bad. You spit sour milk all over the kitchen. And then, Nicole? And then you know what you do?"
"I don't know, bribe one of the kids to clean it up?"
"YOU PUT THE MILK BACK IN THE FRIDGE."
"I do?" A beat. "I do."
"And then you know what you do?"
"I do." A beat. "I do!"
"You leave it in the fridge, thinking that it'll get better! Well, let me tell you something, Nicole. It's sour milk, and it's gonna stay sour. It's time to throw it out."
"I get what you're saying, Mike... but... I think I'm just kinda hoping that eventually I'll have some cottage cheese."
"No, Nicole, not gonna happen. And the worst part about you? As far as this metaphor is concerned, you're lactose intolerant."

All Growds Up

I just paid an arm and a leg for a very grown-up, all-natural, 5-step skin care regimen.

I will now join the ranks of adult women who cleanse, tone, exfoliate, moisturize, and use eye cream(!!!) twice daily.

Next up: a 401k plan, bifocals, and eating dinner every night at 4:30.