I see your tonsilitis, and I raise you cervical cancer.

Just as I was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, the tunnel called "Worst Cold Slash Sore Throat Thing Ever", Chris started feeling ill. I'm going to be totally honest with you here, at first I just thought he was being a pansy. A day later, I realized that he was legitimately ill; iller than I had been, iller than the grammar in this very sentence. Did I have sympathy for him then? Well, a little. Like, half of a micrometer of sympathy. When he came back from the doctor and said that he had an abscess the size of a golf ball, I felt a twinge of guilt for minimizing his illness. I also felt extremely jealous that he went and upstaged me! Oh yeah? Well, well, I was sick AND pregnant, take that! Oh, you had to have five shots and four people trying to drain your lanced abscess? Well, you didn't have morning sickness!

The same day that Chris had his follow-up appointment, I had my appointment for the dreaded colposcopy. The whole thing was frightening, invasive, and really uncomfortable. I tried turning my head to one side during the procedure, but I could see the reflection of the nurse handing a scary metal medieval torture device to the doctor, so I turned the other way and squeezed my eyes shut. Halfway through the procedure, Dr. Jacome popped his head up over the paper sheet resting over my knees and said to me, "Oh, and no sex after this," as casually as if he were telling me not to wear white after labor day. "No sex for at least a week. Actually, you're going to have to be very careful having sex for the rest of your pregancy. If you're not very careful, you could start bleeding..." and as the doctor kept talking about what complications could arise, I only half-listened. It was really hard to hear the doctor because the voices in my head were screaming at him. WELL, WHAT THE HELL ELSE, DOC? Should I stay away from ice cream? Are you going to tell me that Target is hazardous to my healh, too? ARE YOU GOING TO TAKE AWAY EVERYTHING? And oh my god, I finally started feeling sympathetic for Chris.

As soon as they were done, the doctor told me to sit up. I got about halfway to vertical when I blacked out and went back down. I opened my eyes a second later but I couldn't see straight and Dr. Jacome sounded like he was talking to me underwater. He made sure I was ok, then told me to lie down until the faintness passed. I didn't want to be half-naked in that cold, clinical room any longer than I had to be, so I did my best to pull it together. Admittedly, it took a good five minutes before I could sit up, and I was shaking as I got dressed. I checked my reflection in the mirror- no color in my face whatsoever, and beads of sweat all over my forehead. Thank god Chris was there, he practically had to drag me out to the car. I spent the rest of the day on the couch, feeling extremely naseated, weak, sore, and crampy. Now I just have to wait for the biopsy results.

On the bright side, I think I might have won the sick-off. Yipee. Ah, the Threat Of Cervical Cancer, my Ace in the Hole. (Pun very intended.)

Take the craft scissors away from the hormonal woman...

So, I had this grand idea to make invitations to our engagement party from scratch. I got some ideas from the interweb and went to the local Michael's to arm myself with the supplies. Once I got home, I realized that I was going to need more paper, so the next day I crammed another trip into my busy schedule. For those of you who aren't aware of the unparalleled joy that is the Michael's parking lot, let me put it to you this way: by "joy," what I really mean is "seventh ring of hell." Not only that, but I usually have to haul ass from work straight to pick up the kids from daycare, so I don't have leisurely errand-running time as it is. My second journey to the craft store was even better than the first- MORE cars in the parking lot! MORE people in line in front of me!

The next day I realized I would need stamps. I think my first thought was, "Oh, ef me." We're up to three trips now.

Once I had all my supplies, I started doing the necessary work on the computer. (I'm printing all the invite info onto vellum- the finished product is going to look something like this, but not exactly.) I decided that I hated the word processor on my computer, and decided to buy some software to make the job easier. That excursion officially marks my fourth trip on behalf of these invitations. Well, let's just say that the software, were it human, would not be invited to my BBQ. After I finally got the design tweaked to my liking, I printed a practice page out and was very proud of the results. I made one minor adjustment, loaded the printer with the vellum, and came back five minutes later to find five sheets of NOT WHAT I WANTED in my printer tray. I almost cried.

My poor sick almost-hubby is hanging out on the couch all germy and alone, and here I am fighting with my computer. Now that I've reached an impasse, I just want to complain about it because if I started throwing the tantrum that I want to, I'd wake the whole house/neighborhood/zip code and then where would I be? Plus, my throat hurts anyway. But for the record, I'm really upset.

I think what I'm most upset about, aside from all the time I wasted tonight when I had four zillion and sixty five other things to be doing, is the fact that I have to brave the Michael's parking lot again. And this time, I can't promise that I won't run over an old person. As a matter of fact, I can count on it.

Can I use "Road Rage" as a legitimate defense in court if it is premeditated?

For what human ill does not dawn seem to be an alleviation? ~Thornton Wilder

The view from my backyard this morning, 8:40am:






"Weekends are a bit like rainbows; they look good from a distance but disappear when you get up close to them.”
-John Shirley


Back to work I go today, after two glorious days off. I was hoping to be fully recovered from the Frankenstein of Colds that I've been enduring for the last week, but not so. As a matter of fact, I have been having such horrible coughing fits that I pulled a muscle in my already-awkward pregnant belly. I just can't catch a break.

I was able to do some interesting things this weekend aside from laying in bed whimpering. The higlights include watching my friends premiere one of their short films, which was really impressive. (Check them out at something directory.) Sunday, I feasted like a queen: lunch at my favorite restuarant with my grandma and then a kick-ass dinner a la Chris- Vichyssoise, fried spaghetti fritters, a kinda scampi-like thing with shrimp, clams, and lobster mushrooms, ceasar salad and garic bread. Um, best dinner ever? Quite possibly. (Although I think I say that every time Chris cooks for me.) I'm not sure if you caught it the first time around, but I did say fried spaghetti. My house still smells like garlic, and I am Vampire Safe for the next three, maybe four weeks. We also saw Reno 911: Miami, and both of us tried to think of the last time we saw a movie in a theatre that wasn't rated G. (I'm still trying to figure that one out.) Yesterday, Chris and I drove out to the Outlet Stores and walked a few miles. The only things we purchased were two pretzels and a cup of coffee: not a good walking to spending ratio. We did have a grand old time making fun of things, though.

And now, back to work. Happy Tuesday, everyone.

As domestic as I get...

Murphy cannot resist my siren song.

Last night, Chris suggested that we get some sort of key-keeping apparatus, seeing as how both of us are in the habit of dropping our keys willy-nilly as soon as we walk through the door. I think, in the millions of times I've entered into my home, my keys have ended up in the same place... oh, let's see... twice? And that's being generous. Maybe it was the fact that I wasn't feeling so great when Chris brought that up, or maybe it was because I figured that if I simply willed myself to keep better track of things, I could do it. Whatever if was, I put "key-keeping apparatus" on my to-do list under Donate Blood and Scrub Kitchen Grout.

The sun rose the next morning on our busy home, three little blurs of energy racing around as I tried to get Madelynn and Brady out of the house on time. As we were piling into Chris' car, Maddy remembered that she left something in my car. I told her a rough approximation of where to find my keys, and she retrieved her renegade belongings from my car and was buckled in to Chris' car in minutes. She got to school on time, Chris and I dropped Brady off at pre-school, and then it was back to our house to get ourselves ready for work.

Chris left before I did, and I got ready with plenty of time to do my hair and makeup, iron my work clothes, and finish up some chores around the house. Keen time management isn't a skill I usually posses, so I was really proud of myself for having plenty of time to get everything done. I was ready to walk out the door a full five minutes earlier than normal, even! It was a rare, rare morning.

I grabbed my work clothes, a bottle of water from the fridge, slung my purse over my shoulder, and reached for my keys. My keys. My keys. WHERE THE HELL WERE MY KEYS? I remembered, almost photographically, were I put them the night before, but they weren't there. It took a few minutes of me digging through my purse and eyeing every horizontal surface in my home to remember who had my keys last... Madelynn.

I tried to remember if she ran back inside the house after she grabbed her stuff out of my car, or hopped straight into Chris's. Could she have pocketed my keys? Could they be in Chris's car? They weren't in my car because it was locked, and my keyless entry system won't let the car lock with the keys inside. Cue panic.

I tried calling Chris to see if he could shed some light on the subject, but all eighty-two of my calls went unanswered. I tried calling my grandma, who has my spare set of keys, but she wasn't home. I looked at the clock- if I wanted to get to work on time, I should have been out the door five minutes ago. Cue pandemonium.

As much as I wanted to devote my full attention to finding my keys, I couldn't help but see and hear Chris everywhere I turned. Him: "Honey, we really should designate some place for our car keys." Me: "Meeeeeeh." AL-EFFING-RIGHT, I get it I get it I get it. I have reduced myself to nothing more than a Murphy's Law Ignoring Fate Temptress.

Please, let this be a lesson to everyone out there. Learn from my mistake. When someone sharing a home with you suggests allocating an official Organized Home For Wayward Keys, say yes. Arise instantly and put the plan in action, because if you don't, you're liable to be made an example of the very next morning. Feel free to ignore me- if you like the taste of crow.

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.